challenge the plans?’
Angie wrinkled her nose. ‘I might have had something,’ she admitted. ‘There was a council letter but I always throw them away because it’s usually just a survey or a complaint about the hedge growing over the path.’
‘Someone in the Grove’s always got builders in, faffing about with roof extensions and flash decking where perfectly good stone used to be. I can’t remember when the road had less than two skips parked in it,’ Matthew said. ‘And do the council take any notice of objectors?’
‘Worth a shot.’ Angie smiled shining rays of gratitude at Micky.
‘Does anyone think we need any more conservatories as well?’ Eddy said, looking down the list.
‘Well I’ve got one. I can hardly grumble about other people wanting them.’
‘Course you can. Where’s your miserable-old-git quotient?’
Matthew grinned. ‘Jess would tell you it’s alive and flourishing.’
‘Well then.’ Eddy lit a scraggy hand-rolled cigarette. Flakes of tobacco shed themselves across the table. ‘No more building then, not in the Grove, not for anyone. Agreed?’ Angie hesitated for a brief moment, thinking regretfully, Matt assumed, of the pool of boyfriend material the builders had provided. She sighed, prettily, and gave in.
‘Agreed,’ came the chorus.
Six
Jess knew it was ridiculous to be dithering over what to wear when the point of this outing was to sample the services of a personal shopper in a major department store who would pick out something wonderful and new. She could be coming home only a few hours from now with an entirely altered wardrobe philosophy: an aversion to her customary shade-range of blue to grey perhaps, or a new-found need to wear hats. It shouldn’t matter if she turned up in her oldest Saturday-mornings-at-the-garden-centre jeans or a jacket so old it was eagerly awaiting the return of the house-brick shoulder pad. Knowing this didn’t stop her from getting up at the same time as the sun and flicking through the hangers along the rail in her wardrobe, feeling increasing hopelessness as she considered and rejected each item. She didn’t want to let herself in for even the tiniest flicker of disdain from someone super-attuned to the nuances of fashion. It was bad enough having woken up in a depressionfeeling middle-aged, middle-sized and with legs that were long past their best-before date. Just now every skirt she owned seemed to be the wrong length and she certainly didn’t want any possible ‘before’ photos of her wearing trousers, if the camera was the sort that added an instant ten pounds. Nothing, she thought as she stared into the cupboard, seemed to go with anything else, or if it did it was for the wrong kind of weather.
‘Difficult time of year, spring,’ she muttered to herself, cursing Paula Cheviot and her bright ideas. Paula had been positively gushing on the phone, as if this assignment was so good she could hardly bear to delegate someone else to do it.
‘It’s one of those things the average reader wouldn’t dream of doing,’ she’d trilled. ‘But they all could. Everyone should try it. So much fun having someone else dress you up like a dolly. Selfridge’s at 10.30, photographer Robin will meet you there. You’ll love it.’ That, Jess gathered, was an order.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Matthew was still in bed, and as he was currently still filling the In-House Teenager gap so recently vacated by Oliver, he probably would be for several hours to come. To Jess, his voice sounded exaggeratedly growly, the way Oliver’s used to when she suggested he might care to get up at some stage and consider dropping into college for his double maths class.
‘I’m looking for something to wear,’ she told him.
‘Are you mad? Even God hasn’t woken up yet,’ he grumbled. ‘Does it really matter that much what you wear? Isn’t that what they’re supposed to be telling you?’
Jess pulled out a navy blue Jigsaw jacket
Angie wrinkled her nose. ‘I might have had something,’ she admitted. ‘There was a council letter but I always throw them away because it’s usually just a survey or a complaint about the hedge growing over the path.’
‘Someone in the Grove’s always got builders in, faffing about with roof extensions and flash decking where perfectly good stone used to be. I can’t remember when the road had less than two skips parked in it,’ Matthew said. ‘And do the council take any notice of objectors?’
‘Worth a shot.’ Angie smiled shining rays of gratitude at Micky.
‘Does anyone think we need any more conservatories as well?’ Eddy said, looking down the list.
‘Well I’ve got one. I can hardly grumble about other people wanting them.’
‘Course you can. Where’s your miserable-old-git quotient?’
Matthew grinned. ‘Jess would tell you it’s alive and flourishing.’
‘Well then.’ Eddy lit a scraggy hand-rolled cigarette. Flakes of tobacco shed themselves across the table. ‘No more building then, not in the Grove, not for anyone. Agreed?’ Angie hesitated for a brief moment, thinking regretfully, Matt assumed, of the pool of boyfriend material the builders had provided. She sighed, prettily, and gave in.
‘Agreed,’ came the chorus.
Six
Jess knew it was ridiculous to be dithering over what to wear when the point of this outing was to sample the services of a personal shopper in a major department store who would pick out something wonderful and new. She could be coming home only a few hours from now with an entirely altered wardrobe philosophy: an aversion to her customary shade-range of blue to grey perhaps, or a new-found need to wear hats. It shouldn’t matter if she turned up in her oldest Saturday-mornings-at-the-garden-centre jeans or a jacket so old it was eagerly awaiting the return of the house-brick shoulder pad. Knowing this didn’t stop her from getting up at the same time as the sun and flicking through the hangers along the rail in her wardrobe, feeling increasing hopelessness as she considered and rejected each item. She didn’t want to let herself in for even the tiniest flicker of disdain from someone super-attuned to the nuances of fashion. It was bad enough having woken up in a depressionfeeling middle-aged, middle-sized and with legs that were long past their best-before date. Just now every skirt she owned seemed to be the wrong length and she certainly didn’t want any possible ‘before’ photos of her wearing trousers, if the camera was the sort that added an instant ten pounds. Nothing, she thought as she stared into the cupboard, seemed to go with anything else, or if it did it was for the wrong kind of weather.
‘Difficult time of year, spring,’ she muttered to herself, cursing Paula Cheviot and her bright ideas. Paula had been positively gushing on the phone, as if this assignment was so good she could hardly bear to delegate someone else to do it.
‘It’s one of those things the average reader wouldn’t dream of doing,’ she’d trilled. ‘But they all could. Everyone should try it. So much fun having someone else dress you up like a dolly. Selfridge’s at 10.30, photographer Robin will meet you there. You’ll love it.’ That, Jess gathered, was an order.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Matthew was still in bed, and as he was currently still filling the In-House Teenager gap so recently vacated by Oliver, he probably would be for several hours to come. To Jess, his voice sounded exaggeratedly growly, the way Oliver’s used to when she suggested he might care to get up at some stage and consider dropping into college for his double maths class.
‘I’m looking for something to wear,’ she told him.
‘Are you mad? Even God hasn’t woken up yet,’ he grumbled. ‘Does it really matter that much what you wear? Isn’t that what they’re supposed to be telling you?’
Jess pulled out a navy blue Jigsaw jacket
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