‘I’m fine,’ she said, declining Lexi’s offer of help.
Instead of moving off, Lexi stayed. Eleanor didn’t like people talking to her while she cooked. She liked to concentrate on the food, the texture of it in her hands, tasting as she went to find exactly the right balance of seasoning and herbs.
She arranged the tomatoes on a plate with a finely sliced red onion. Then she crumbled over a block of feta, finishing with a sprinkling of fresh oregano she’d picked from a pot on the terrace.
‘I’m so pleased you could come on the hen weekend,’ Lexi said. She seemed to be trying out the words, to see whether she believed them. ‘What changed your mind?’
Eleanor blinked. ‘Not sure.’
A lie.
When Ed had told her about the hen party, saying, You should go. It’ll do you good, she’d responded, ‘Anyone who tells you, It’ll do you good, needs to live their own life.’ Ed had looked at her for a moment – she’d felt her shoulders tense, her skin tighten – and then his mouth had broken into a smile as he’d laughed. ‘Fair enough.’
But then she’d received Bella’s email. It’d popped into her inbox on a Thursday evening after a day sculpting in the garage. Her fingers were numb from the cold and smelt faintly metallic. She’d scrolled to the photos of the villa basking beneath a cloudless sky – and she’d thought, Maybe. Then she’d read the subject header: The Hen Weekend. She liked that. Not Lexi’s Hen, or Plans for the Hen. Just The Hen Weekend. Like there was no other.
She’d scanned the names – six of them; a small, select group – and felt, what? Flattered? Chosen? Then she’d noticed something else. Leaning closer, her heart kicked hard between her ribs.
The screen wavered, the words swam. She blinked, wiping a hand across her eyes.
She took a breath. Read it again.
Huh. She’d sat back, arms folded.
And just like that, she was a Yes.
8
Ana
Ana could hear the faint drift of voices rising from the terrace. She freshened up, pulling on a shift dress in a soft fizz of lemon that she’d discovered in a favourite charity shop in Kings Cross. She retied her headscarf, spritzed her neck and wrists with perfume, then left the cool of the room.
She passed the kitchen, where Lexi and Eleanor were talking, and made for the open doors leading onto the terrace. There she paused, hovering on the fringes for a moment.
Gilded by the setting sun, Bella and Robyn were buzzing around a long wooden table set beneath the pergola. Moving lightly to the music, Bella was laying out laminated photos, while Robyn lit candles, occasionally glancing towards Bella to laugh or comment on a picture.
In Ana’s job as a sign-language interpreter, she was used to reading people and situations, noticing details that others missed: the angle of a shoulder; where the gaze rested; the parts of a body that might be touched unconsciously. The dynamic between Robyn and Bella interested her: Robyn seemed to skirt wide around Bella, her gaze flicking regularly to Bella to check her reaction or approval. There was a wariness in their exchanges, not the easy familiarity she’d have expected between old friends.
Robyn looked up and, noticing Ana, asked, ‘Prosecco?’
Ana preferred to drink gin spiked with ginger beer. Prosecco always felt cloyingly sweet, but hell, she’d join in. ‘Sure,’ she said, sandals clacking as she crossed the terrace.
Bubbles fizzed over the rim as Robyn handed her a freshly poured glass.
‘D’you remember this night?’ Bella asked, grinning as she angled a photo towards Robyn.
Ana glanced at the photo. Lexi looked to be in her early twenties, her hair bleach-blonde and cut short. The photo must have been snapped in the back of a taxi, Lexi’s eyes unfocused, a tiny gold dress riding up her thighs, handbag splayed open on the seat, head lolling towards the window.
‘Can’t believe you printed that one.’ Robyn rolled her eyes.
There were other photos: different Lexis, in different places, wearing different clothes. Young Lexi in school uniform, tie worn like a bandana around her head, arms slung around Robyn and Bella. Holiday Lexi riding on the back of a banana boat in a string bikini. Wild Lexi dancing on a podium, body painted silver.
Ana stared at the images one after the other, feeling oddly disconcerted. She didn’t know any of these Lexis. The Lexi who Ana had come to know over the past year was a yoga teacher who loved talking about what she was reading or watching; who was happy to trek across London in search of the best pad Thai; who asked her thoughtful, interested questions about her work; who confided that dancing had never been her passion.