Summer With My Sister (19 page)

‘Edith Lindley said she’d seen her dashing into the churchyard earlier,’ Karen said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘I couldn’t believe it, but she said it was definitely Polly. Well, it was definitely Sissy anyway, and I’m pretty sure nobody else was walking her into the village.’

‘Wow,’ Clare said, taken aback. ‘She hasn’t been there for—’

‘Since the funeral,’ Karen said quietly. They locked eyes. ‘I’ve not had the chance to ask her about it yet. I hope she’s all right.’

It was a twenty-minute drive to Amberley at this time of the evening, and Clare found a parking space in the Somerfield car park for her little battered Fiat. Driving there and back wasn’t ideal, but she couldn’t afford the cab fare, and it was too far to walk. It meant she couldn’t drink either, which was a pain. On this sort of occasion where you were thrust into somebody else’s circle of friends, not knowing any of them, a bit of Dutch courage really helped. Still, she was so skint she couldn’t afford Dutch courage anyway. She’d have to dredge up some of her own instead.

Roxanne was having her birthday drinks in The Fox and Goose, a smart, upmarket bar on Amberley’s main street. It had been styled with mellow lighting, ironic flock wallpaper and elegant, chintzy sofas set around solid wooden tables. Some of the walls were rough stone, while others were hung with vibrant paintings, wrought-iron sconces bearing thick white candles and, bizarrely, a black-and-white cowhide.

There was already a crowd when Clare walked in, and a buzzy Friday-night atmosphere. She scanned the place for her friend and began to make her way through the tables of shiny-haired women and smart-casual men, trying not to feel intimidated. It was certainly a far cry from the King’s Arms in Elderchurch, the sole pub in the village, a cosy, comforting place of worn velvet banquettes and dark wood, where Stu and Erica, the landlord and landlady, presided over the beer pumps like everyone’s favourite aunt and uncle.

She craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the birthday girl. Where was she?

‘Clare, is that you?’

A deep voice just behind her left ear made her jump, and Clare swung around. Then she blushed. Luke Brightside was standing right there, inches away, smiling down at her. He was tall with rather rumpled dark hair and grey eyes and . . . and he was far too young and handsome for the likes of Clare, she reminded herself firmly.

‘Oh good,’ he said. ‘It
is
you. I hate walking into places like this on my own. Where do you suppose Birthday Princess is then?’

Clare smiled, grateful to have been spotted. He smelled nice: fresh, woody and masculine. Then she realized he was waiting for her to speak. ‘Um . . . I don’t know,’ she gabbled stupidly. Heat rushed into her face. God, she was so obvious. Middle-aged single mother hitting on the young handsome doctor. How sad could you get?

‘Let’s brave the meat-market together, shall we?’ he joked.

‘Let’s,’ Clare said. ‘Eyes peeled for the Birthday Princess.’ And to cover her awkwardness at being in such close proximity to Luke, she promptly strode away from him into the crowd.

After a near miss with a gin-and-tonic spill, then almost treading on someone’s dainty Grecian-sandalled foot with her own great clodhoppers, Clare spotted Roxie holding court in a corner at the back. She was wearing a satsuma-coloured, tight, ruched dress complete with matching feathery hairband perched in her curled blonde hair, high pink heels and about a gallon of mascara. On Clare, the outfit would have looked monstrous, but Roxie was so supremely confident in herself that the whole look screamed fabulous.

‘Clare! Luke! Ooh, hello,’ she squealed. She was sitting against the wall, surrounded by a gaggle of women drinking lurid cocktails, but crawled inelegantly under the table to get out and greet the new arrivals.

Clare laughed as Roxie emerged, brushed herself down and flung her arms around each of them in turn. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she said, beaming. ‘Did you arrive . . . together?’ She raised an eyebrow as if scenting gossip, and Clare shook her head.

‘Just met at the door,’ she said, pressing the gift bag of presents into Roxie’s hand. ‘Here. Happy birthday, lovely.’

Luke handed over a card. ‘Happy birthday, Roxie,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m hopeless with presents, but let me buy you a drink at least.’

‘Oh, you don’t have to, Luke,’ Roxie demurred, batting her eyelashes. ‘But go on then, it is my birthday, so I’ll have a Kinky Pink please, thank you very much.’

Luke laughed at her breathless delivery. ‘A Kinky . . . Pink. Okay. I can do that,’ he said. ‘Clare, how about you, what would you like?’

Satin sheets, fresh strawberries and your naked body
was on the tip of her tongue. ‘A lime and soda,’ was all she said, though. ‘Please.’

He walked away and she had to stop herself from sighing with out-and-out lust. Get a grip, Clare. She was glad that she wasn’t having an alcoholic drink now; she’d only get overexcited and make a tit of herself. That was one thing she did
not
want to do in front of Dr Brightside.

‘Ah, when you two arrived together like that, I thought something exciting might have happened,’ Roxie teased.

‘As if,’ Clare replied, pulling a face. ‘Are you having a good time then?’

‘I certainly am,’ Roxie replied. ‘See that guy over there – don’t stare! – in the lavender shirt with the cropped hair? I’ve got my eye on him. Planning to kidnap him and take him back to mine later, see if he’ll give me a birthday treat.’

Clare slid her gaze along to where a good-looking man in his early twenties sat with a couple of mates. He wore a garish shirt (Clare would have said purple, but she supposed ‘lavender’ sounded more tasteful) and had unusual green eyes (colour contacts?) and a swarthy, unshaven jaw. Just looking at it made Clare imagine how prickly it would be to be kissed by him when that jaw was sandpapering against your face, but she decided it was better not to say so. ‘Nice,’ she commented. ‘So, are you going to introduce me to your friends then, or what?’

Roxie introduced her to Davina, Maz, Coco, Jodie, Amelie, Izzy and . . . oh, Clare had lost track by Izzy. She smiled, feeling dazed, as one by one these gorgeous young creatures stopped nattering and turned to say hi to her. ‘Hi, everyone,’ she said with a silly little wave. ‘Um . . . mind if I sit next to you, Coco?’

‘It’s Jodie, but sure, go ahead,’ Jodie replied, tossing her sleek chestnut mane over one shoulder.

Clare was saved from having to initiate an awkward conversation by Luke reappearing and plonking a large pink cocktail in front of her. ‘Sorry,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I completely forgot what you said you wanted, so I bought you a Kinky Pink as well. Roxie! Here’s your drink.’ He sat next to Clare and raised a pint of lager in her direction. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Nice to be out with you for a change. We never get the chance to speak much at the surgery, do we?’

‘No,’ Clare said, eyeing her cocktail warily. It looked dangerously alcoholic. ‘Um . . . What’s in this, do you know?’ she asked. ‘Only I’ve got the car; I’m going to drive back tonight.’

‘Oh God, sorry,’ he said. ‘My memory’s so crap. People tell me things and seconds later it’s vanished from my head. What was it you wanted? I’ll go back to the bar.’

Clare hesitated. She had twenty-five quid in her purse, which was meant to last the weekend. She really didn’t want to dip into that for a taxi, which would probably cost fifteen pounds. And while she mustn’t get over the limit, at the same time she didn’t want to have to explain all this to Luke, as she was worried that she’d come across as a total wet or, even worse, a skinflint. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘One drink will be fine. And thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘I don’t mind. We can always give it to Roxie, she’ll be happy to neck them both, I bet.’

Clare made some rapid calculations. She wanted to get Roxie a drink, and would like to buy Luke one too, now that he’d got the first round. That would probably come to the best part of a tenner. If she dragged this Kinky Pink out and then just drank tap water, she’d be all right. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said. Decision made, she sipped it. ‘It’s lovely, thanks.’

There was a small silence as they looked around. Then they both started talking at once.

‘So, do you know . . . ?’

‘So, whereabouts do you . . . ?’

He laughed. ‘Go on, you first,’ he said.

‘I was just going to ask if you knew if anyone else from the surgery was coming along tonight?’ Clare said. There were five doctors at the practice – Angela Copper (forty-something, married with two teenage daughters), Marcus Walter (as delicate and blond as Luke was strapping and dark; Lancastrian, gay), Edward Arkwright (approaching retirement; grizzled and grumpy) and Hilary Manning (a pale fifty-something who looked like a librarian, was devoted to her four cats and had the kindest, gentlest voice Clare had ever heard). Of all of them, the only likely contender was Marcus, but Roxie was so unpredictable that she might well have asked Dr Arkwright down for a few flaming Sambucas.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Luke said. ‘I think Marcus is in London this weekend, and Angela said something about having friends over for dinner. As for Hilary and Edward . . .’ He grinned. ‘Somehow I doubt it. In the nicest possible way, of course.’ He swung his head around to take in the circle of friends around Roxie. ‘What’s the plan for tonight anyway? Roxie said something terrifying-sounding about going to some godawful club later on – are you planning to tag along?’ He pulled a face. ‘Please say you’re not. I can’t bear those places any more. They make me feel such an old fart.’

Clare spluttered with laughter. Luke Brightside was so
not
an old fart. ‘Don’t give me that!’ she told him. ‘I bet you’re younger than me. And no, I’m not going on to a club. I’ve—’ She was about to say her mum was babysitting and she’d promised to be back by midnight at the latest, like the Elderchurch Cinderella. Something stopped her, though. She didn’t want to be mumsy right now, blathering on about babysitting and children. ‘I’m more of a pubber than a clubber these days,’ she said instead.

‘Oh, me too,’ he replied. ‘And I’m thirty-four, so I must be . . . oh, at least ten years older than you.’

His eyes were twinkling, he was teasing her, but it was nice. ‘Thirty-
four
?’ she repeated, pantomiming horror. ‘Oh God, well, I take it all back then, you
are
an old fart. I’m a mere spring chicken at thirty-three, you see.’

They both laughed and it felt so cosy, so intimate, that for a second – for a mad second – she felt a pulse of attraction between them.

‘Clare,’ Luke said, leaning in a fraction closer.

‘Yes?’ She was all but shivering with excitement.

An unmistakable buzzing and trilling sounded from her bag. She’d turned her phone up to loud so that she’d hear any calls above the sound of the music. ‘Um . . . is that your mobile?’ he asked.

She tore herself reluctantly from his gaze and bent down to find it. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just a sec, I’ll turn it off.’ The caller display read ‘Mum’ and she hesitated. It was probably only something silly about whether Karen could give the leftover sausages to Fred, but . . . ‘Sorry,’ she said again, ‘I’ll be two seconds.’ She pressed the green button. ‘Hi, Mum, is everything okay?’

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ came Karen’s flustered voice. ‘It’s Leila, I think you’d better come back. She’s been sick in her bed, and she’s burning up.’

Clare felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over her. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ she said, rising from her seat. ‘Sorry, Luke, I’ve got to go, my daughter’s ill.’ She stared around in search of Roxie, but saw that she was in the middle of some outrageous story or other, judging by the shrieks coming from her audience. ‘Tell Roxie I’ve had to go, will you?’

Then, without waiting for an answer, she grabbed her bag and hurried out of the pub.

Chapter Twelve

‘Clare! Wait!’

She was pounding along the street, the warmth of the pub fading from her cheeks, the shout only dimly registering in her brain amid a tangle of swirling worries. Typical, wasn’t it, the one night she dared go out and her daughter fell ill. The one night she wasn’t there, guarding her babies. Bad mummy. Negligent mummy. She had to get home as fast as possible. Thank goodness she had the car.