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‘Okay. What’ll you have to drink?’
‘I’ll have a vodka martini.’
‘Sure.’
Sophie waited whilst Nessa pushed her way to the bar and returned with their drinks.
‘What’s this?’
‘Pint of cider.’
‘But I asked for—’
‘We used to drink this stuff by the gallon, remember?’
‘Yes, but I… Oh, never mind.’ Sophie took a sip and ran her tongue over her lips. It was delicious – light, golden, fresh – and she swallowed a long draught, wiping the liquid from her upper lip with the back of her hand.
‘Now we see her! The old Sophie-Louise Henshaw is back with us again!’ exclaimed Seb, drawing her into a squeeze and dropping a kiss on her forehead. ‘Sophie, I’m so pleased you decided to stay on for a few weeks.’
‘Hey, Sophie! Great to see you.’ Archie rested his snooker cue against the table and strode round to envelop her in his arms. ‘Missed you, darling. We all do. It’s just like old times. Well, it will be when—’
‘So, Sophie…’ Nessa guided her away from a trip down Archie’s Memory Lane to a bashed copper table in the corner of the snug next to a museum-standard display of Gavin’s best horse brasses and Toby jugs. ‘I hear you’ve decided to sell Gingerberry? Is it really true?’
‘Did I hear you right?’ asked Archie, who had edged round the table to take his next shot. ‘You’re selling up? You’re leaving again? Aren’t we your friends anymore, Sophie?’
‘Of course you are, Archie.’ But she couldn’t quite meet his accusatory stare.
Another pint arrived and Sophie gulped half down in one go. The unfamiliar dose of alcohol was working very nicely at erasing the sharp edges of the local pub. Good grief, she thought, what was Archie doing here, anyway? Why wasn’t he living it up in the nightspots of London or Bristol? He was the bass guitarist in one of the most successful bands in Britain at the moment. Heck, The Razorclaws were lucky enough to be booked toperform at the wedding of the decade. If they weren’t in demand now, they certainly would be after that. Jealous? Her? Yes!
‘I’m so sorry about Claire, Sophie. I loved her, too,’ said Nessa, sipping her cider. ‘We didn’t get a chance to talk much at her funeral. How are you holding up?’
She saw her childhood friend study her over the rim of her pint glass, casting a worried glance over her scrawny frame. They’d been exactly the same build at school, but now Nessa possessed the taut, muscular silhouette of a sports instructor as well as the rosy glow of health and vigour achieved by spending her days on the hockey field with eleven adolescent girls. Securing her position as their old high school’s gym teacher was a dream come true for Nessa.
‘Oh, well, you know, I’m doing okay, I suppose.’
The scene was a replica of their adolescent dialogues – the welcoming atmosphere of the Fox & Hounds, a ready supply of beer and cider, and her friend’s soothing words – it was the balm to cure many a teenage heartache. But with the empty space in her heart her aunt had inhabited, Sophie doubted any amount of the local artisan cider would heal the trauma she was experiencing at that moment. The aroma of Nessa’s favourite perfume, and the sympathy oozing from her oldest friend conjured up the pain-lashed memories of the last few weeks and caused hot tears to flow down her cheeks.
‘I miss her so much, Nessa. I was a useless niece. I’ve hardly been home in the last four years. Too engrossed in my selfish ambitions, thinking I could run with the pack of celebrity wedding gown designers. Now I’m a true orphan.’ Her grief resumed; raw and violent.
‘You are not useless, Sophie.’ Nessa’s habitually jolly face, strewn with freckles, reflected the pain she herself was suffering.
Sophie saw her friend sweep her eyes over her hair, usually as glossy as liquid tar, but which today hung flat and dull, her fringe skimming her spidery lashes and in need of a salon’s attention. She knew she looked a mess. Dark triangular smudges had lodged themselves beneath her eyes that no amount of foundation could disguise, not that she had tried; she sported not a scrap of make-up. What was the point?
‘I am, Nessa. Not only as a niece, but as a cousin’ – she shot a glance across to where Seb and Archie were studiously avoiding looking in their direction – ‘and as a friend. And I might as well add as a fashion designer, too. You heard, didn’t you? Delia is this village’s one-woman Twitter feed.’
Nessa nodded, her amber lashes sparkling with empathic tears, but she knew Nessa was not going to stand aside whilst she slipped into self-obsessed oblivion.
‘Yes, I heard, but it’s not the end of the world, Soph. So you didn’t make it to the pinnacle of the pile this time, but youdidmake it to the shortlist. That, my girl, is a fantastic achievement and one which two hundred and fifty others would have given their right arm to achieve. Your aunt was so proud of your talents.’
‘Oh, Ness, all I want to do now is sell the shop and slink back to my old life, hide in the familiar routine of eighteen-hour days and as little contact with the outside world as I can get away with. Is that so awful?’ Sophie paused to blow her dripping nose on the tissue offered by Nessa and take a gulp of her cider. She managed to pull herself together and produce a weak smile. ‘My plan is to block out my grief in a whirlwind of crazy schedules, deadlines and prenuptial angst.’
The evening passed in a swirl of shared memories, snippets of recent gossip, and several more pints of cider. After a while Sophie began to relax and enjoy herself. She even managed togiggle at one of the stories Nessa told her about dating a guy from the golf club who had helped her to “improve her swing”.
‘Ah, I see Little Miss Dior has decided to grace us with her presence. Thought you couldn’t wait to get back down to the bright lights of the big city? What are you still doing here loitering in the dull Cotswolds backwater that you used to call home? Oh, is that a pint of cider? I thought designers of bridal couture only drank vodka martini – stirred not shaken, if you please?’
‘Noah…’ cautioned Nessa, her green eyes flashing.
‘It’s okay, Ness.,’ said Sophie, grateful for the composure the alcohol had provided. ‘Hi, Noah. I’ve decided to stay up here for a few weeks to sort out some of my aunt’s things and then, yes, you’re right, I’ll be gone.’
