Page 9 of Just for the Season

‘Thank you.’ I sniff again. ‘I would like to finish the book. And I can’t actually believe that I stayed in estate agency for so long, because I really just fell into it after uni. But it’s scary. I have no other skills; I’m not amazing and I’m not talented. And I’m too old to start something new.’

‘Frankie.’ Ellie’s using her scary deputy headmistress voice. ‘I will not have you talk about yourself like that. You are amazing. And we’re thirty-five and we’ll probably be working until we’re seventy at this rate, so you have plenty of time to change career. All sorts of people start new careers way older than this.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely.’ She takes another big sip, and I do too, and then we just sit and look at each other.

I’m still hiccupping a bit but I’m actually feeling a lot better. At least I have somewhere to stay. Things could be a lot worse.

‘What is this mess?’ Ellie asks, indicating the carrot cake on my plate.

‘Well.’ I’m actually very glad not to be talking about Rick and my messed-up life any more, so I tell her in great detail about Marcus, the queue man, and how rude he was to me about Maurice and his antibiotics. ‘I mean, of course I can give a cat antibiotics,’ I conclude.

Ellie opens her mouth, and then closes it, before saying, ‘It’s funny how you can see different sides to people. Marcus has always seemed very nice from where I’m standing.’

‘Yeah, well, get to the front of a carrot cake queue before him and you’ll see his true colours,’ I say, darkly.

Ellie nods very seriously, and we both drink some more. Quite a lot more, actually.

‘This wine is good,’ I say. ‘It’s making me feel better. We need more cake, though.’ I push the rest of the carrot cake away. It’s still good, but not as good as usual without the icing. ‘Let’s try the raspberry and pistachio one.’

That one is good, and we munch happily away for a while, swearing about Rick.

We’re making inroads into a second bottle of wine and discussing whether we should have some non-cake food this evening and save the brownies for tomorrow, or just accept that today is basically nutrition-free, when Ellie says, ‘Buggerrrrrrrr.’

‘What?’ I ask, alarmed.

‘It’s Miranda’s birthday party this evening, remember. We have to go.’

Miranda lives in the village and is a very good friend; I see her pretty much every time I come down. She invited us both to her birthday party, but I didn’t think I could make it, because Rick always organised client or social stuff on the weekends. I vaguely thought Miranda had mentioned Saturday, not Friday, and hadn’t actually remembered that it was this exact weekend, but I wasn’t really paying attention, knowing that I couldn’t make it.

Ellie’s frowning now. ‘I’m guessing you won’t want to go.’

‘You know what?’ I suddenly feel decisive again. ‘I do want to go. Remember when you said that I shouldn’t let Rick the Dick ruin my life? I want to go and help Miranda celebrate her birthday. Let’s do it.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ I down the rest of my glass and place it very firmly on the table, before pushing my chair back. There’s a big crash and I look down in surprise. ‘I did not expect that. Why has the chair fallen over?’

Ellie looks at it and considers. ‘I think you pushed it too hard,’ she says after a while.

‘I see.’ I nod a lot. ‘Okay. I’ll remember not to make that mistake again.’ I pick the chair up, which is surprisingly difficult, because my vision has gone a little funny and I’m struggling to stand up as well as I usually do. Finally I have the chair the right way up and next to the table. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Not yet,’ Ellie says. ‘I’m in Lycra and you have mascara all over your face.’

About twenty minutes later, we’re changed (I’m wearing a top of Ellie’s with my jeans, because right now getting my stuff out of my overly full car seems like too big a mountain to climb) and my cheeks are mascara-free, and we’re striding off down the lane towards Miranda’s, clutching two bottles of Prosecco and the brownies, which we’ve decided will be a good present.

When we arrive, we ring the doorbell.

‘It’s very quiet for a party,’ I observe.

‘Maybe we’re very, very early.’ Ellie is slurring her words a little.

‘Or,’ I say, feeling clever, ‘maybe they have really good soundproofing in their kitchen.’

‘Why would you soundproof your kitchen?’ Ellie asks.

‘So that people can’t hear your party from outside the front door?’