CHAPTER 9
‘My favourite feature,’ she explained with a jangle of her bangles, ‘is this lovely little glass balcony at the front.’ She pointed.
Everyone turned their head to admire the vast glass balcony that ran the length of the house and jutted out at least twelve feet beyond the giant sliding doors.
‘I just love the view of the Downs.’ She smiled with evident satisfaction.
‘You can see Birling Gap from here, with all those irritating tourists.’
‘I find them endearing,’ countered Pat, taking a sip of her drink. ‘I think it’s admirable that they make such an effort to come here to our inclement little part of the world.’
‘You do?’ Dorna sounded as if she had a whiff of pity in her voice.
‘Prichard is learning Korean,’ added Pat.
‘I am!’ grinned Prichard, appearing from a perilously low corduroy beanbag that he’d somehow landed in and was clearly thinking he might never get out of.
‘It’s just such a great view,’ agreed Fi, who was wearing a pair of leather jeans tight enough to reveal every contour of her Pilates-peached backside, teamed with a white silk shirt that showed her lacy bra.
‘Malcolm and I would love to upgrade, but there are so many rules and planning things it would be impossible. I have no idea how you managed with this place. You can’t even plant pampas grass around here without people complaining. ’
‘Well, you certainly managed that! Hahaha.’ Prichard’s machine-gun laugh let rip from the beanbag and Pat watched as Fi winced. She’d never been fond of Prichard, mainly because he failed to flirt with her or give her anywhere near enough attention.
‘You just have to know the right people,’ said Dorna, tapping the side of her nose.
‘More Chapel Down?’ She rose from the sofa.
‘Top-up?’ she asked Marcia, who was standing by a bowl of olives the size of gobstoppers.
‘Lucy?’ She smiled at the pretty brunette, who was sitting so close to Fi their thighs were touching. ‘Anyone else?’
Prichard proffered up his glass from the beanbag. ‘I wouldn’t mind a touch.’ He laughed again.
‘Would anyone like the tour before we start on the book?’ suggested Dorna.
‘Oh yes please,’ declared Fi, leaping off the sofa. ‘I’d love that. Where do you get your furnishings from?’ she asked immediately, caressing a round sheepskin cushion. ‘If you don’t mind me asking. And please don’t say London,’ she giggled. ‘None of us wants to hear that.’
‘Well,’ began Dorna, turning towards the door with her bandaged hand in the air, like a guide from a hop-on-hop-off open-bus tour.
‘Quite a lot of them I source from antiques markets like Kempton. But you have to go super, super early to get there before the dealers. The ones from Liberty in London are always there, snapping up the best mid-century modern.’ Her voice grew fainter as the tour began, leaving Prichard and Pat behind in the living room.
Prichard would have happily joined it, but he was unable to extricate himself from the beanbag without rolling over onto all fours, and that was impossible while still holding his glass of wine.
‘Pat,’ he whispered, ‘for God’s sake give me a hand! I’m stuck fast.’
Pat spent what felt like a good few minutes trying to heave Prichard to his feet. Finally she managed to pull him out of the giant marshmallow, only for him to hurl himself into her arms, emptying his glass all over the mustard sofa. They both stared.
‘Now what?’ he asked in a panicked whisper.
‘Just pop a soft furnishing on it,’ replied Pat, picking up a cushion and covering the stain. ‘She’ll never notice it.’ And they both sat down on the sofa opposite, backs straight, hands in laps, as if butter wouldn’t melt.
‘Oh Dorna, that’s amazing,’ said Fi as she walked back into the sitting room a few minutes later. ‘What you’ve done is beautiful. Truly. If only I had your sense of style.’
‘I have a freakish eye for detail,’ declared Dorna with another jangle of her bracelets as she curled a strand of short hennaed hair behind her ear. ‘It can be overwhelming sometimes.’ She shook her head a little before sitting down on Pat’s swiftly moved cushion.
‘I can see,’ agreed Fi. ‘We all can.’ She looked over at Lucy, who agreed immediately.
‘Yes, you’ve done an amazing job.’ Lucy nodded.
‘I think we should all go down to the kitchen to get a bite to eat, don’t you?’
Fortunately for Pat, the party of book club ladies were already up to speed on the Bulthaup this, and the Gaggenau that, and the sprung cupboard doors with no handles that responded to the lightest of touches.
So light, in fact, that Prichard managed to open a whole row of cupboards in his enthusiasm to get to the giant bowl of couscous that Dorna was teaming with her lamb stew.
‘Do tuck in,’ she said.
Once they’d all served themselves with stew, yoghurt-dressed salads and flatbreads, they sat at the long oak and resin table and book club was finally pronounced open by Dorna.
She sat at the head of the table, of course, with Fi to one side and the lovely Lucy to the other.
Pat and Prichard were down the far end with Marcia, whose plate looked strangely empty.
Either she thought little of Dorna’s cooking, or she was one of those women who didn’t eat in public, Pat couldn’t work out which.
‘Right.’ Dorna tapped her glass. ‘I think I’ll go first.’
‘Oh, you should,’ replied Fi. ‘Tell us what you think!’
‘I’m sure there are plenty of us who have something to say,’ declared Marcia from down the other end of the table. ‘I, for one, loved the book.’
‘You did?’ chimed in Prichard. ‘So did I. I loved the concept of the two brothers talking to each other, I liked the dialogue, the deep thoughts, the ideas behind the book, but you know I was a big fan of Normal People, and indeed the other one.’ He clicked his fingers.
‘Beautiful World, Where Are You. That’s the one.
Well, anyway, I really enjoyed the whole experience.
I thought she was fascinating about grief. ’
‘Not too sad, then? Endlessly talking about sadness? To the point of possibly being dull about the sadness?’ Pat asked.
‘Good Lord, no, not too sad. It has, how can I put it, tender humour. Hahaha!’ Prichard’s laugh ricocheted around the glass and polished-concrete surfaces of the kitchen. It sounded like they were being hosed down by a sniper. Fi frowned. Dorna winced.
‘Back to me,’ Dorna said, and Pat knew that wasn’t the first time those words had left her mouth.
‘Well, I have to say I regret choosing it. I thought it was all a bit miserable. In fact it’s pages and pages of misery with no light at the end of the rather boringly long tunnel.
And I for one thought the brothers should stop being so rude about the women they were in a relationship with. I’d had quite enough of …’
Pat listened to Dorna and found herself agreeing with her, which was disconcerting. She had a large swig of wine just to make herself feel better.
‘I think you’re right,’ she heard herself say. Prichard turned and stared at her, and slowly opened his mouth. Pat shot him a look. He kept quiet. ‘I do. I’m afraid I found it all rather protracted.’
Dorna: ‘I found it moralistic, conservative …’
Pat: ‘… and so emotionally cautious. I was longing for a clearer narrative.’
Dorna: ‘Those brothers are so introspective and cynical.’
Pat: ‘I just found them unlikeable. Impossible to empathise with.’
Dorna: ‘Yes, and …’
And on they continued for at least ten minutes, exchanging thoughts and ideas as if in a tennis match up and down the lengthy table while Prichard and the rest of the book club looked on, following each serve, volley and backhand slice as if they were on the Centre Court at Wimbledon.
Out came more wine, cheese and a pile of Ferrero Rocher, at which point Prichard accused Dorna of ‘really spoiling us’, but it was true.
She had made an effort. The woman was up to something, thought Pat, slicing off a corner of strong Cheddar.
The book clubs she had attended a long time ago in London were mostly made up of large glasses of lukewarm Barefoot rosé and bowls of Bombay mix.
‘Prichard,’ Dorna trilled down the table. ‘Could you possibly be a dear and open some more Chapel Down? My hand!’ She waved her bandage. ‘I simply can’t.’
‘That looks painful,’ declared Pat. ‘What did you do? How did it happen?’
She watched Dorna closely. Would the woman hesitate?
Was it anything to do with Henry’s disappearance?
The result of a violent struggle on the cliff?
Had they fought, got physical? She would deny it, of course, but lying took effort, and there would be a pause while her brain searched for and plucked out a likely story.
‘Oh God,’ Dorna moaned. No pause. ‘It’s a recurring injury. Repetitive strain. I get it when I work too hard, and it flares up when I play tennis too. Or golf. It’s so painful. Apparently turmeric works, but I never remember to take the stuff.’
‘Oh, right.’ Pat smiled tightly. That proved nothing. Only maybe that Dorna was possibly the best liar in the business.
‘Talking of golf,’ Dorna said, ‘if you’d like to come with me, I have something wonderful to show you all. Truly wonderful.’
Pat pushed back her Perspex chair, safe in the knowledge that she was right: there had been an agenda to the evening all along, and this was it. Prichard arrived back from the kitchen island and stood watching everyone get up, a look of bemusement on his alcohol-flushed face. Pop! went his cork.
‘Ah, Prichard,’ said Dorna. ‘Impeccable timing. Follow me!’