‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I say and force a smile of my own.
Ada joins the group because apparently they come as a pair.
‘Well,’ coos Ruby, ‘now you’ve got your little book deal, what’s next?’
I bristle at the word ‘little’ even though my book deal is entirely fictional. Thing is, Ruby’s like a shark; any sign of weakness, of blood in the water, and there will be a feeding frenzy. So I don’t rise to it, I just shrug and say, ‘Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘Absolutely.’ Her eyes widen as if struck by a thought. ‘A boyfriend maybe?’ She’s a terrible actress, no one could possibly buy this is a spontaneous pondering. ‘It’s been a while since your last relationship, hasn’t it? You should put yourself out there.’
Unease ripples through the group. Eyes are on me, waiting for my reaction because everyone knows my last relationship was with Noah.
‘It must be difficult not having anyone to come home to and celebrate with,’ she continues, feigned sympathy dripping like acid from her mouth.
‘She has us,’ replies Ada coolly.
My head snaps around involuntarily; I am shocked by her defence. Ruby is too. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her straighten to her full height as indignation takes hold.
‘Well, Elodie’s nearly twenty-nine, and a book deal isn’t the same as a baby.’ Ruby has adopted the soothing tones of a wise Earth Mother as she rubs her blooming belly, but there’s a pinch to her mouth that spoils the illusion. ‘There’s just no love like it.’
There’s an awkward silence, and a sudden stiffness in Ada tells me while Ruby’s malice may have been aimed at me, it’s struck a nerve with her. At best, Ruby’s comment is insensitive, at worst, it’s downright nasty. Before I have time to think, I say, ‘I’m not convinced I want kids. I mean, I like my vagina the way it is. You know, separate from my anus.’
There’s stunned silence.
Ruby’s mouth sours as though she has bitten into the dimpled flesh of a lemon. Ada presses her lips together to stop herself from laughing, her eyes like two dinner plates. And if we’ve been on the opposite sides of a wall for years, maybe there is a chink, a brick being dismantled. Maybe now we can see each other.
Without another word, Ruby turns and slinks away, back to her husband’s side.
I half expect Ada to follow but she doesn’t. She stays with me, a mischievous grin on her face, but before she can say anything, Jack is by my side. ‘My mum wants you.’
Ada glances at him then back to me. ‘You better go see what she needs.’
When her gaze flits to Jack again, it’s steely. Jack may have changed after Jeffrey’s death, but Ada’s opinion of him hasn’t. No matter how much time passes, to her, he will always be the bad influence leading her sister astray. On the surface, they are polite and amicable, but occasionally that old current of tension rises up.
Jack takes my hand and leads me away. When I look back over my shoulder, Ada is watching me, her expression unreadable.
Kathryn Westwood is thin and elegant, dressed in a cream jumpsuit and pearls. Even though she’s smiling, it doesn’t touch her eyes. For thirteen years, she’s carried with her an air of sadness, of tragedy. Over time, her husband’s suicide became a mark of glamour, a talking point for those who view her from afar. But you only have to see the antidepressants in her bathroom cabinet or the little bottle of vodka she carries in her purse to know there is nothing glamorous about tragedy.
‘Oh, darling, well done on your fabulous book deal. Such a triumph.’ She kisses my cheek. Her hands are cold as they grasp my shoulders to pull me close. Jack has her long lashes and blonde hair and Cupid’s bow; he looks more like his mother than his father, everyone says so.
Mum squeezes her arm. ‘It’s lovely to have everyone together again. Look at our kids, Kathryn, all grown up.’
Ada slides into the group and tops up Uncle Gregory’s drink, pouring it from the bottle into a glass because Ada thinks bottles of beer look cheap.
‘Thanks, love,’ says Uncle Gregory to Ada. Then he grins at me and Jack. ‘You’d make a cracking couple.’
I roll my eyes and Jack kisses my forehead, playing up to it like he always does.
‘No, no,’ says Kathryn. ‘They’re the best of friends. The best.’ She says it casually, but she’s holding her glass so tightly, I can see the whites of her knuckles. Kathryn and Jeffrey never thought I was good enough for their son; their family had money, ours didn’t. Jeffrey made his feelings on the matter clear when he caught Jack and I kissing as teenagers. Our first and, thanks to Jeffrey’s violent outburst, our last.