The Secrets Women Keep by Fanny Blake Page A

doors, an angry hornet buzzed. What had been a pleasant breeze during the day was stronger now, wilder, as if a storm might be in the offing at last. Rose was grateful that the meal had gone as
well as it had, given the undercurrents swirling between them, and relieved that no one had commented on her lack of appetite. Every mouthful had been an effort. But everyone had put aside selfish
concerns to give Eve a special birthday supper. The mood was relaxed, the conversation as easy as it could be between old friends. The ravioli and sage was followed by grilled pork served Italian
style with a slice of lemon, then salad and cheese. Daniel kept their glasses topped up with a regular stream of crisp Soave or smoky Chianti. The candle-studded brownies were the hit of the
evening.
    ‘What the . . .’ Eve leaned forward to examine the candles, fumbling for her glasses, then laughed until there were tears in her eyes.
    Anna sat beaming with satisfaction.
    ‘I’ve got to blow them out before they melt completely. They’re too good to let go.’
    ‘A blow job – how appropriate.’ There was a moment of silence before Terry laughed just a little too loudly at his own joke. Anna and Daniel echoed him in a half-hearted and
dutiful way, while Rose managed a thin smile to cover her habitual despair at her brother’s schoolboy humour. None of them wanted to spoil the atmosphere.
    Eve said nothing, but her face said everything.
    Rose saw the danger signals, the tilt of the head, the flash of the eye, the reaching for the glass, and tried to step in. ‘I thought we might go to Lucca for the Festival of
Lights.’
    But too late.
    ‘Why do you always have to lower the tone?’ Eve’s voice was flat, cold.
    ‘It was a joke among friends.’ Terry looked around for support, his face reddening. ‘That’s all.’
    ‘Look at them, Terry. They’re not laughing. That’s the sort of remark that might go down well in your office, but not here.’
    Suddenly the wind blew colder. Rose buttoned up her cardigan. How could she defuse this?
    ‘Easy, Eve. It’s fine. It’s us.’ Dan picked up the empty white wine bottle. ‘Shall we have coffee now as well?’
    ‘It’s not fine, Dan. We all put up with it, have done for years, but sometimes I get sick of it.’
    Terry was looking embarrassed, his eyes fixed on the red paper napkin that he was twisting under the table. ‘Don’t make a scene,’ he muttered.
    Their marital spats were familiar enough, but as Rose watched her brother’s embarrassment and his wife’s icy fury, she felt hopelessly divided between the two of them. When
she’d introduced them, Eve on the rebound from Will, she’d never intended to play Cupid. Back then, as his big sister, she’d viewed Terry’s taste in women with despair. The
few of his girlfriends she’d met had always been of a type: dolly birds who were pretty, giggly and monosyllabic. But to her and Daniel’s amazement, he and Eve had hit it off
immediately. The slightly older woman. They always had something to talk about, and if they weren’t deep in conversation, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. David
Bowie, the Rolling Stones, Jim Callaghan, cricket and pear drops provided a little of the obvious cement that bound them together at first. She had to hand it to Terry: he had never been a
stereotypical accountant, although his occasional social gaffes had sometimes made her cringe. She’d sometimes wondered whether he fell somewhere on the autistic spectrum. If he did, it
wasn’t enough of a somewhere for their parents to have noticed or to have tried to do anything about it. People tended not to so much then. Not that they had noticed much where their two
children were concerned. Instead, Terry blundered through life without ever offending anyone enough to cause him serious trouble. Except, of course, Eve.
    ‘I’ll do that, Dan. You get another bottle.’ Rose pushed back her chair. ‘Anna, could