said to Chanelle, who bobbed forwards and air-kissed my cheeks. My face broke into a smile as I scanned her tight dress, which hugged every unnatural inch. The boobs had been a thirtieth birthday present and the bum implants marked an anniversary. The generous curves suited my generous friend.
I glanced again at April and reflected, as I often did, that life was good. More than good, in fact, with my heartbreakingly handsome husband and luxurious family home. It was the perfect scenario to safely raise a child, thank goodness, because no one warns you that from the moment you give birth, the world suddenly looks like a dangerous place.
I squeezed Chanelle’s shoulder and tickled behind the ears of Prada, the pug in her arms. The horizontally striped dress also hugged every good-hearted bone in her body. Since April had joined Skye’s playground clique a year ago, after her best mate moved to Dubai, clothes horse Chanelle had vigorously welcomed us both into her life. How thrilled she’d been to know me, the wife of Zachary Masters, the head of her favourite fashion house Elite Eleganz.
Chanelle gave me a wide grin with her Julia Roberts mouth – although today there were no twinkly eyes to match.
I gazed around. ‘So … how’s business going? Still on the up since you found that investor?’
Her cheeks pinked up. ‘Not bad at all. Thank God. It was risky of me to plough all of my divorce money into expanding the place but I can’t complain now. Finally we’re enjoying a decent turnover.’ She cleared her throat and gave another super bright smile. Something didn’t seem right. ‘It’s been sheer torture not being able to enjoy my yearly cruise.’ She said it like it was a joke, but with Chanelle you could never be sure.
Travel was as important to Chanelle as her credit card and facials. I took her cheery cue to change the subject. You see, our conversation never went much deeper than the Clarins concealer on her face. Chanelle always veered away from really personal chat. Instead we shared countless shopping trips and dissected celebrity gossip. It was a far cry from my student days, when I used to drink cheap lager, wear homemade tie-dye tops, and analyse the meaning of life with friends.
‘Thanks again for having April over.’ I studied her tired face, wondering how perky it actually looked like beneath the thick make-up. ‘Let me help tidy up. You must be shattered.’
‘No, it’s fine, thanks. It won’t take long. And anyway, as if Skye would have a party without her bezzie! April’s a real credit to you, Jenny. Such good taste. Always picks the classiest shade of nail varnish. Plus she understands exactly why any self-respecting female should love glamorous reality shows …’ She was rambling now.
My mind drifted as I gave Prada another stroke. A credit to me for those qualities? Unusual, perhaps, considering her young age. But then celebrity is a modern religion and it’s difficult not to get sucked in. An image of my own mum popped into my head, with her straggly hair and hands always covered in flour, soil, or soap. She’d taught me the different colours of garden birds, plus the importance of cooking and reading. Jeez. I gave a wry smile. My childhood sounded like a chapter from an Enid Blyton book.
‘Did you have fun?’ I bent down to give April a hug. She wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed me tight. My chest glowed. If I could bottle that happy feeling, I’d become an addict overnight. We left the salon. It was a lovely May day. The sun shone. Laventon and the surrounding area was iconically English in appearance, with yellow rapeseed fields and low-ceilinged cottages. Yet it was only forty minutes from London, near enough not to miss out on that diverse city’s offerings.
April peered up at me from under her brunette fringe and gave me a lipsticked smile. ‘Fab-u-licious,’ she said in her singsong voice. I grinned at her new favourite word. ‘We watched two episodes of the Kardashians whilst Chanelle and Skye’s auntie did our make-up.’
I thought back to a few weeks previously, in the month of my daughter’s name. I’d asked her what sort of trip out she would prefer for her birthday – at her age I’d gone ice-skating, pottery painting, or the cinema maybe. She’d rolled her eyes at all three, preferring a disco limo or makeover party.
‘She’s only ten!’ I’d mused with Zak that night, as he got in late from work again. He’d loosened his tie, revealing a patch of that toned, tanned chest, and poured a whisky. My husband epitomised sexual attraction with his dark looks and undressing-you eyes. At parties, women flocked to him as if he were a sweet treat and they were flies.
‘Kids grow up faster these days. April’s probably imitating you, what with your weekly manicures and designer clothes.’ He’d smiled. ‘Where has young Jennifer Jarvis gone – the fashion student with her geometric hairstyle and outlandish dress sense?’
Hmm. Good question. But nothing stayed the same – I’d become a wife, a mum. I’d grown up. Still, over the last couple of months, I’d spent an increasing amount of time thinking about my old sketches from college. Now that April was older, a yearning had struck me to restart my studies. The very thought made my stomach flutter. I’d never finished my degree. It would have taken a woman of strong mettle – make that metal – to resist Zak sweeping her off her feet at a zillion miles per hour.
I drove my yellow Mini back through Laventon, a chocolate-box village with its cobbled pavements and window boxes. We trundled past The Coffee Club, a new café that had opened last year. Before that, the little village had only had quaint teashops, whereas this one specialised in all things caffeine, like powerful espressos and artistically decorated lattes.
‘Shall we pick up a latte for Daddy?’ said April, as if reading my thoughts. ‘He doesn’t believe the ones at The Coffee Club could be better than Starbucks.’
I smiled. The shop’s owner, Noah, might have taken umbrage at that. He lovingly nursed each cup, creating appealing designs on top. I didn’t know him well, but could tell he was passionate about coffee. He’d get this boyish grin on his face when a customer told him they’d thoroughly enjoyed their cuppa.
In fact, in keeping with his shop’s name, he ran a monthly club for regulars to taste new flavours for free. Chanelle and I had attended several of these sessions and I’d sat in awe as Noah talked about roasting methods and the quality of different beans. He ordered them in from every corner of the globe.
‘You know Daddy – he likes to stick to well-known brands.’
‘Skye’s gran goes in for one every day. The heart pattern is her favourite.’
I grinned. Once Noah had let slip that it had taken him weeks to learn latte art. Yet now he could magic leaves, footballs, teddy-bear faces, and all sorts out of steamed milk. And whilst a pure, simple black Americano was his personal favourite, he apparently spent hours researching the latest flavoured syrups that younger customers loved.
‘So, how was the party food?’ I said, as we continued to drive past.
‘We ate cans of peas,’ she said proudly.
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Canapés? Very grown-up. What sort?’
‘Um, this pink fish and … and I’m not sure. Cheesy bits and coloured pastes.’ She grimaced. ‘And tiny black eggs that tasted of the sea.’
‘What about fairy cakes?’
A tut wafted my way. ‘No one calls them that any more, Mummy. We had skinny muffins – with soya ice cream. They were yum.’
‘Well, I’m glad you had a nice time. And to make it an even more fab-u-licious weekend
