at last make sense of the intensive tree pruning that had gone on earlier. A gazebo had been erected at the far end, which had been filled with cushions and kilims. Paper lanterns winked with promise from within. You had to take your hat off to Lou and Gavin; they knew how to create a sense of occasion. She supposed it was some sort of chill-out zone and wondered what might take place there as the evening wore on. There would be more pot, certainly, but would there be other drugs? She wondered what she would do if someone offered her cocaine – turn it down, she supposed. There were the kids, for one thing and besides, she’d only do it wrong and look an idiot.
There was still no sign of the hosts, but clusters of people were milling about on the grass, drinking, smoking, weaving their heads, serpent-like, to trip-hop. Most of them seemed to know each other. This must be how it felt to be a ghost, Sara thought, as she floated from one huddle of people to the next, hovering on the periphery, smiling hopefully, yet never quite plucking up the courage to introduce herself. A few guests made eye contact, one or two smiled back and shuffled aside to accommodate her, but their conversations were too bright and smooth and fluent to allow her an entrée – it was like trying to wade into a fast-flowing stream. It was a relief, then, to bump into an acquaintance from a few streets away, who, it turned out, had done an art foundation course with Lou, but who now wanted to talk school catchment areas. After twenty minutes nodding and smiling, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and twirling the stem of her glass, Sara had had enough. She made her excuses and was threading her way back through the throng towards the house, when she met the host coming down the steps.
“Top up?” he said, tilting a bottle of wine towards her glass.
“Thanks,” she said. “You’re Gavin, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.”
He filled her glass and started to move off again.
“We’re neighbours, by the way,” she added, quickly.
“Ahhh,” he said, turning back and re-engaging with genuine interest, “you must be Sara.”
Gavin apologised for taking so long to be neighbourly and explained that he had been like a dog, circling round and round in his basket, except in his case, his basket was his studio and it had had to be “not so much hewn from the living rock, as dug out of the London clay.’’ He nodded in the direction of the basement, which was still cordoned off with blue tarpaulins. At close quarters, Sara was relieved to discover he was only moderately handsome. One eyelid drooped fractionally, making him look faintly disreputable, and an otherwise fine profile was marred by a slight overbite. He spoke with a Lancastrian burr, which made everything he said sound vaguely sardonic, and prompted a certain archness in Sara’s response. She didn’t believe, she told him now, that the basement-conversion was a studio at all, but one of those underground gymnasia, beloved of Chelsea oligarchs. He said he’d happily prove her wrong, but not tonight, because he didn’t want just anyone – jerking his head towards his increasingly unruly party guests – traipsing through. At this whisper of a compliment, Sara felt a flutter of excitement in her belly.
“So what is it you do, Sara?” he asked after a pause.
“I’m a copywriter,” she said.
“Great! Advertising. Must be fun.”
“Oh it’s not Saatchi’s or anything,” she said quickly, “it’s really boring. Just in-house stuff for companies mainly. And consumer-y bits…”
He nodded, and turned his head, scanning the garden for someone more interesting to talk to, she assumed.
“… But I write,” she added quickly, “just for myself, you know.”
“Cool,” he said, turning back to her. “What sort of thing?”
“Short stories, the odd poem. I’ve started a novel, but it’s run out of steam.”
“You should talk to Lou.”
“Oh?” said Sara warily.
“Yeah,” he replied, nodding, “she’ll give you a few pointers – depending on the kind of thing it is, of course.”
“Lou’s a writer?”
“A writer-director.”
“What, films?”
“Yeah. She’s working on a short at the moment. Terrific concept.”
“She never said…”
“Oh, she wouldn’t. She’s very humble, my wife. One of those quiet types that just beavers away in the background and then comes up with this gob-smackingly amazing thing. Know what I mean?”
“Mmm,” said Sara miserably. She had only just got comfortable with the idea of Lou the style maven, earth mother and muse; now, it seemed, she had to contend with Lou the creative genius.
“Well…” Gavin looked around for more glasses to fill. It suddenly seemed imperative that she detain him.
“What do you make of Spanish cinema?” she blurted. He looked taken aback.
“I’m no connoisseur,” he said, “Almodóvar can be fun, but he’s so inconsistent.”
“I know what you mean,” Sara agreed, hoping she wouldn’t have to elaborate. “And doesn’t it get on your nerves how sloppy they are with the subtitles?” she rolled her eyes despairingly. “Some of the French films I’ve seen….”
“You speak French?” He looked impressed.
“I get by,” she replied, then shrugged.
“Ce qui expliquerait le mystère subtil de votre allure,” said Gavin, with a very passable accent and a twinkle in his eye.
“Er… yeah, okay, I did it for A level.” She pulled a rueful face. “I’m a bit rusty.”
There was a pause, then they both burst out laughing.
“Great!” he said, shaking his head. “I love it.”
“Good joke?” Neil appeared at Sara’s elbow.
“Oh hello,” she said, trying not to feel annoyed with him. “Gavin, this is my husband, Neil.”
They shook hands.
“It’s ten thirty,” Neil said to her, meaningfully.
“’Scuse me,” Gavin said, touching Neil’s shoulder, “if it’s that time, I should probably be helping my missus with the food. Great talking to you, Sara.”
He walked away, still shaking his head and smiling.
“Don’t you think it’s time we left?” Neil said.
“Why?”
“Well, the boys are on their own, for one thing.”
“Go and check on
