above the acoustic guitar music drifting out from her speakers, adding to the ‘sophisticated get-together in the city’ ambience.
On the wall was the painting she’d bought with some of the advance she’d received for her book: a minimalist canvas featuring a simple apple tree against brilliant white. And, of course, laid out on the large misshaped driftwood table were her signature dishes: a vast cauliflower pizza sprinkled with locally sourced lamb cubes; zucchini fritters with Greek yoghurt; carrot quinoa muffins; and chunky chickpea dips with crunchy vegetable crisps.
In the middle of it all, taking pride of place, was the first edition of Estelle’s book, fresh off the printers. On the cover was an apple tree, much like the one on the canvas, plain and simple against a blue cloudless sky. Beneath the tree stood Estelle beside a wooden table filled with fresh vegetables, fruit and meat, her short blonde hair swept across her forehead, her slim body casting a shadow on the grassy knoll behind her. She was dressed in her signature white, this time a plain white cotton dress, highlighting her subtle tan. She smiled into the sun, her oval brown eyes looking at the camera. Held up in the palm of her hand was an apple. And above it all, four letters in glossy white: PURE. The name of her first book.
Estelle took a photo of the table with her phone, and uploaded it to Instagram with the caption: Early copies in of my book! Let the celebrations begin … #Pure #foodie #nom
Her editor Silvia leaned over and smoothed her fingertips over the book cover. ‘I always love the feel of a first edition,’ she said, smiling at Estelle.
‘And the smell,’ Giles, her husband, another eminent editor, said, leaning down for a quick sniff.
Everyone laughed and Estelle joined in. God, it felt good to be here with her closest friends, celebrating the success she’d worked so bloody hard for.
‘Everyone dig in,’ Estelle said, standing up. ‘I’ll just get some more wine; can’t believe you’ve already polished off three bottles!’
She walked away from the table smiling to herself, the bottom of her long white skirt swishing around her ankles as she padded barefoot into her large state-of-the-art kitchen. When she was out of sight, she closed her eyes, leaning her head against the large cool fridge, taking in a deep breath. She’d spent half the day cooking; she was exhausted. But it was worth it. She turned back around, taking in the happy scene in the room next door. Yes, it was worth it. She’d fought so hard for this. She deserved to celebrate.
Didn’t she?
She clenched her hands into fists, silently berating herself. Yes, she did deserve this. Look where she’d come from.
She took in each of her friends. Had they had to battle so hard to get where they were? She doubted it. Her guests were a mixture of people from her publishing house, a few fellow bloggers, plus her boyfriend Seb, his brother Dean and Dean’s pregnant wife Laura. All born to well-off families; privileged with happy innocent childhoods. Only Christina had come from what Estelle would call a ‘normal’ family. They’d met at a foodie awards event three years ago, just as both their blogs were gaining traction: Estelle’s focusing on healthy ‘pure’ recipes, Christina’s on balancing motherhood with crafting. Out of all the people sitting around the table, it was Christina she felt most herself with, even more so than her own partner Seb.
But even Christina didn’t know much about Estelle’s background … and Estelle wanted to keep it that way.
‘You okay, gorgeous?’
She looked up to see her boyfriend frowning at her, his muscular frame filling the doorway of the kitchen, a serving spoon in his right hand.
She forced a smile onto her face. ‘I’m fine! Just thinking how lucky I am.’ She pulled her phone from her pocket and pointed it at him. ‘Hold that pose.’
She took a photo then shared it with her followers on Instagram with the caption: A new paddle for my Olympic rowing darling.
Seb rolled his eyes. ‘I’m just social media fodder for you.’
She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘You need to stop looking so cute then, don’t you?’
She grabbed two bottles of wine from their fridge then walked into the dining room.
‘Who’s for some more wine?’ she asked. Everyone cheered in approval. She went around the table, topping up everyone’s glasses. When she got to her own glass, she added a dribble. She didn’t much like drinking, just the odd sip here and there.
‘Might want to calm down there, darling,’ Silvia said to her husband as he took a huge sip.
‘Oh please. We have a child-free night; I’m making the most of it,’ he replied.
‘Not a child-free morning though,’ Silvia reminded him.
‘Don’t remind me. Honestly, the stress of getting that girl up in the morning. You wait until you have a teenager,’ Giles said, quirking an eyebrow at Dean. ‘Nightmare.’
‘Oh come on, don’t exaggerate,’ Silvia countered. ‘She’s a dream compared to most teenagers …’ Her face darkened. ‘Like that TV presenter, Chris O’Farrell’s daughter. Did you hear about her running away?’ she asked.
Estelle thought of the brief glimpse of news she’d seen, the silver-haired presenter pleading to camera for his daughter to return.
‘I did,’ Estelle said with a sigh. ‘He must be so worried.’
‘I wish Annabelle would run away,’ Giles drawled.
‘Giles!’ Silvia exclaimed, flicking her serviette at her husband. ‘How could you?’
Estelle smiled at the banter between the couple. They were the publishing world’s most celebrated couple; it was still blowing her mind they were sat at her dinner table.
‘Admit it,’ Giles said. ‘She’s a nightmare at the moment.’
Silvia shook her head. ‘She’s a teenager. They’re supposed to be nightmares.’
‘Much like writers,’ Giles said with a raised eyebrow. ‘Bar present company, of course!’
‘I do apologise for my husband, Estelle,’ Silvia said. ‘He’s had particularly bad luck with his writers. He never quite believes it when I say mine are a dream to work with, especially you.’
Estelle quirked an eyebrow. ‘You weren’t thinking that when I made those changes to the proofs at the last minute.’
Silvia pretended to scold Estelle and Estelle laughed.
‘I’m intrigued, what bad luck have you had with your writers, Giles?’ Seb asked.
Giles leaned back into his chair, resting his glass on his rotund belly, clearly pleased to be the centre of attention. ‘You must’ve heard about Krishna Sandhill?’
‘I remember reading something about her,’ Seb’s brother said. ‘Wasn’t she some meditation guru?’
Giles nodded. ‘The Queen of Calm, we called her. Advocating a new form of meditation that promised calmness and clarity after just five days of following
