cheaply at Marlbury market. The gleaming white berries were in fact plastic pearls from a broken necklace of India’s, but Zoe felt they were suitably convincing.
‘You’re not wearing that, are you, Mum?’ Rufus bounded downstairs, blond hair on end. ‘With your legs on show like that?’
‘I certainly am.’ Zoe smoothed down her red velvet dress as she headed towards the kitchen to put out glasses.
To add insult to injured pride, Tash could hear the Lime Tree party from almost half a mile away as she lurked unhappily in the chilly forge. In fact, she could hear stereophonic parties, as the racket from the Olive Branch’s annual knees-up fought to compete with the Moncrieffs’ raucous bash.
Tash, having wallowed self-pityingly in a luke-warm bath for nearly an hour, was swathed in Niall’s stripy dressing gown and a head-towel, reading one of the scripts he had been sent before Christmas. She almost fell off the sofa when the door was pounded upon vigorously.
Shrinking back, she ignored it, glancing at the clock on the oven.
It was only ten-thirty. She groaned and tossed the script on to the rickety coffee table. God, she was bored.
The fist was still pounding a persistent tattoo, accompanied by a familiar voice calling her name with charmless superiority.
‘Tash, I know you’re bloody in there. Open up, you silly cow.’
Tash set her mouth angrily and continued to ignore him. She had no desire to greet Hugo with puffy eyes, red nose and a mascara-stained turban on her head.
‘We’ve come to take you to the bloody party!’
Beetroot, who was barking herself hoarse on Tash’s side of the door, let out a terrified yelp and scuttled away as the cat-flap flew open and a very tanned hand thrust a parcel through it.
‘Your Christmas present.’
Tash’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. Hugo had never once bought her a present in her life. He seemed to derive particularly cruel pleasure from his failure to memorise her birthday, whilst his – 28 March – was a date which had once leaped out of her teenage diaries as though encircled in red.
She scuttled silently across the floor and looked at the package.
It was wrapped in luxuriously thick green and bronze paper, with a lot of loopy red ribbon and a large tag shaped like a figgy pudding. Silently, Tash reached out to flip over the tag.
At the same moment as she read the words ‘ For Penny and Gus, from Kirsty, with gratitude and love ’, the tanned hand re-emerged from the cat-flap and gripped her firmly around the wrist.
‘Ouch!’ Tash tried to pull away but he was far stronger than she was.
‘Now either we stay like this all night,’ came the muffled drawl through the flap, ‘or you let us in.’
Tash didn’t like the ‘us’. Peering through the open flap, she could see a lot of denim-covered upper thigh where Hugo was kneeling on the snowy front step, and could just make out the cruel, sharp line of his chin which was stretched downwards so that he could talk to her. There was also, however, a distinctly sickly waft of strong, feminine perfume and – yes – she could just make out the dim image of a strappy black shoe and a slim, ten-denier ankle in the background.
‘Bugger off,’ she muttered, looking around for something with which to hit his arm.
There was nothing within reach and Beetroot, who was proving to have a very warped sense of loyalty, had crept back to the door and was sniffing Hugo’s sweater cuff with interest, snaky tail rising from between her back legs to wag excitedly.
‘Listen, I’m only fucking here because Penny is upset that you haven’t turned up. She sent me on an errand. Says I can’t have a bloody drink unless I return with you in tow.’
‘Don’t be so wet, Tash,’ came a purring Scottish lisp from behind Hugo. ‘Just open the bloody door. We’re freezing our balls off out here.’
‘I always said you had balls, Kirsty,’ Tash muttered under her breath.
‘What’s
‘You’re not wearing that, are you, Mum?’ Rufus bounded downstairs, blond hair on end. ‘With your legs on show like that?’
‘I certainly am.’ Zoe smoothed down her red velvet dress as she headed towards the kitchen to put out glasses.
To add insult to injured pride, Tash could hear the Lime Tree party from almost half a mile away as she lurked unhappily in the chilly forge. In fact, she could hear stereophonic parties, as the racket from the Olive Branch’s annual knees-up fought to compete with the Moncrieffs’ raucous bash.
Tash, having wallowed self-pityingly in a luke-warm bath for nearly an hour, was swathed in Niall’s stripy dressing gown and a head-towel, reading one of the scripts he had been sent before Christmas. She almost fell off the sofa when the door was pounded upon vigorously.
Shrinking back, she ignored it, glancing at the clock on the oven.
It was only ten-thirty. She groaned and tossed the script on to the rickety coffee table. God, she was bored.
The fist was still pounding a persistent tattoo, accompanied by a familiar voice calling her name with charmless superiority.
‘Tash, I know you’re bloody in there. Open up, you silly cow.’
Tash set her mouth angrily and continued to ignore him. She had no desire to greet Hugo with puffy eyes, red nose and a mascara-stained turban on her head.
‘We’ve come to take you to the bloody party!’
Beetroot, who was barking herself hoarse on Tash’s side of the door, let out a terrified yelp and scuttled away as the cat-flap flew open and a very tanned hand thrust a parcel through it.
‘Your Christmas present.’
Tash’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. Hugo had never once bought her a present in her life. He seemed to derive particularly cruel pleasure from his failure to memorise her birthday, whilst his – 28 March – was a date which had once leaped out of her teenage diaries as though encircled in red.
She scuttled silently across the floor and looked at the package.
It was wrapped in luxuriously thick green and bronze paper, with a lot of loopy red ribbon and a large tag shaped like a figgy pudding. Silently, Tash reached out to flip over the tag.
At the same moment as she read the words ‘ For Penny and Gus, from Kirsty, with gratitude and love ’, the tanned hand re-emerged from the cat-flap and gripped her firmly around the wrist.
‘Ouch!’ Tash tried to pull away but he was far stronger than she was.
‘Now either we stay like this all night,’ came the muffled drawl through the flap, ‘or you let us in.’
Tash didn’t like the ‘us’. Peering through the open flap, she could see a lot of denim-covered upper thigh where Hugo was kneeling on the snowy front step, and could just make out the cruel, sharp line of his chin which was stretched downwards so that he could talk to her. There was also, however, a distinctly sickly waft of strong, feminine perfume and – yes – she could just make out the dim image of a strappy black shoe and a slim, ten-denier ankle in the background.
‘Bugger off,’ she muttered, looking around for something with which to hit his arm.
There was nothing within reach and Beetroot, who was proving to have a very warped sense of loyalty, had crept back to the door and was sniffing Hugo’s sweater cuff with interest, snaky tail rising from between her back legs to wag excitedly.
‘Listen, I’m only fucking here because Penny is upset that you haven’t turned up. She sent me on an errand. Says I can’t have a bloody drink unless I return with you in tow.’
‘Don’t be so wet, Tash,’ came a purring Scottish lisp from behind Hugo. ‘Just open the bloody door. We’re freezing our balls off out here.’
‘I always said you had balls, Kirsty,’ Tash muttered under her breath.
‘What’s
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