Luckily that was the moment when Claire’s high leather boots skidded on the damp pavement, sending her flying into Mrs Kilfeather’s hedge. By the time the diversion was over, Mum was hooshing us into the hall.
‘In, in, get in,’ she said, rotating her arm. ‘Before we’re all drowned.’
‘The soles of new boots should be sandpapered,’ Margaret said. ‘If you don’t want to slip.’
‘You’re right. They should. I’d do it, only they’re Louboutins.’ That was Claire’s version of an apology.
‘Take off those coats and shoes,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t be bringing the rain into my Good Front Room.’
Margaret obediently slung her anorak on the knob at the bottom of the stairs, I threw my coat over it but Claire refused to remove hers. ‘It’s not a coat, it’s a shirt-dress.’
Again, that was totally Claire. You’d see a photoshoot in a magazine, say of a woman wearing a floor-length, organza shirt-dress, over flared trousers and a clingy fine-knit jumper, and you’d think, That’s beautiful, but no normal person would ever wear it. Claire would, though.
‘Shirt-dress, coat-dress, call it whatever you like,’ Mum said. ‘It’s still wet. Take it off.’
‘For the love of God!’ Claire said, but she complied.
The three of us stuck our heads into the television room to say hello to Dad. Anxiously he looked up, like a badger peering out from a burrow. ‘What’s going on?’ He clutched his beloved remote control against his chest.
‘Summit meeting.’
‘Feck.’ Longingly, he eyed the telly. Golf, from what I could see. ‘Am I needed?’
It would be cruel to interrupt his viewing. ‘Just tell me. Should I go to Luke’s mother’s funeral?’
‘She’s dead? That’s a terrible pity, she was a lovely woman. Who told you about it?’
‘Joey. He rang me. Out of the blue.’
‘Narky Joey rang you? I see.’ He paused. ‘Lookit, my opinion counts for nothing around here.’ This was uttered without a hint of bitterness. Poor Dad had accepted his place at the bottom of the pecking order a long time ago. ‘But it sounds to me that you should go. If you can face it, like.’
‘Seriously? Okay. Thanks, Dad. Look. In that case, you’re absolved from attending the actual summit.’
‘God, that’s great.’ He looked pitifully grateful. Then, ‘Did you hear about our gluten-free sausages?’
‘I did. I hear you couldn’t have told the difference. And –’
‘Vegan cheddar next week!’
‘Here’s Helen!’ Mum yelped, opening the front door to a small, drenched creature, dressed entirely in black. Her silhouette was that of a twelve-year-old girl.
‘I need a towel!’ She unzipped her long waterproof coat with a whizz and flung back the hood with such force that droplets flew everywhere. ‘Old Woman, you!’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Bring me one.’
As Mum happily disappeared up the stairs to do her bidding, Helen yelled after her. ‘Nothing flowery or pink!’ Helen had a loooooong list of things she hated so much she wanted to hit them in the face with a shovel. （Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was called her Shovel List.） Flowery patterns and the colour pink were among the countless items which featured on it.
‘I’ll get the gin.’ Margaret ducked into the kitchen and returned with a litre of Aldi gin, a bottle of tonic and a selection of mismatched glasses. Nothing for me, but I’m used to it. Even after all these years they still act as if my being clean and sober is a temporary self-indulgence.
When the drinks were poured and we were in the sitting room, Helen wearing a giant turban of a towel （yellow）， I told my story. The responses were as predicted.
‘Of course you’re going.’ （Mum.）
‘You have to go.’ （Margaret.）
‘Are you mad?! She doesn’t have to go!’ （Helen.）
Claire was the only one who asked, ‘What do you want to do?’
‘I know it’ll hurt but I want to go. I think.’
‘What’s the big deal?’ Margaret asked. ‘You’ve met someone else. You and Quin are solid.’ Then she had a think. ‘But why won’t you move in with him?’
‘Because … if I moved in and things went bad I’d have to move out again.’
‘Why would it go bad? You’re punishing Quin for what Luke did.’ Sometimes Margaret could cut to the heart of a messy situation with sharp insight. ‘You’re stuck.’