Chapter 26
Present
Fiona’s house – the Grayling, stood dramatically on a precipice overhanging one of the bendiest roads on the island, which also happened to have the most spectacular view of the ocean.
You’d never get planning permission for the Barbie Dreamhouse-inspired creation these days, of course.
Fiona had built and rebuilt around an old cottage that had probably been on the site since pre-famine times.
The only sign of the original place at this stage was a remarkably preserved stone wall that ran the length of her kitchen.
Beyond that, the cottage it belonged to had been greedily gobbled by Fiona’s appetite for glass, chrome and bleached maple.
The first thing Blythe noticed when she arrived for book club at Fiona’s house was the aroma of fresh baking.
She sniffed the air appreciatively. Fiona never baked.
The nearest Fiona got to home cooking was a selection of discreetly placed reed diffusers that purported to scent her home with cinnamon or lemon or some other sickly-sweet smell.
Blythe had baked palmier cookies, her home bakes were always the most popular, not that it was a competition.
She always said that, to make the others feel better, but secretly, she felt it really was.
She’d looked up the recipe for the cookies because what else could you eat when you were discussing The Paris Wife.
She was really looking forward to book club this month, she badly needed to relax, indulge in a good old gossip and forget about her worries for an hour or two.
Fiona would have a good selection of French wines on hand, but Blythe needed more than a crisp crémant, so she had tucked a large bottle of gin into her bag.
Already, just knowing it was there soothed her frayed nerves.
‘Darling, I thought you forgot about us,’ Fiona embraced her in a perfume-filled hug, air-kissing her cheeks loudly.
‘Not a chance, I’ve been looking forward to this evening all week.’ Blythe said as she handed over the tray of food. ‘Actually, really looking forward to it,’ she leant in and whispered conspiratorially while taking the bottle of gin from her shopping tote.
‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of that in the house.’ Fiona laughed.
‘Have you been baking?’ Blythe knew nothing was less likely, but that smell, oh, my God, she could almost taste the butter and sugar melting together – it made her mouth water just thinking of what it might be.
‘You are joking?’
‘No, but…’ And that’s when Blythe saw them.
Platters of cannelés, dainty cinnamon rolls, madeleines, and tiny pink macarons, enough to feed a small village, all spread out on the low coffee table where usually Blythe’s offerings took pride of place.
‘You didn’t get caterers in?’ It had been one of the rules she set down at the beginning of the group to stop the women trying to outdo each other.
It was home baking or shop bought, but no expensive off-site catering company because she knew two things, first, down that road lay the sort of competitiveness that led to fall-outs.
The second thing was, she was the best baker and home maker in this room by a country mile and was it so bad that she enjoyed the praise abundantly heaped on her each time they met?
‘Ah,’ Fiona said, as if some invisible penny was just dropping into a slot. ‘What have we got here, ladies?’ she said as she led the way, making a show of uncovering Blythe’s platter of cookies.
‘Mmm,’ there was a general murmur from the other ladies gathered in the various sofas and single chairs around the feast. They all had their mouths stuffed with pastries already, so she didn’t need to ask, the look in their eyes was enough to know that this time, her offerings were coming in a poor second place.
Blythe looked around the group, trying to figure out who had spent the guts of a day putting together the gorgeous-looking spread laid out before them.
‘We’ve kept your favourite seat for you,’ Fiona said then, in an effort to let her see that her place had not really been usurped.
She made a show of plumping up the cushions on the best chair in the house, an obscenely expensive wing chair, the only one that did anything to support your back, in Blythe’s opinion.
‘Apologies,’ the door to the kitchen at the far end of the room opened then and Blythe was glad she was sitting, because otherwise she might have fallen over from unpleasant surprise.
‘You!’ she said as she watched Melissa Val approach. The woman was so… so colourful in a flowing bright orange kaftan, against the grey and white décor that ran right through Fiona’s house.
‘Yes, hello, I’m Melissa, you must be Blythe,’ she was holding out her hand to Blythe now, to introduce herself.
‘I know very well who you are,’ Blythe said then.
‘And of course, I’ve heard all about you, well, a little about you at any rate.’ Melissa dropped elegantly into the vacant space on the end of the sofa next to her.
‘Hmph.’ It was all Blythe could manage, because suddenly she was aware of eight pairs of eyes watching her.
‘Blythe,’ Heather Banks was holding up a champagne glass, ‘Fiona has broken out the good stuff,’ she laughed.
‘That’ll do for now,’ Blythe said, taking the glass from her and knocking back the contents in one go. ‘Now, Fiona…’ She nodded to her friend who was already pouring her a generous measure of gin.
‘So, let’s get started,’ Fiona said as soon as she’d handed Blythe a generous G she was still their best supporter.
‘I want to read everything there is to read now about Hadley Richardson.’ She bent forward, her fingers hovering between the macarons and the cookies.
She chose a macaron and Blythe sucked down her resentment.
‘Well, for me, it was all about the scene – I mean, come on, was I the only person here who wanted to reincarnate in the 1920s and dance the Charleston and fall in love.’ Mary Larkin clapped her hands together and looked as if she might start flapping on the spot.
Blythe quickly tuned out. The conversation about the book they’d read, which she had really enjoyed, seemed to be happening around her.
All she could think about was Siggy and Danial and the fact that even here, in this one place where she hoped to get away from her worries; they had followed her, in the shape of Melissa Val.
And everyone seemed to think that woman was the bee’s knees.
What couldn’t she do, exactly?’
She had even managed to flog a monstrous-looking painting, that was more like a mural, to Fiona.
Blythe had nodded when they all admired it, but she couldn’t make head or tail out of the thing.
It was just a riot of colours, honestly, Siggy would have done as well when she was five years old.
There was nothing to it, to Blythe’s eyes, it was a confusion of random paint splodges.
And as for the cakes, the women were hoovering them up. Blythe’s tray just about cleared by the end of their meetings usually, but between the eight of them, they had managed to scoff back six times the amount of food that they normally would.
In fairness, Blythe had managed to do the same with the alcohol.
Now, as she sat there, wrapped up in a gin-hazed mantle, she could feel her patience levels depleting. She kept sipping her drink, willing herself not to explode.
‘What about you?’ Melissa turned to her now and honestly, Blythe could have sworn that her voice dripped of dislike.
‘What about me?’ The words came out with more anger than she’d expected.
‘Sorry, I just meant, I’d be interested to hear what you thought about the book?’ Melissa smiled then, as if everything was perfectly normal in the world.
‘To be honest with you, Melissa, our book club has never been all about the book. Usually, we only spend a short time discussing it and by now, well, if it was just ourselves, we’d be having a good chat about everything and anything under the sun.’
‘Blythe,’ Fiona’s voice held a note of warning. ‘Can I offer everyone a cup of coffee, I’ve had that blend you all loved last time imported especially…’ she said, but there was a note of panic in her voice, as if she was racing against a tidal wave that was about to break loose.
‘I’m sorry, if I’ve…’ Melissa began, and she looked at Blythe and then from there to each of the other women. ‘Thanks so much for having me, I really enjoyed meeting you all,’ she said then as she got up to leave.
‘You’re not going,’ it was a chorus from the choir on the Bergamo sofa.
‘I think it’s late for me, I’m an early riser, so…’ She smiled then, making her way towards the door.
‘No, please, don’t go like this, Melissa. Jay has offered to come and bring us all home; it’s such a long walk at this hour of the evening.’ Mary Larkin tried to cajole her into staying.
‘Mary, if the woman wants to go home, you should let her go,’ Blythe said with slightly less satisfaction than she expected at the idea of seeing the back of the woman.
‘Really, it’s fine. I like to walk,’ Melissa said. ‘I’ll collect the trays during the week, thanks so much for having me.’
‘You’ll come again?’ Ellen sounded hopeful, as she rubbed her hands together to shake the last of the sugary crumbs from them.
‘Maybe, we’ll see,’ Melissa said and she shot a look at Blythe which might have held a note of sadness, but really, since Blythe was absolutely seething at how the tables had been so suddenly turned, it went completely over her head.
And with that, she was gone, off out in the dusky evening and Blythe was left sitting there, facing eight angry pairs of eyes.
‘What?’
‘That was so embarrassing.’ Mary shook her head sadly and her eyes fell to her hands clasped rigidly in her lap.