of the road, beeping his London driving.
‘It’s a fucking nightmare,’ he said, loosening his tie, knuckles gripping the steering wheel. ‘You just can’t see what’s coming.’
‘I thought you always said you knew these roads like the back of your hand.’ Anna straightened the sun-visor mirror to check her reflection. She’d been told by Mrs Beedle, the antiques shop owner, on the phone to wear something she didn’t mind getting mucky in. Anna didn’t own anything she minded getting mucky. Her wardrobe had predominantly consisted of Marc Jacob pantsuits, J Brand jeans and key Stella McCartney pieces. The only memory of them now were the piles of jiffy bags that she had stuffed them into and mailed out to the highest eBay bidder. For today’s outfit she had settled on a pair of khaki shorts that she had worn on safari three years ago and the most worn of her black tank-tops.
‘I did. I think they’ve planted new hedgerows since my day.’
Anna snorted and pulled her sunglasses down from the top of her head, closing her eyes and trying to imagine herself on some Caribbean beach absorbing the wall of heat, about to dive into the ocean, or settled into the box at the Opera House to watch the dress rehearsal, sipping champagne or a double vodka martini.
‘Eh voila,’ Seb said a minute later, cutting the engine and winding up his window.
She opened her eyes slowly like a lizard in the desert.
There it was.
Nettleton village.
The sight of it seemed to lodge her heart in her throat. Her brow suddenly speckled with sweat.
‘OK?’ Seb asked before he opened the door.
Anna snorted, ‘Yeah, yeah, fine.’ She unclicked her door and let one tanned leg follow the other to the cobbles. Unfurling herself from their little hatchback, she stretched her back and shoulders and surveyed the scene as if looking back over old photographs. Through the hazy morning mist of heat, she could see all the little shops surrounding the village square, the avenue of lime trees that dripped sticky sap on the pavement and cars, the church at the far end by the pond and the playground, the benches dappled with the shade from the big, wide leaves of the overhanging trees. Across the square was the pharmacy, its green cross flashing and registering the temperature at twenty-seven degrees. She looked at her watch, it was only eight o’clock. The window still had those old bottles of liquid like an apothecary shop, one red one green, it could have been her imagination playing tricks on her but she thought she remembered them from when she was a kid. Next to that was the newsagent, Dowsetts. A bit of A4 paper stuck on the door saying only two school children at a time. Now that she did remember. Three of them would go in deliberately and cause Mrs Norris apoplexy as they huddled together picking the penny sweets out one at a time and pretending to put them in their pockets. Then, when her friend Hermione locked Mrs Norris in the store cupboard one lunchtime, it earned them a lifetime ban. Did that still stand, she wondered. Would she be turned away if she dared set foot inside? Or was it like prison? Twelve years or less for good behaviour?
Nettleton, she thought, hands on her hips, there it was, all exactly as she remembered it.
Seb came round and draped his arm over her shoulders, giving her an affectionate shake. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’
She forced a little grin.
They strolled over towards a bakery coffee shop, its yellow-striped awning unwound over red cafe tables and chairs, a daisy in a jam jar on each.
‘Charming,’ Seb mused, pointing to the cakes in the window ‒ rows and rows of macaroons all the colour of summer and displayed to look like a sunrise, deep reds into lighter pinks and brilliant oranges fading into acid-lemon yellows, their cream bursting out the insides and their surfaces glistening in the shade. Like jewels jostling for space. Behind them were trays of summer fruit tarts, fresh gooseberries sinking into patisserie cream and stacks of Danish pastries with plump apricots drizzled with icing next to piles of freshly baked croissants, steaming from the oven. There was a small queue of people lined up in the cool, dark interior waiting to buy fresh baguettes and sandwiches. ‘Truly charming.’
Anna thought back to when she’d picked the wedding cake in Patisserie Gerard. The slices the chef brought over on little frilled-edged plates and metal two-pronged forks, watching as she placed the delicate vanilla sponge or chocolate sachertorte into her mouth and sighed with the pleasure of it. How he had suggested that she had to have between four and six layers, less was unheard of for weddings at The Waldegrave; two chocolate with a black forest-style cherry that would ooze when cut and soaked through with booze, heavy and dense. Then a light, fluffy little sponge on the top, perhaps in an orange or, he suggested, a clementine. Just slightly sweeter. The guests would be able to tell the difference. They’d definitely be the type to appreciate such delicate flavours.
Then, without warning, her mother’s voice popped into her head. We never had a wedding, Anna, and it was a sign. Anna didn’t see the cakes, just her own reflection as the words carried on. Pregnant with you, Anna, and standing in some crummy registry office with a couple of witnesses he’d dragged in from outside. I didn’t even get a new dress. And in those days you didn’t have pregnancy clothes, Anna, not the flashy things you have now. Oh no, I had a big hoop of corduroy pleated around my belly like a traffic cone. There were no photos. Thank god. But when I think about it now, I know it was definitely a sign. He wanted to gloss over it. A wedding is more than just a day, Anna. It’s a statement of intent.
As Seb pulled out a chair and stretched his legs out in the morning sun, Anna perched on the edge of the one opposite and said, ‘My mum rang yesterday.’
He twisted his head round to look at her. ‘What did she say?’
‘That she’d give us the money to get married. All of it.’ Seb sat up straighter. Anna licked her lips and pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes. ‘As long as I don’t invite Dad.’
Seb spluttered a cough. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. No way. What did you say?’
She brushed some of the creases from her top. ‘I said I’d think about it.’
‘Anna, you can’t not invite your father.’
‘Why not? What difference would it make? At least it’d solve my problems.’ She paused. ‘Maybe then I wouldn’t have to invite yours either.’ She snorted at her own little joke, but Seb didn’t find it as funny as she’d hoped.
‘You can’t not invite him.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I can’t start my married life on that kind of threat. She’s being a bitch.’
Anna bristled. ‘She’s not, he just hurt her.’
‘It was a long time ago, Anna,’ he said.
Anna glanced to the side, away from looking directly at Seb and, in doing so, caught a look at the girl behind the counter.
‘Oh god, it’s Rachel.’ Anna whipped round so fast her sunglasses fell off her head and landed with a clatter on the metal table.
‘What? Who?’ He stuck his nose right up against the glass. ‘No it’s not.’
‘It is. You’re so obvious.’ She pulled him back by the arm.
‘Well what’s wrong with it being Rachel. I liked Rachel.’
‘Urgh,
