Chapter 9 Zoe Spring 2025 #3
‘It is,’ says Zoe, taking a sip of her wine.
People are everywhere. Sprawled on the sofas, plates and glasses resting on laps or on tables without a coaster.
Mum would have had a fit. Even in the hall, the table is cluttered with glasses, surrounded by people red from talking too loudly and drinking too much.
From her vantage point in the corner of the drawing room, she can see they’ve spilled out into the garden, grinding discarded cigarette butts into the gravel.
Even the shade has retreated to the far corners of the lawn.
Flitting between them like swallows are catering staff in black and white offering top-ups and plates of canapés.
She knows from the looks and the occasional question about Highdown Hall that word has got out about her not inheriting her own home.
Zoe wonders which of her sisters said something.
It couldn’t be Steph, she hardly speaks.
But Sara and Fiona are far too sociable, too willing to chat about everything and nothing.
She’s seen them both with different groups of villagers, smiling and chatting.
She just can’t bring herself to do it. To act like this is some sort of party, one of the many parties her parents used to have.
But then, across the drawing room, she sees the solicitor in another ill-fitting suit, a shiny black tie around his neck.
He catches her eye and looks away. So much for confidentiality.
It was probably the most exciting will he’d ever come across.
‘Lovely food,’ says Mary Billingham, flakes of pastry decorating her bosom.
‘I’m sorry to hear about Highdown Hall. Very difficult for you.
What was your mother thinking?’ She takes a gulp of her wine.
‘It’s far more usual for houses like this to be left to the eldest child to carry on the tradition.
We were all wondering what Stephanie was going to do with it when the time came. ’
‘I’m not sure it’s our business, Mary,’ says Alice, smiling and tipping her head on one side.
Mary Billingham blushes a fraction and then rallies. ‘I think the future of the house is everyone’s business. Imagine if it gets turned into flats . . .’
Zoe doesn’t hear anything else. She is thinking she’ll just quietly go upstairs when she sees Joy Philips. Her hair is a startling white against her black dress, her face a map of wrinkles. She’s talking to another woman who Zoe doesn’t recognise. They both look up as she approaches them.
Mrs Philips rests a blue veiny hand on her arm. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, dear.’
Zoe nods. ‘Thank you,’ she says automatically. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, dear.’ There’s a piece of something between her two front teeth and Zoe wonders for a moment whether to mention it.
‘You have something in your teeth, Joy.’ Alice has come up behind her.
Mrs Philips colours and puts her napkin over her mouth, while she fiddles around with her fingernail and then swills it down with a mouthful of wine.
‘Sorry about that,’ murmurs Alice. ‘That was completely wrong of Mary to say. People are such gossips.’
Zoe swallows. She knows it’s what they’re all thinking.
That their beautiful home will be turned into luxury apartments.
Magnificent apartments for sale in former manor house in heart of Sussex countryside.
She can see the brochure already. They absolutely cannot let that happen.
She can feel the weight of the stares of the DeProse portraits looking down at her from the gallery.
Mrs Philips has recovered. ‘You wanted to ask me something, dear,’ she says.
Zoe nods. ‘Years ago, you were talking to Mum – we were at a parish fete, I think – and you described me as a happy accident.’
Mrs Philips puts her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. ‘Did I?’ she says faintly. Alice seems to stiffen beside her.
‘Yes, you did,’ says Zoe. ‘I wondered what you meant by that.’
‘Well, well,’ she stammers. ‘I don’t remember saying that at all.
It’s not the sort of thing I would have said.
But if I did, it was probably just that your parents were a bit older by the time you arrived.
Perhaps you were . . .’ She swallows and looks through the front door to the drive. ‘Unexpected,’ she says at last.
Unexpected. Happy accident. Had her parents not planned for a fourth child?
‘That’s nonsense, Joy,’ says Alice. ‘I know for a fact that Milly tried for Zoe for years before she came along. She was a much-wanted child.’
Zoe turns to go upstairs but Sara is standing in the way, little Katy asleep over her shoulder, talking to an old man. She catches Sara’s eye and goes over. ‘God, this is awful,’ whispers Sara, smiling gratefully as a waitress refills her glass.
Steph comes to join them, deep circles beneath her eyes, clutching an empty wine glass. The waitress refills it.
‘Your mother was such a character,’ says Mrs Philips, clearly pleased to have the three sisters as an audience. ‘The village won’t be the same without her.’
‘That’s true,’ says another lady dressed in purple, incongruous among all the black. ‘I remember the fantastic lunches she’d put on for the shoot.’
‘Not just the lunches, it was the home-made sloe gin.’ Another woman, bending heavily on a stick, joins them.
‘The sloe gin, oh yes!’ says the purple woman.
When will they all go? wonders Zoe. Steph finishes her glass and accepts the refill from the waitress, who also fills up the glasses from the other women.
‘Elevenses was never the same without Milly’s sloe gin and prosecco.’ A man joins them, his black tie askew.
‘It’s called a sloegasm,’ giggled another woman who Zoe doesn’t recognise.
‘Mabel!’ says Alice.
Mabel giggles again. ‘That’s what Milly herself called it.’
‘She did,’ chuckles another man, his teeth stained red from the wine.
‘Your mother was a saint,’ says the purple lady, addressing Steph, Sara and Zoe. ‘She will be so missed.’
Steph grunts and takes a gulp of wine. Zoe paints on a smile and takes a sip of hers. ‘We will miss her, that’s for sure.’
‘We all will,’ says the woman with a stick. Zoe knows she should remember her name.
‘She was always so kind to everyone. She seemed to have endless time. She played bridge with my mother and aunt every week for years. Once they were housebound she was almost their only visitor, apart from family and the nurses.’
That must be Mrs Cornford’s daughter, thinks Zoe. She remembers her mother visiting them.
‘No one plays bridge anymore,’ grumbles the old man.
‘Mum was still playing bridge a few months before she died,’ says Zoe, taking a slug of wine.
Sara smiles. ‘I remember her teaching me. I could never get the hang of it.’
‘Your mother was an ace player,’ slurs the man, holding out his glass for a refill. ‘Hard to beat.’
A burst of laughter comes through from the drawing room into the hall. There’s just too much wine flowing, thinks Zoe. They should have stopped topping up the glasses ages ago. Steph is leaning against the staircase. How much has she had?
‘Let’s all just agree that Milly was a saint,’ says Mabel. ‘I will really miss her. We should raise a toast.’
‘Hardly a saint,’ Steph mumbles.
Everyone’s glasses freeze mid-air. They all stare at Steph, who looks down into her glass.
‘What do you mean by that?’ says Zoe, her jaw tense.
Steph takes another slurp of wine. ‘Just that she’s not as saint-like as everyone is making out.’
Sara licks her lips. ‘I don’t think this is really the time.’ She hands Katy to John who has come up behind her, puts her glass down on the newel and reaches for Steph’s arm. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Steph tips her head on one side. ‘If now’s not the time, then when is?
’ Her words are tripping over one another in her hurry to get them out.
She takes another sip. ‘Everyone’s talking about Mum and how wonderful she was.
I’m just saying that she wasn’t always that wonderful. Just giving a balanced view.’
‘Stephanie . . .’ Alice stares at her, shaking her head. ‘Not now.’
‘It’s never the right time though, is it?
’ Steph is properly slurring now. ‘You’re all making her into a saint and she wasn’t.
’ She waves her hand around at the crowd of guests and catches the top of her wine glass against the banister.
It falls to the floor, shattering, the pieces splintering across the hall, the wine like blood among the shards of glass.
The crowd gasps and retreats as two of the catering team rush forward to collect the pieces.
Steph stares at the stem of the shattered glass she’s still clutching. ‘Mum did some terrible, terrible things. Inhuman things.’ Steph’s face is twisted. She picks up Sara’s half-full wine glass from the newel and gulps it down.
‘Stop it,’ shouts Zoe, the fizzing in her stomach moving into her throat. ‘Just stop it. Can’t you just be pleasant, be normal?’ Alice’s hand is on her arm.
‘Normal,’ shouts Steph, her breath rancid with alcohol and staleness. ‘What the fuck is normal? This family’s not normal, that’s for sure.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Zoe sees people melting away, going slowly into the library to gather coats, their eyes wide. Fiona marches through the front door, a lit cigarette still in her hand. ‘What’s going on? What’s all the shouting?’
‘I’m just giving everyone some home truths,’ says Steph. ‘Everyone seems to think that Mum was a saint. Well, sometimes she could be a right bitch.’