Charlotte always seemed to have just landed a lump of money – her one-woman estate-agency-come-house-styling enterprise was booming. Word was getting around that Charlotte could secure top prices for homes in Thanet – often from well-off city-dwellers looking to relocate, referred to locally as the DFLs (Down from London) – and her bold, de-cluttering approach to getting the property ready for sale was going down a storm.
‘Are you manic as well?’ Charlotte asked Fay now, as the empty cups were cleared.
Fay rolled her eyes. ‘Crazy. April’s always busy but we’re working flat out.’
Charlotte nodded. ‘Did a woman from Waldron Road contact you? Place stuffed with antiques – I told her you were the best in the business.’
‘Yes, thanks – I’m quoting tomorrow. Going to Sevenoaks. Thrilled with you. Thought you were bloody marvellous.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Even though she ignored most of my advice. You’ll have your hands full moving her.’
‘Can’t be worse than Sir Wotsit with his grand piano …’
Roz felt her usual pangs of inadequacy. There was Fay with her removal business and a dozen men working for her, Sherie with her jet-setting life as an art consultant, Charlotte with not only her own success but Roger bringing in a ton as a corporate lawyer. And then there was her. Single mother, lowly gallery assistant, struggling to find her council tax let alone the French school trip Amy had set her heart on …
‘You OK?’ Sherie was looking at her.
Roz nodded as Sherie turned to the young man who’d arrived with a tray. ‘Have you brought soya milk?’
Roz saw Fay roll her eyes.
Charlotte was still talking. ‘I’m thinking of taking someone on to help with the practical stuff – especially as I’ve got a couple of empties. I haven’t got time to keep lighting flaming candles and changing the flowers–’
‘I’ll do it!’ Roz heard the squeak in her voice. ‘I’d enjoy that,’ she added, trying to sound casual. ‘If it would help you out …’
Charlotte beamed. ‘Really? God that would be fantastic – I’ve been worrying about how to find someone I could absolutely trust. Even with half the stuff in Fay’s storage, the contents in the North Foreland house are still worth a bloody mint. It’s just a case of opening the windows, changing the perfume oils, maybe a little light dusting–’
‘I can do that.’ Roz breathed deeply, not wanting to sound desperate. This could be the answer to everything. She met Charlotte’s eyes. ‘I was thinking of looking for another small job …’
Charlotte nodded. ‘I would be very grateful.’
Roz exhaled slowly. Charlotte was lovely like that – making it sound as if it were she, Roz, who was bestowing the favour. Charlotte knew things were tight for her but she didn’t know how bad it had got.
Fay was rummaging in her handbag. ‘Fag?’
Charlotte rose majestically to her feet, and stretched out her neck, pushing back her curls again. ‘I think so!’ As they both headed for the door, Fay’s tall angular frame dwarfing Charlotte’s much shorter, rounder one, Roz looked at Sherie.
‘How’s things?’ she said lightly.
‘I’m off to the States next week. Some hot young artist in Brooklyn is the next big thing and I’ve got three clients after him, and then I’ve got Mum coming at the weekend–’ She shook her head. ‘You know what she’s like – I’m not sure I can cope. And I’ve had a stream of builders round giving estimates, because I really am going to get the fireplace knocked out–’
Roz put a hand on her arm.
‘Sticks?’
Sherie shook her head.
‘Nothing.’
It was their joke. Sherie was gorgeous. All blonde hair and cheekbones and glossy lips – she spent more on facials than Roz put by for the gas and electricity bills combined – with a fantastic figure. ‘You should be beating them off with sticks,’ Roz had once said. Yet Sherie’s relationships never lasted more than a few months. She’d been internet dating on and off for years but never seemed to meet anyone with that special spark.
‘Too damn picky,’ Roz had heard Fay say. Roz knew it was more than that, but certainly Sherie had an exacting set of criteria. Mr Right had to be a good-looking, highly intelligent, kind but appropriately macho, tall, liberal cat-lover who shared Sherie’s taste in music and films, with a penchant for salad. The last hapless applicant for the role had been despatched in short order when it was revealed that he did not fully appreciate the beauty and brilliance of Cillian Murphy in Peaky Blinders and also took three sugars.
‘A sort of possible on Meet-your-match,’ Sherie said now. ‘But listed one of his interests as junk food. I really can’t be doing with–’
‘It may have been irony,’ interrupted Roz. ‘Or he might be writing a dissertation on the subject. You can’t dismiss someone before you’ve even met him, just because he might like the odd Big Mac.’
‘Hmmm.’ Sherie pursed her lips. ‘Charlotte’s putting it on again, isn’t she?’
‘She looks the same to me.’
‘She really shouldn’t be smoking.’
‘No. But she won’t stop if you nag her.’
‘Fay’s such a bad example.’
‘Charlotte would smoke anyway – if she wanted to. In any case,’ Roz was trying to be reasonable, ‘don’t they say that stress is the killer? Charlotte’s the most laid-back person I know.’
‘Well she hasn’t got anything to worry about, has she!’
Roz glanced at her oldest friend. ‘I expect she has her ups and downs like most of us,’ she said mildly.
Sherie didn’t have an awful lot to worry about herself, as far as Roz could see. She had a beautiful apartment, a fabulous job, good friends and she looked a million dollars. But Roz knew there was little point debating it. As far as Sherie was concerned, Charlotte had the husband so Charlotte had nothing to complain about, ever. Nor did Fay, who had chosen to unceremoniously kick her husband Dave out, and since Roz said frequently that she barely gave men a thought these days – too tied up with Amy and trying to keep their heads above water – Sherie reserved all her sympathy on the relationships front for herself.
Sherie could be thoughtful and funny but Roz had noticed a bitterness creeping up in her as she got older on her own. She looked again at the list in front of her. ‘Char’s certainly wanting to push the boat out for our birthdays!’
She waited, hoping Sherie would say it was all too extravagant, that they didn’t need to supply champagne on arrival or hand round the sort of canapés Charlotte was after. That the cash bar could start sooner, and a live band wasn’t essential. So she, Roz, didn’t have to.
Sherie nodded, flicking through the various pieces of paper Charlotte had left on the table. ‘Yes, when she comes back, I really must say something about the catering.’ Sherie smiled at the young man proffering a small jug, took it and began to pour soya milk carefully into her coffee. ‘It’s rather a lot to spend per head–’
Roz nodded. ‘Yes it is. That’s what I–’
‘–if we don’t accommodate all tastes.’ Sherie lifted the cup to her lips, looking disapprovingly over the rim. ‘Has she even thought about gluten-free?’
‘So, the Princess is lactose intolerant now, is she? I thought it was yeast or wheat or something that was the devil?’ Out on the pavement, Fay leant back against the bricks, inhaled sharply and