Page 10 of Annabel and Her Sisters

‘Swimmingly,’ said Ginnie happily. ‘I knew it would. We put her in the blue room with her own bathroom and little sitting room, and there’s even a tiny kitchen up there.

Honestly, it’s as if she’s got her own flat.

And she uses the back stairs so we barely see her, even though we insist we’d like to. But you know how independent she is.’

‘Excellent.’ I exhaled with relief. ‘And she’s happy?’

‘Totally. Keeps telling me what a marvellous idea it was. And we’ve started renovating the roof, which Hugo’s thrilled about.’

‘Good.’

‘There is just one thing.’

Oh, here we go.

‘The dogs sleep in her room.’

‘We knew that, Ginnie. They always have done.’

‘Not when they came to visit– they had that cage in the kitchen.’

‘For the odd night, sure. But Brown Dog hated it. He whined. And at home with her, they always slept in her room. And she is at home, now.’

‘And Toto is incontinent. Plus, the Fluz, who must be twelve now, snores really loudly, we can hear her. And the stench in the morning is appalling, even though Toto has a rubber mat.’

I was silent. None of this was news. All of this my mother had explained, in the spirit of full disclosure, to all of us. Early on.

‘So we were wondering,’ she rushed on, unnerved by my uncharacteristic silence, ‘if we should suggest the dogs sleep downstairs, in their cage, where we can– you know– mop up after Toto and we won’t hear the Fluz.’

I didn’t utter a word. Again, it worked.

‘I mean, obviously not,’ she rushed on. ‘Mum would hate it. Brown Dog too. And you’re right, I know.

But seven is an awful lot, especially with our two spaniels who are a tiny bit put out.

Cracker’s developed eczema. But you’re right, Annabel, the sleeping arrangement was very much flagged up early doors.

How’s the building work going? Lara says you’ve got a very sexy builder? ’

I shut my eyes. Polly had clearly divulged something to her cousin that I hadn’t even had a laugh with my daughter about, which was unusual. There was an attractive builder here, of about my age. I didn’t miss a beat with my sister.

‘Vince? Well, he’s her sort of age, so I suppose Poll might find him attractive, but I’m surprised he’s her type. She usually goes for more sensitive souls. He’s a bit handy with his sledgehammer.’

‘No, I don’t think Vince was his name… something exotic sounding… French. Italian, even.’

‘How’s Aunt Joan?’ I asked quickly, as, at that moment, André himself came up the road.

I ducked away from the front bay window where I was on the phone, into the relative shadow of the bookshelves.

In the alcove and with the help of the curtain he couldn’t see me watching him as he approached.

I took in his solid, powerful frame as he opened the gate and came up the path: not tall, but compact.

He paused for a moment to survey his men on my roof.

Put his hands on his hips and shouted something about flapping tarpaulin to Vince, gesticulating.

When I’d first met André he’d given me an unbelievably dazzling smile, pushed back his sandy gold hair and told me he was the foreman, and therefore responsible for the hooligans invading my privacy.

I’d dropped my exercise books and pens– I still write longhand– in confusion.

As I scrabbled about on the floor retrieving them, I told him I’d been working all morning and sometimes my hand seized up, which was true– I’d been referred to a surgeon for carpal tunnel– but I’d never been so grateful for an excuse as I gave my face a chance to recover, my heart a moment to calm down.

‘Aunt Joan? Ghastly, since you ask,’ Ginnie told me as I slipped into the kitchen with the phone to my ear.

‘Still painting those ridiculous pictures, all muddy colours and horrible tree stumps. And still half naked, although at least she keeps her slip on. And at least she paints in the garden, or the orchard where no one can see her. Plus she’s only here for a few days.

She asked herself, you know. It wasn’t Mum’s idea.

I can’t remember when she was last here, which I did feel a bit guilty about.

Anyway, she’s going back to London soon, because she says she prefers it and she knows Mum does too.

Says she can’t imagine why she’s here, in the country, because she never liked it.

Well, to be fair, we all knew that. It’s not often I agree with Joan. ’

I breathed deeply. Shut my eyes and counted to ten. My sister could be very manipulative.

‘Anyway, I thought Polly still had the gorgeous Max in tow,’ she went on, ‘I can’t think why she’s looking at builders.

I wish Lara had a boyfriend– honestly, I despair.

She’s still banging on about joining the frigging army, so unsuitable.

If only she’d gone to art college, like Polly, and was trained to do something a bit more feminine.

I can’t think why I thought encouraging her to do engineering was a good idea.

Because it was Edinburgh, I suppose, and I thought she’d meet some lovely Scottish laird with a stonking great pile.

Anyway, I must go, my love, I can see Miranda Steward-Green coming up the drive and she’s got Minty with her.

I’ve got a tennis four at ten. Toodle pip! ’

‘Toodle pip,’ I muttered, pocketing my phone and knowing it was the thin end of the wedge.

Already. Irritation with the dogs. Wait till they went to Clarissa, whose own dogs were her children, so little interest did she show in her own offspring, who, in spite, or perhaps because of this, had grown into delightful young men.

‘Fuck!’ emanated loudly from upstairs.

I stood stock-still for a moment in the middle of the kitchen.

Then I ran up three flights of stairs. When I popped my head around the door it was to find Vince, the youngster, and Pavel, the Romanian, staring at a fountain of water spouting from a burst pipe.

Vince had finally managed to put his sledgehammer through something vital and it was erupting like Vesuvius.

‘Any idea where this pipe goes?’ Vince demanded of me, as if I’d burst it.

‘Christ– the stopcock. Any ideas, Annabel?’ André had bounded up the stairs behind me.

‘God, Polly knows…’ But Polly had pretty much vacated to Max’s flat while the building took place. ‘Actually, I think it might be in the pavement, at the front. There’s a flap there.’

André and I raced down together.

‘Sorry– so sorry,’ he was muttering as I followed him down. ‘That bloody boy. Too free with his tools. Should have got here earlier.’

‘No, no, please don’t worry,’ I said, loving the chance to chase this man legitimately as we legged it through the gate. There was no flap on the pavement. Or at least there was, but it was outside next door. I looked around wildly.

He’d raced back into the garden. ‘Here, maybe under this bush.’ He parted the undergrowth and as luck would have it, found the tap. He turned it off smartly: sat back on his heels. ‘Won’t happen again. I’ll have a word.’

He spoke in clipped little sentences like this and I sometimes wondered if it was because he’d been in the army.

And because I tend to copy anyone I’m with, particularly if I’m a bit impressed, I answered: ‘Couldn’t matter less.

Least we found it. No damage done.’ The children tell me it’s because I don’t have a personality of my own and have to borrow other people’s. I get a lot of cheek.

‘Better check.’

He was off again, at a canter, and I nearly followed, at a gallop, but then I decided that was too keen, so that was the end of my moment in the undergrowth with the brigadier.

No, of course I didn’t fancy him, I’m joking.

He was younger than me, I was sure. Well.

Maybe not much. And fitter. I pulled my tummy in.

I’d been on a diet for a week. Lost three pounds.

Not bad. See? Even my thought processes were truncated.

I went back inside. And a diet didn’t mean anything.

Didn’t mean I had a crush. It was about time I lost weight.

I’d had a few highlights done, too. I caught sight of my new reflection in the hall mirror; swept back the new wispy fringe which Polly told me took years off me.

My cheeks were flushed from the mad dash outside, I told myself.

That night, however, in bed, in an empty house, I found myself googling: ‘How young can a brigadier in the British army be?’

Forty. I was shocked. Well, no, clearly he wasn’t forty; he was much older than that.

Surely. So then I googled ‘Brigadier Andrew Collins’, more through hope than expectation.

André was a nickname, that much I’d gleaned mischievously from Pavel a few days ago, asking if they’d come over from Romania together since they both had exotic names?

Weak, I admit, but it had worked. He’d laughed and said no, the boss had picked it up in the army where he’d been a brigadier, but he had no idea why.

I blinked at my phone. Blimey, he had a flipping Wikipedia entry.

Tiny, but it was there. ‘Andrew Phillip Collins.’ Fifty-six.

Exactly my age. And then I read his Distinguished Conduct Medal citation, which was extremely distinguished.

So he was decorated. In so many ways. I allowed myself a small smile in the privacy of my bedroom.

I read on: about what he’d done in Iraq, then Afghanistan.

Pretty brave. Then I read Personal Life, which was divorced, two children.

And then I quickly tossed my phone on the floor.

Turned off the light. What was I, a teenager? And what would David say?

‘About bloody time, Annie. And thank God you’ve found someone who knows where the stopcock is.’