Page 55 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

I pulled a face. ‘One coffee a day?’ I could see I had a lot to learn about the vagaries of gestation.

‘Yes. What are you doing anyway? I can’t decide if that’s a nice colour or not. It’s not your usual style.’ She nodded at the blouse next to my sewing machine.

‘It’s not for me, and I don’t think it would suit me. Polly’s doing a turn at Padcock’s Got Talent. We’re dressing her up to look like Stevie Nicks. You know — like that programme that used to be on. Stars in their Eyes? Wasn’t it?’ My parents used to enjoy watching it on a Saturday night, but I barely registered it. All I could remember was “Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be [insert name here of celebrity]” ‘Tonight Padcock,’ I tried in a gruff, announcer-type voice, ‘I’m going to be Stevie Nicks.’ I nodded. It sounded quite good. ‘And that colour will look amazing on her.’

‘Quite autumnal,’ Rosie agreed. ‘When’s the Fayre again? I’m not sure I have a note of the actual date.’ She started patting around her pockets, but of course the date wouldn’t be in there — still I let her continue.

‘The week before August Bank Holiday,’ I told her. She smiled and stopped patting. ‘Good. We will all go down and visit.’

‘All?’ I asked, half-dreading the answer.

‘Damien can come too. He’s never been. Good chance for him to meet my parents.’

‘Hang on. Has he never met your mum and dad?’

‘No.’ She sounded unconcerned.

‘Yet, you’re planning to — to marry him and — reproduce?’ I waved at her stomach again.

‘It’s happened regardless,’ she said. ‘They’ll be fine. And they know of him.’

‘Good God. I can’t quite imagine what my parents would say if I dumped that on them.’

‘They’d be fine too.’ She flapped her hand around again, and I suddenly realized that there was a reason for it. The gesture wasn’t just her eagerness to see me. No — there was a ring on the third finger of her left hand.

My stomach lurched and I grabbed her hand to look at it more closely. What else had happened this weekend that I was unaware of? No — that’s a rhetorical question, and needn’t be answered, thank you very much . . .

‘What is that?’ I asked, holding her hand. A small, silver dragon was hugging her finger. He was very sweet. I guessed it wasn’t just any old ring.

‘Oh, that’s my engagement ring,’ she said, beaming at me. ‘We just got it today. Crazy Pig.’

‘Excuse me?’ I was stunned. She’d never called me names before.

‘The jewellers. Crazy Pig. In Covent Garden.’ She wiggled her fingers again. ‘We went for lunch over there and I had my eye on it.’ She peered at it, and then stroked it gently. ‘I originally wanted a liquorice allsorts style, but I fell in love with this one. And — well, Damien went straight in and bought me it.’ She flushed, prettily, while I just stared.

I mean, who is this Damien she speaks of, because he’s certainly never been that thoughtful to anyone else. Well — ok — so he’d bought me a lollipop with his last fifty pence when I fell over in the street once — but that was different . . .

I swallowed. Things were moving fast in Rosie World. We were the same age, but I still felt rootless and directionless. My art was never going to make me a living wage, and the thought of a high-powered career doing that actually scared me. Again, I wanted to retreat to Padcock. I think I’d found my happy place there — I just felt comfortable and myself there. It was so hard to explain. I’d only been twice!

‘Well it’s a beautiful ring,’ I said. ‘And . . .’ I swallowed again. ‘If Damien is here, I’d better go and congratulate him too.’ I forced a smile onto my face. I couldn’t get past my Bohemian drinking partner, my brother-from-another-mother, my oldest, most annoying friend, becoming a husband and a dad. Growing up.

‘Yes, he’s in the kitchen, like I said. I heard your sewing machine going and came straight in to see you.’ She grabbed my hand and towed me out of my room and towards the kitchen, where she almost pushed me towards him.

Sure enough Damien was standing there, puzzling over our built-in coffee machine which we only ever used at Christmas. He’d had his hair cut as well, and wasn’t wearing his usual hat, and that threw me even more.

What on earth had gone on this weekend?

But . . .

‘I think you’ll find the beans go in there,’ I said quietly, walking up behind him.

‘Oh! Tilds!’ he spun around, coffee beans flying out of the open bag and scattering all over the kitchen like many small, bouncing marbles. ‘Thanks. I was like is the milk in there — or there?’ He shook his head and managed to shake the bag of coffee beans as well, distributing another portion of Fortnum and Mason’s finest all over the floor.

Yep. Damien the Usual was back. He hadn’t gone anywhere really.

Oddly, that made me smile and I gave him a huge hug.

‘I’m not saying anything to you,’ I told him. It would have felt a bit odd going “congratulations!” — I just knew it would come out as ‘Congratulations on knocking my friend up! Here’s to another O’Rourke coming into the world! Yay!’ Instead, I decided to say nothing and simply hug him instead.