Rumours

‘Monet,’ Xander said again, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘The Garden at Giverny.’

‘One of my favourites,’ Mrs Gregg said, as if there’d been no faux pas.

‘It’s most appropriate, thank you.’

Xander made a couple of calls and then, with the card open on his desk and his pen thoughtfully pursed between his lips, he gazed out of the window before beginning to write.

‘I’ll take the post,’ Mrs Gregg said at the end of the day.

‘There’s not much,’ said Xander.

‘It’s not a problem.’

‘I can post it on my way home.’

‘Let me,’ said Mrs Gregg. ‘You know those country lanes – if you get stuck behind something, you’ll be trundling along for hours and miss the post altogether. I’ll pop it in the box outside Elmfield Estates – it’s at the end of my street. It’s never collected before six. Never.’

‘OK,’ said Xander. ‘Thanks.’

She was barely out of the office door before she was leafing through the mail. Yes, yes, them, them, boring, boring. Ah! Aha!

Lady Lydia Fortescue

Longbridge Hall

Long Dansbury

Hertfordshire

Xander’s handwriting: even, bold and steady, written with his trademark calligraphy fountain pen. Mrs Gregg tutted at the envelope. Convene with women your own age, Xander, not an upper-class old battleaxe. Cut your ties with minor aristocracy! Venture forth into the real world – the one beyond Long Dansbury.

Chapter Three

Stella didn’t often go out, nor had she had her friends over that much recently. Her social life had dwindled over the last three years but this was her call because the invitations to socialize were no less forthcoming. Her close friends, her oldest friends – those she could count on the fingers of one hand who brought her all the dependable warmth and comfort of a well-fitting thermal glove – were always at the end of the phone, consistently energetic respondees to text messages and Facebook updates. Indirect contact and communication had become so easy that it was hard to remember when time was last spent together actually in person. She didn’t mind; she was always busy and, with the new job, tired too. It wasn’t as if she had much spare time to wonder how to fill it. But two weeks into her new position at Elmfield Estates, Stella had now settled into the routine. It was as if she’d been swamped by paperwork, floor plans and surveyors’ reports and had suddenly looked up and thought, where is everyone? So tonight, butternut squash soup simmered on the stove and a baguette was ready on the breadboard awaiting the arrival of Jo, the closest Stella had to a sister. Tomorrow, she’d invited herself over to her older brother Robbie’s and the day after that, their eldest brother Alistair would be hosting Sunday lunch for her on the condition she brought their mother and dessert. It did cross her mind that in one weekend she could conceivably regain the stone she’d lost over the last two years.

Jo arrived with a packet of tortilla chips, a jar of salsa, a great new haircut and, predictably, the suggestion of a date with some bloke who had a tenuous link to someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew Jo – and Stella had barely closed the front door.

‘Come on in, madwoman.’

‘You do realize I haven’t actually seen you since Pancake Day?’

Stella laughed. ‘Ah yes, when Stevie burnt herself on the pan, Scarlet spilled the sugar all over the floor and you referred to Michael as Tosser all evening?’

‘He was Chief Tosser – in charge of flipping the flipping pancakes,’ Jo justified. ‘And I told my daughters to keep away from the stove and let me do the sugar sprinkling.’

‘How are they all?’

‘Fine. Gorgeous.’ Jo kissed her friend three times: ‘There – their kisses are delivered.’

‘Thank you thank you thank you.’ Stella paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘I do have a bowl, you know. A veritable selection, in fact.’ But Jo had already opened the tortilla chips en route to the kitchen and updated Stella on her various nightmares at work through a mouthful of crumbs.

The salsa was pretty hot, the soup was delicious and butter oozed fragrantly into the warmed baguette but Jo and Stella barely tasted any of it, their hunger for conversation outweighing what was to eat. Stella regaled Jo with the details of Elmfield Estates and it provided ample opportunity for the merry chinking of glasses.

‘Any news from Charlie?’ said Jo. ‘Dare I ask?’

Stella chewed thoughtfully. ‘Not a word. Funny how, before it all happened, you always used to call him Chuck—’

Jo interrupted. ‘And when it was all kicking off, I called him Twatface.’ She paused. ‘I did wonder – even after all this time – with what’s happening now, whether he’d be in touch.’

Stella shrugged. ‘So did I. Yet the fact that he hasn’t, well –’

Jo nodded. ‘The lawyers – it’ll be any day now, I expect.’

‘I know,’ said Stella.

‘You’ll call me – won’t you?’ Jo stretched over the crumbs, the globs of salsa and splashes of soup which now decorated the table like a minor work by Jackson Pollock. She squeezed Stella’s arm. ‘Call it the last piece of the jigsaw – the final nail in the coffin. It’s a good thing.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Stella said, raising a glass and sipping so that she didn’t have to talk about it any more.

‘By the way,’ Jo said and, slowly, she let a lascivious smile spread, ‘your hair is looking a bit mumsy.’

‘Well, you look like a wee blonde elf,’ Stella said, in her defence.

‘That, my love, is intentional.’

‘But I wear it like – this – for work,’ Stella demonstrated, scooping it away from her face.

‘That’s highly appropriate for an estate agent,’ Jo said measuredly, ‘but a bit dull for a gorgeous, single, early-thirties gal.’

‘I’m mid-thirties, practically. So what is it you suggest I do?’

‘You phone Colin at Pop, that’s what you do. And tell him I sent you. And don’t tell him what you think you want – just put your head in his hands. Promise?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘How is your ma?’

‘I’m seeing her on Sunday, actually. At Alistair’s.’

‘And how’s the Robster?’ Stella’s brothers were as close as Jo came to having any.

‘I’m seeing him tomorrow, funnily enough.’

Jo was pleased. Stella, it seemed, was emerging from her self-imposed hibernation. At long last.

* * *

‘Mummy?’ Will called. ‘Mumma?’