Love Falls by Esther Freud

to loosen his grip, and just then Lulu who had spent the afternoon chatting mostly to the grown-ups put her hands under his shirt and tickled him so that with a groan he released Hamish and turned to grab her wrist.
    ‘Can’t catch me,’ she shrieked, and she dashed away, running just out of his reach around the drive, screeching and laughing so that the whole party turned to watch them as together they crashed into the back seat of the car.
    May shrugged and rolled her eyes, and Lara turned to say goodbye to Hugh who was gulping down a mug of black coffee, while his wife, with crossed arms, watched from beside the car.
    ‘I said I’d drive,’ she told him, but he ignored her and smiling blearily at Caroline, at Lara, even at Lambert, he swung into the car.
    When everyone had gone they turned back into the house, already clear and tidy as if the day had never been, and Lara lay down on a white sofa, and once more leafing through the pages of ¡Hola! listened while Caroline and Lambert dissected the guests.
    ‘Sorry you got stuck with poor Isabelle Whittard. She used to be rather lovely, but marriage has turned her into a bit of a bore.’
    Lambert looked amused. ‘How odd,’ he said. ‘I used to find her rather plain, but now I see that I was wrong.’
    Caroline raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, the poor husband certainly looks exasperated by her. Shouldn’t wonder he was trying to drown his sorrows. Very pretty the young girl, though.’
    Lara looked over the top of her magazine to see her father put his head on one side, unconvinced. Good, she thought, but she couldn’t erase the image of Allegra, her wide rose mouth, her honey-coloured hair falling forward as she watched Kip leap out of the water.
    ‘And as for Andrew Willoughby . . .’ Caroline stretched.
    ‘Yes,’ Lambert agreed. ‘Always was a shit.’ And a shadow fell over his face.
     
     
    Lara took the newspaper up to bed with her and studied the painting of Lady Diana reproduced on its front cover. It had just been unveiled at the National Portrait Gallery – The first royal woman , it said, ever to be immortalised in trousers . The artist, apparently, was poised for flight, having once before been forced to go into hiding for three weeks when his painting of Princess Margaret failed to meet approval. Royal or public, it didn’t say. On the inside page was a photograph of Charles and Diana at a garden party, posing under umbrellas in the torrential rain with a quote from Diana saying she didn’t mind anything at all, but it mustn’t rain on Wednesday. It mustn’t rain on the day of the wedding. It just absolutely had to stay dry. Lara got up and looked out at the night sky. She could hear the music again, waltzing, catching on the current of the wind, and as she watched, she saw the bright flickering of a fire. Was it a code? she wondered, when after a minute or two it went out and then flickered on again, and she opened the window further and leant out.
     
     
    Lara wasn’t the only one to fall in love on the bus. A teacher from Birmingham become besotted with a stained-glass maker from Kent and before they’d even crossed the channel they’d already asked their neighbours if they wouldn’t mind moving so that they could reorganise the seats. That first night when they stopped to camp – in ex-army surplus tents provided by the bus – they sneaked away from the fire where supper was being prepared, and when they came back they were bleary-eyed and weak. They hardly ate, and all the next day they sat together, stroking and kissing and whispering in each other’s ear.
    ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Cathy shook her head, but Lara, whenever she got the chance, just stared.
    That night, when everyone had settled down to eat, they heard a thudding, juddering noise coming from the abandoned bus. ‘What is it?’ At first they were alarmed but then they realised it was the lovestruck couple having sex in the boot. It was hard to ignore it, the