Chapter 27 Laughter
We gather at Sable d’Or, a pretty café on the Broadway with excellent pastéis de nata.
Sophie smiles and doesn’t notice a blob of guacamole drop onto her top.
Tor stares at it, visibly distracted, her expression straining against her Botox-assisted forehead.
We’ve discussed ‘the fire’, but no one has walked around to see which road or house it was, as yet.
It was the talk of the Broadway this morning, and the acrid smell of smoke still hangs in the air like a low fog.
‘How’s Cait?’ says Sophie, scraping the guacamole from her lapel and into her mouth. ‘She’s not responded to my texts.’
‘Oh, she dashed home last night to collect things for the girls and headed off to her mum’s for the weekend,’ says Tor. ‘It’s easier for her there, I think.’
Easier for you, I want to say, but I suspect Cait’s decision to relocate was also to avoid seeing me again, as she says her eczema flares up whenever she hears my name. I suspect that the fire brigade will have found Cait and relayed the unfortunate news. Poor thing, she’s having a real time of it.
‘What’ve you been up to, Lalla?’ says Sophie, tapping my arm.
‘What do you mean?’ I smile, wondering if I smell of petrol. I showered three times and had to throw away another set of clothes. Murder is so expensive, people probably don’t realize.
‘You’re all glowing. You look like you had mind-altering sex all last night,’ says Sophie, with a playful nudge.
‘Yes, the sex is pretty non-stop at the moment,’ I say with a coy smile. Sophie claps her hands in joy, as Tor curls her lip over her coffee.
Obviously I haven’t had any sex at all. Despite Aimée’s valiant effort at flirting (she tried to strike up an intimate conversation about the fruit on his muesli), Stephen was glued to his phone when I tried to seduce him after the trip to Cait’s house left me feeling quite excited.
Tor puts her cup down. ‘Surprised you two can concentrate on anything but your Adams letter. I’d be going round the bend.’
Aisha leans towards me and holds my arm. ‘Did you call them?’
‘No, I’ve not called.’ This is a lie. I’ve called so frequently that they no longer pick up when they see my number.
‘It’s so odd you haven’t heard anything,’ says Tor, tossing her thinning hair with a twisted little smile. ‘I don’t know how you can be so patient. Hero was bouncing off the walls till the letter came yesterday.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be there on Monday,’ I say, and try not to judge Tor too much – being married to an MP, she is reduced to getting her pleasure at someone else’s expense.
‘Well, I really hope she’s not been rejected,’ says Tor.
‘She’s not,’ I say firmly, and imagine pushing Tor’s taut face into Sophie’s dip. ‘Anyway, if the letter doesn’t turn up, I’ll see the headmistress on Monday.’
‘I’m so glad I’m not involved,’ says Aisha cheerily. ‘We’re saving all our stress, and cash, for eleven-plus entry.’
‘Of course you are,’ says Tor. ‘I expect money’s quite tight with Ranni’s noble commitment to the NHS.’
‘Well, you can’t do heart transplants privately,’ says Aisha. ‘Organs can’t be bought and sold.’
‘Not in the UK, anyway,’ says Tor, and then offers her sage advice. ‘If he’d gone into cosmetic surgery, you could afford a house in Hampstead and prep schools for all three.’
‘We’re happy as we are,’ says Aisha, her anger almost undetectable, but the readjustment of her leggings is telling.
Tor stares as if Aisha is mad and resists a retort but can’t resist a little shake of her head in my direction.
‘How’s Ellie?’ asks Tor, moving targets quickly. ‘She must be super excited. I knew some bursary girls at my school and they actually coped quite well.’
‘She’s on cloud nine,’ says Sophie, her head tilted back in fear of someone biting it off.
‘It’s so good to be aspirational, but it’s such a gamble too,’ says Tor.
‘What’s the gamble?’ says Sophie, her calm demeanour breaking slightly.
‘If Ellie’s set her heart on the place and doesn’t get a bursary, she’ll be heartbroken,’ says Tor with a faintly sinister smile.
‘She knows Adams can only happen if we get funding,’ Sophie says firmly, and stabs a slice of red pepper. ‘Anyway, we’ve applied to four other schools.’
‘Good for you. Not every child is happy in an environment like Adams,’ declares Tor.
Sophie looks like she’s about to swing at her, but her fist opens out and her nails tap in irritation on the tabletop.
‘Ellie’s super-bright. They’d be mad not to offer her a place,’ I say, which is simply a statement of truth, but Sophie’s face melts with delight, and I realize why I’m always nice to her. She’s like an emotional slot machine that always pays out.
‘Are you still excited about your other news, Sophie?’ says Aisha.
Sophie’s been regaling us all again about Paolo’s proposal.
Two days into her engagement, she’s already shared a date for the wedding and asked us to keep our diaries free.
Aisha instantly asked for her wedding list, while I immediately wanted to book a holiday.
Weddings bring out the worst in me, they always seem to end in violence or inappropriate sex.
‘I’m so excited,’ says Sophie. ‘I’m a fiancée for the first time in my life!’
‘Did you have to think about saying “yes” after such a long wait?’ inserts Tor to deflate Sophie’s enthusiasm.
‘I had no doubts at all,’ says Sophie, smugly.
‘So nice to have such simple emotions,’ says Tor. ‘I thought long and hard before I said yes to Law, but the promise of a wedding at Westminster Abbey swung it.’
‘I thought you were married at St Margaret’s Church,’ I gently correct Tor.
‘Which is in the grounds of Westminster Abbey,’ she replies emphatically.
‘I don’t care where we’re married, I’m just happy,’ says Sophie. ‘He loves me, he makes me laugh, he can cook, and he’s hung like a horse – what more can I ask?’
We laugh so loud that people turn and stare.
‘Ranni was upset by an article he read in the Observer the other day,’ says Aisha, quietly. ‘It said the average penis size in the UK had grown by half an inch in the last twenty years.’
‘Why was he sad?’ says Sophie.
‘He said, in two decades, he’s lost his hair, gained ten kilos, and his penis is now below the national average.’
‘What about you, Tor? Does Lawrence satisfy your needs?’ says Sophie, as laughter subsides.
‘Oh, there are few needs that I leave Law to satisfy,’ says Tor.
‘I bet you have a man who comes in to do that for you, don’t you?’ teases Sophie. ‘Your own sex butler.’
‘I do not,’ says Tor, quite firmly, and we all burst into fits of laughter again.
‘I bet the British make terrible sex butlers,’ I say.
‘I’m not joining in,’ says Tor, keeping a straight face with some difficulty.
‘If madam would be so kind as to allow, I would like to provide some additional stimulation on behalf of his lordship, who is currently experiencing a slight detumescence in his private estate,’ says Sophie in a refined English accent.
We shriek too loudly again, which attracts several annoyed glances. It’s a raucous united release from our various anxieties about Adams, ageing, children, marriage, and, of course, murder. I laugh too, but part of me is mimicking again and I envy their immediacy and unbridled joy.
As the laughter subsides, a bell jangles loudly, the door of Sable d’Or swings open, and Cait appears, wild-eyed and tear-stained.