the type to consume suspect bakery goods of any description. ‘Yes,’ I reply simply, ‘it was at a party.’ In fact it was Fraser, Rosie’s real father, who I’d sampled space cakes with – in Amsterdam, unsurprisingly, on our Inter-railing trip. It had become ‘our’ trip by chance. I’d planned to travel with Angie, a school friend, and when she’d contracted glandular fever I’d decided to go on my own. En route to Paris I’d met Fraser, whose refined features and floppy fair hair suggested a privileged upbringing involving rugby and cricket and an expensive education. Certainly, he had enough cash in the seemingly bottomless pockets of his khaki shorts to spend four months drifting around Europe, stopping off to see various wealthy friends, whereas I’d only been able to scrape together enough for three weeks. From then on we’d travelled together, and by the time we rolled up at an Amsterdam hostel, we were in love.
‘What was it like?’ Ollie wants to know, making my heart jolt. Oh my God, it was heaven. Lying in Vondelpark with him kissing crumbs from my lips, and not knowing if it was the druggy cake making my head swirl, or the beautiful blond boy who looked like one of those carved marble angels you see in cathedrals …
‘Mum?’ Ollie prompts me.
‘Er, yes?’ I nearly knock over my glass of water.
‘What did it taste of?’
I take a fortifying glug of wine. ‘It was horrible,’ I fib. ‘The most disgusting thing I ever ate. It made me very, very sick, and if either of you are ever offered anything like that, just say no.’
Rosie grins. ‘They actually call it weed these days, Mum. Weed or spliff or cheese.’
‘Cheese?’ I repeat, feeling decrepit. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, you hear people saying they’re gonna score some cheese …’
I splutter involuntarily. ‘Who are these people?’
She shrugs. ‘Just people.’
‘Are you sure that’s what they mean, though?’ I ask.
‘They could just be going to buy a Camembert,’ Will offers, sending the kids into hysterics again.
I smile and squeeze his hand under the table. If only it could always be like this, with Will being funny and sweet, like he used to be, before redundancy and angry-mowing and refusing to talk to me about anything important. Yet the fact that our marriage is hardly sparkly these days isn’t all his fault; it’s mine too. Occasionally, when Liza mentions a date she’s been on, I can’t help sensing a twinge of envy. Life can feel terribly grown up sometimes, when I come home to a barely communicative husband, then get on with the business of shovelling Guinness’s droppings out of his hutch (Rosie refuses to involve herself in his toileting. What kind of vet will she make, if she can’t bring herself to deal with a few innocuous pebble-like poos?).
Sometimes, I tell myself, this is just how adult life is, and I should stop mourning the loss of spontaneity and passion and accept how things are. The way Will flinches when I touch him in bed, as if jabbed with a red hot toasting fork with a smouldering marshmallow on the end … at our age it’s just normal, isn’t it? Everyone looks back at their younger selves occasionally, and feels all dreamy and wistful. Then they give themselves a mental slap and get on with hoiking a mass of gunky hair out of the shower drain and book in the car for its MOT.
‘Good birthday, sweetheart?’ I ask, my hand still wrapped around his.
Will smiles warmly. ‘Lovely, thanks.’
‘So, am I forgiven interrogating our new neighbours?’
‘Guess so.’ He squeezes my hand back.
‘What did you think of Sabrina? Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘Hmm, s’pose so,’ he says with a shrug.
‘Come on,’ I tease him. ‘What about that stunning red hair? And her body! So slim and fit-looking. D’you think she’s a dancer?’
Will looks genuinely baffled. ‘I’ve no idea. Why d’you say that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – she has that lean, sinewy vibe about her, a bit like Liza …’ I pause. ‘Maybe she’s something to do with the music business? Or a make-up artist?’
Rosie chuckles. ‘Why d’you do this, Mum?’
‘Do what?’
‘Take such a massive interest in other people’s lives.’
‘I don’t,’ I retort. ‘I’m just interested. So, are we all going to their party next Saturday?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ Will says with a shrug. ‘We won’t know anyone, will we?’
‘But we could get to know them,’ I point out.
‘Will there be anyone my age?’ Ollie wants to know.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I say briskly, ‘but anyway, I’m looking forward to it, and I’d appreciate it if you could all be positive because I’d really like us to all go as a family.’ I cough and sip my wine. In fact, I’m not that desperate myself. I’m out of practice when it comes to strangers’ parties; what to wear, what to say, how to be … I can’t recall the last time Will and I went to a social event where we didn’t know practically everyone. In fact, the last party I went to was my work Christmas do – seven months ago. The factory guys tore into the cheap fizz, and Frank, a strapping six-footer with a deep Spanish accent, remarked, ‘You’re very attractive, Charlotte … for your age.’
‘I s’pose,’ Will says, draining his glass, ‘it’d be pretty rude of us not to go.’
‘I might be busy,’ Rosie announces, perusing the dessert menu.
‘Actually,’ I say firmly, ‘you won’t be, hon. It’s only one night and it’s not too much to ask.’
Sniggering again, Ollie leans towards Rosie and Will. ‘You know why Mum really wants to go? She thinks they might have herbal buns.’
My mother-in-law calls at 8.07 on Wednesday morning, perfectly timed to coincide with the kids grabbing breakfast and my frenzied hunt for Ollie’s elusive trainers. ‘Hello, Gloria, how are you?’ I say, indicating to Will who’s calling. I’m-not-here, he mouths, accompanied by vigorous hand waving as if trying to actually rub himself out.
‘Is Will there?’ No pleasantries; no, how lovely it was to see us all on Saturday. Perhaps she’s still feeling prickly about us rekindling the memory of the Sorrington Bugle sleazebag.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes, I’ve found the perfect job for him. Can you put him on?’
I stare at Will.
No! Will mouths. I’ll call her later … ‘He’s, erm, out on his bike at the moment,
