Page 13 of Just for the Season

‘We had very good reason for our slight overindulgence last Friday,’ Ellie says. ‘That’s why Frankie’s been lying low all week.’

‘Yes, I’m kind of getting back on my feet now and ready to talk, but I needed a bit of time just getting myself back together.’

‘Oh, no. What happened?’ Miranda draws them a little away from me.

I move over to chat to Rob, but not before I hear Frankie say, ‘I had the serious day from hell last Friday. Triple whammy.’

I should not care. I should not be interested. I don’t care and I’m not interested. But I still – to my great annoyance – find myself straining to hear Frankie’s lowered voice.

I wonder whether her triple whammy involved the cake, or whether she had actual serious problems last weekend. As Rob gets a beer out of his very well-stocked fridge for me, I can’t help glancing over again at the three women.

Yeah, no, whatever. Frankie might have serious problems, or she might just be someone who thinks a splatted cake contributes to the day from hell. I don’t know and I really do not care. I don’t know her, and that’s a good thing. If she does have actual problems, she has Ellie and Miranda to talk to. I’m going to ignore her and enjoy this party.

5

FRANKIE

‘That’s awful,’ gasps Miranda as I reach the end of my Rick story. ‘Frankie, I’m so sorry. What a dick.’ She squeezes me into a big hug, which I have to say is very welcome. Ellie’s been hugging me a lot over the past week too. It’s nice. It makes me feel like people do care about me. Being dumped definitely makes you question whether people actually like being around you.

‘Complete arse,’ Ellie agrees. ‘He’s unbelievably self-centred. He texted several times in a strop because Frankie didn’t cancel the dinner party they were hosting that evening, and he keeps sending messages with household questions.’

‘What a tosser,’ Miranda correctly states.

‘Yes. Today, for example,’ I tell her, ‘he’s been texting asking about how to use the washing machine and where “we” keep our cleaning products because the guests he had over last night made a mess and “our” cleaner isn’t available today.’

‘Noooo.’ Miranda’s eyes are like saucers. ‘What have you been replying? And are you going to block him?’

‘I’ve been saying nothing. I’m not going to block him yet. I like leaving him on read. I think it really, really annoys him.’

‘Nice,’ Miranda approves. Then she looks closely at me. ‘You do know that what you said about being homeless and jobless and in a terrible situation is nonsense, don’t you? As in, you have a lot of options in this village alone for places to live, and job-wise I’m sure you’ll have a lot of options too.’

‘Exactly what I’ve been saying all week,’ agrees Ellie.

‘Thank you.’ I sniff and the three of us share another hug.

‘I’ve just realised you don’t have a drink.’ Miranda waves at Rob who’s at the opposite end of their gigantic kitchen chatting to Marcus. ‘Rob bought actual champagne, not Prosecco, because it was lunchtime before he remembered it was my birthday today, even though he knew we were having a party. So then he bought champagne to make up. We’ll start with that.’

And two minutes later, we each have a full glass of champagne, with the bottle on the table next to us, ready for us to do top-ups, and I’m glugging like nobody’s business, even though the hangover I had last Saturday was so bad that I swore I’d never drink again.

Other guests begin to arrive – Miranda’s invited loads of people, across the generations – and I keep on downing the champagne as I chat.

I’m onto my third glass (or maybe the fourth; it’s hard to tell) when Ellie tells me that our grandmother is on the other side of the room.

‘Gran.’ I haven’t seen her in over a month, because before my day from hell I hadn’t been back to Milbury for over three weeks, one of the longest times I’ve ever been away for, and I haven’t been to see her this week because I’ve been very miserable on and off and I haven’t wanted to risk getting upset and worrying her (Ellie popped over a couple of times to see her without me). I practically fly across the room to hug her.

‘Frankie.’ Her embrace, accompanied by the wave of Chanel perfume she always, always wears – even when her only plans for the day are gardening, a bit of crochet and a cosy crime boxset – almost brings me straight to tears.

‘Gran,’ I repeat in a strangled voice.

‘Are you alright?’ She draws back to check my face.

‘Yes, of course.’ I tell myself sternly that I need to pull myself together right now, because she must not know what a mess my life has become.

She’s about to turn eighty-five, and has had a couple of health scares recently, and the last thing she needs is to be worrying about me. She basically brought me up – my dad was never around and when I was thirteen my mum got married to someone who didn’t want a stepdaughter – and I can’t bear to upset her in her twilight years.

‘You didn’t tell me you were coming for the weekend,’ she says in mildly scolding tones. ‘Do you have time to come for lunch tomorrow?’

My heart clenches at the thought that I might have hurt her feelings (I’m going to have to tell her I’ve had flu or something for the past week because she’s bound to find out I’ve been around; I should have thought of that before) and I say hurriedly, ‘It was a very spur-of-the-moment thing. And, yes, I do have time to come for lunch. I can’t wait.’