is what I seem to be doing most of the time, anyway.’
‘Exactly. It’s your body telling you it wants lots of lovely, delicious mindless sleep.’
‘Hm.’
‘Which can be assisted by copious draughts of alcohol.’
‘In that case . . .’ Gita shrugged, and held out her glass, which was topped up with Chilean Chardonnay.
‘Cheers.’
There was a silence after they had both taken substantial slurps. Then Jude spoke. ‘If there are people you want to see – you know, people you want to invite down here, that’s fine.’
Gita gave a strained grin. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.’ She looked troubled. ‘There are people I need to see – people I must see – but not yet.’
‘That’s fine. Just go at your own pace. Don’t rush yourself. There’s no pressure.’
‘Except, as I say, the financial pressure of making a living.’
‘Don’t worry about it. As I say, time enough.’
‘Mm.’ Gita reached out and took her friend’s hand. ‘I’m not going to spend every minute while I’m here saying, “Thank you, Jude.” I’m going to save it up for one big eruption of gratitude when I leave. But I would just like to say it now – a little keep-you-going thank you. Thank you very much, Jude.
‘Gita, it’s my pleasure.’ And she meant it.
The phone rang. ‘Hello?’
‘Jude, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Gaby Martin.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Look, I’m going to be down in your area at the weekend. Steve and I are staying in a hotel overnight, and your Carole’s cooking lunch for us on Sunday.’
‘And the back’s still giving you pain, is it?’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Well, I can do any time on Saturday.’
About eleven?’
‘That’d be fine.’
‘There’s just one thing . . .’
‘What?’
‘Could you not tell Carole I’m coming?’
‘OK. If that’s what you want.’
‘I don’t really mind her knowing, because after all it was Carole who put me in touch with you, but I don’t want Steve to find out.’
‘Gaby, your secret is safe with me.’
‘Thank you very much for sorting all this out, Mother.’ Stephen gestured to the spread of brochures and flyers laid out over the dining-room table at High Tor.
‘No problem. Glad to do it.’ And Carole had been. Finding out details of potential reception venues and caterers was a nice specific project, which made her feel that she was contributing something to the ongoing wedding planning. When she had worked for the Home Office, Carole Seddon had always been attracted to tasks that had a finite end.
‘And you say Gaby’s coming down later?’
‘Yes. Had some stuff to do in London, so she stayed in her flat last night, and she’s getting the train to Fethering round lunchtime.’
Stephen and Gaby were not yet fully cohabiting. She still kept on the Pimlico flat she shared with an actress friend called Jenny, but she spent much of her time – and all weekends – at Stephen’s house in Fulham.
Carole indicated four brochures. ‘I thought those were the most promising for what you said you wanted. They could all currently do the fourteenth of September. Two are hotels, so obviously would cater the reception themselves. The other two are just venues. Both have caterers they recommend, but equally would allow us to bring in our own caterers if we wanted to. I’ve rung round. We can have a look at any of the venues any time today, though the hotels would rather we avoided lunch and dinner time.’
‘You have been busy, Mother. Thank you very much.’
That Saturday morning, without Gaby present as a catalyst, Stephen seemed all formality again. Carole wondered, with a pang of envy, whether he was more relaxed with his father than he was with her.
‘This one at least you’ll recognize.’ She proffered an elegantly printed brochure for the Hopwicke Country House Hotel, where Stephen and Gaby had stayed a few months previously, and where a murder had taken place. ‘Though that’d probably be pretty pricey.’
‘Money’s not a problem.’ It was a line Carole had longed to be able to say all her life, but never would. Money was always a problem. Even now, with her secure index-linked pension and modest outgoings – only herself and Gulliver to look after – money remained a problem. Not so much a real problem, as something about which to feel a constant undertow of anxiety. A middle-class upbringing made that unavoidable. She was surprised that Stephen hadn’t inherited it.
‘No,’ he went on, ‘my worry with the Hopwicke Country House Hotel would be whether the place’d be big enough.’
‘Big enough? Why, how many guests are you proposing to invite?’
Hundred – hundred and twenty . . .’
‘Goodness. Well, you may be right. As I recall, they could only do sixty for a sit-down meal. But I suppose, if you have a buffet—’
No, we’ll have a sit-down meal.’ The firmness with which he said this made Carole wonder once again exactly how her son made his living. His particular combination of finance and computers certainly seemed to be lucrative. Anyway, Gaby and I know the Hopwicke, so we don’t need to look at that. But, if you’re ready, Mother, let’s go and see the other three. And you’ve shortlisted some potential caterers too, have you?’
Dutiful and efficient, his mother assured him that she had.
They were in his newly registered BMW on the way to a converted tithe barn near Fedborough when Carole brought up the subject of Gaby’s parents. Tentatively, she tried to find out what Stephen really thought of them.
‘They’re fine,’ he said, unhelpfully.
‘Rather shy, I thought.’ Carole probed.
‘Yes, but nothing wrong with that.’
‘Oh, no. No . . . Howard must be quite a lot older than Marie.’
‘Yes. And he misses a lot because of his deafness.’
‘Mm. Still, he looks very fit for his age.’
Yes, he is, remarkably.
