Octavia adored Cher, even though she mocked her endlessly for being a footballer’s wife. Although she pretended to disapprove, Octavia loved the whole extravagance of Cher’s life, the cook, the housekeeper, the way Cher simply tipped her Pinot Grigio down the sink if she was in the mood for Chardonnay. Not for her a life of cling film and leftovers.
And if I’d ever thought I might be able to resist, Cher extending the invitation to Alicia made refusal impossible. Cher’s granddaughter, Loretta, was sixteen and Alicia’s epitome of cool, with her kohl-lined eyes, fake eyelashes and hair extensions right down to her behind. It was the first time Alicia’s face had shown anything other than indifference or worry since we’d left the restaurant on Christmas Day. I had no doubt that as an only child, she was also looking forward to a bit of time away from Octavia’s raucous trio, who were distinctly put out to be left at home with their grandmother.
So in the end, I put on the long jade dress Octavia had snatched up when we’d gone back to the house. I disguised the bags under my eyes with concealer and located a smile that threatened to wobble at any moment.
When the taxi drew up outside Casa Nostra – Patri’s little Mafia joke – I stared back at my old home next door. The lights were on in the drawing room. I wondered whether Scott was there. He refused to tell me what he was doing as ‘he was no longer married to me, it was none of my concern’. I just couldn’t cut myself off like that. I couldn’t imagine that a year from now we’d still be apart. Or that I’d never step through my front door again.
Alicia hooked her arm through mine. She looked over at our house, all spaniel-eyed. Scott never had much patience with her: he thought I’d spoilt her and was always telling her to ‘get real’. Alicia hadn’t asked about Scott once. All her questions had been related to how soon we could leave Octavia’s. I didn’t blame her for hankering after the peace and quiet of home but I couldn’t investigate her feelings right now, when I was barely holding myself together. Talk, yes. But now, no.
Octavia stepped in to distract us both. ‘You look lovely tonight, Alicia. Your mum used to have a miniskirt like the one you’re wearing. In fact, believe it or not, we both did.’ The tension in her eased as Octavia went on to describe my leg warmer phase and penchant for putting my hair into hundreds of tiny plaits overnight so that the next morning I looked like I’d accidentally stuck my finger in a socket.
When we got to the front steps, Jonathan ushered me forward. I’d noticed before that black tie made men more chivalrous, and Jonathan was no exception. One of the Filipino staff – ‘Patri’s Fillies’, as he called them with a cavalier disregard for political correctness – answered the door. Cher tottered across the marble foyer looking as though she was fresh from a performance in the Big Top. A feather boa curled round her neck and her long dress was slashed almost to the waist. Her taut face contrasted with a décolleté that had spent too many summers frying in baby oil on the Costa Smeralda.
‘Happy New Year, everyone. Hi, Alicia. Go on up, Loretta’s upstairs with a few friends. They’re on the karaoke machine.’
I waited for Alicia to ask me to come with her but she gave me a little wave and headed off across the hallway, long limbs under her miniskirt like a baby giraffe.
Cher launched into a stage whisper. ‘So glad you came, Roberta. I told that husband of yours to sling his hook. Us girlies have to stick together, don’t we, ladies?’
I hoped Scott wasn’t sitting on his own working his way through his collection of single malts. Perhaps he’d have gone out with the chaps from the rugby club. I hadn’t spent a single New Year’s Eve away from him since we met. I wasn’t sure I wanted to start a new tradition now. I forced my thoughts away from next door.
Gold bangles jangled as Cher swept us into the drawing room. About ten other couples were already standing among clusters of red and silver balloons. Several Filipino maids were weaving about with platters of goat’s cheese crostini and trays of Kir Royale. It felt so odd to be here without Scott, I almost baulked at the door. He was the one who dived into social situations, shaking hands and sweeping me into the centre of things. Octavia gave me a little wink and walked ahead. I braced myself for a chorus of ‘Where’s Scott?’ but Cher had already rescued me on that front. Sometimes indiscreet friends were an advantage.
Patri came striding over, sunglasses balanced on his head, quite the ageing rock star with his velvet jacket and greying shoulder-length hair. ‘All right, Octavia, Jonathan? Roberta, darling. You look gorgeous, not a day over twenty-one. A lot to celebrate in the coming year, then?’ He took my hands in his.
‘Celebrate?’
Frankly, I felt like throwing myself on the log fire that was crackling away behind me.
‘Yeah, getting rid of that husband of yours. Never did like him. Couldn’t understand what a classy girl like you saw in an oik like him. My granddad was a peasant, worked the fields. Me dad was a brickie, but we was brought up to treat women nice. You’ll find someone who deserves you now.’ He took a big drag on his cigar and blew a smoke ring upwards. He stopped a waitress. ‘Here, have some bubbles.’
‘He had his good points, Patri. It was as much my fault as his.’ I wondered if my desire to defend Scott would ever wear off. How many more people were going to come out of the woodwork now and say they’d hated him?
‘Don’t do yerself down, girl, I know what that Scott was like, his way or the highway. He should of recognised his good fortune when he had it. Anyway, cheers, doll. All the best to you.’
He raised his glass to me and off he went, slapping the blokes on the back and the women on the bottom.
I clinked glasses with Octavia and Jonathan, and tried to contain the gathering force of sadness wrenching its way up my chest. Jonathan, with a rare flash of empathy, tried to help me out. ‘I know Scott had his moments, but he could be great company when he was in the right mood.’
Octavia couldn’t quite contain herself. ‘Yes, but the right mood had become rarer and rarer of late.’
I forced my lips into something like a smile and dabbed my little finger at the tears stinging my eyes.
Octavia shook her head. ‘I’m not going to be nice to you in the interests of your mascara.’ Before I could escape to the loo, the Lawsons from a couple of doors down spotted us. Michelle’s two topics of conversation were the catchment areas for good senior schools and her IBS. On the upside, if we were locked into a discussion about too much or too little fibre, there would be less airtime for anyone to investigate the demise of my marriage. We were soon in a kissy-kissy bump-noses-and-cheeks fiasco that the British never mastered properly.
Michelle said, ‘How are you?’ as though I’d been through a gruelling operation to have an embarrassing lump removed and was on the road to recovery. After a cursory greeting, Michelle’s husband, Simon, a forceful man who thought he was wittier than he was, turned to Jonathan to rant about government cuts in the health sector.
Before we became too engrossed in the merits of rice milk, Cher banged a huge brass gong and waved us through into the dining room, where an enormous oak table shone with crystal and silver. She searched me out and showed me to my seat. ‘Roberta, I’ve put you next to Patri. He’ll look after you.’ It hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t be next to Octavia. I resisted the urge to cling to her and make everyone swap places.
‘Lovely, thanks.’ I took another gulp of champagne and waved to Octavia as she took her seat down the other end of the table.
I kept my hands in my lap, staring at the pattern on the elaborate silver cutlery. I didn’t want to look up in case people were whispering about me. I wasn’t sure I could even pick up my wine glass without knocking everything over and shattering Cher’s finest Waterford.
Michelle sat opposite me. As always, Patri – who loved a bit of pomp and ceremony – had had menus printed up. The waitress handed