Page 12 of Annabel and Her Sisters

‘So she’s in the cottage they bought in the country with some new guy, and he’s in a rented flat somewhere. No more army quarters, obviously, now he’s left.’

‘Which is where?’

She looked thrilled. ‘No idea. Oooh, what a giveaway– you do like him, you want to know where he lives!’ Hebe looked like she had when I told her I’d dumped Will for David.

Positively starry-eyed with pleasure. ‘You like someone,’ she squealed, seizing me and twirling me around the empty room in an excited dance. ‘You do, I can tell!’

‘I do not,’ I said hotly, shaking her off. ‘I hardly know him. And he’s nothing like David.’

‘Which is good,’ she insisted. ‘And I know what you mean, by the way. He’s practical. Not intellectual. Someone the same would never be quite as good, much better to go off piste. Honestly, all this time I’ve been eyeing up intellectuals with northern accents– so stupid!’

‘You make it sound like you’ve been wandering round John Lewis sniffing for trouser.’

‘I have, sometimes,’ she said truthfully. ‘Peter Jones, obviously. I mean, what’s a man doing in the bathroom department looking at towels on his own? Must be divorced. Or widowed. I’ve followed a few, almost approached them for you.’

‘Oh, do shut up,’ I said as we went back downstairs, but I was thoughtful.

Mum and Ginnie had also paraded men– surreptitiously, of course, though not so much on Ginnie’s part, plonking me next to them at dinner parties– who were bookish.

One from Hull. Another from Durham. Academics.

Professors. Other lawyers. And even in my own head, I’d occasionally thought…

if there was someone out there… he had to be…

I shook it, that head. God, I must get back to work.

Must think about something else. But I wouldn’t mention that to Hebe, the writing.

‘A distraction from real life,’ she’d say caustically.

‘Money,’ I’d tell her darkly.

‘By the way, I can’t put you and Ginnie in my books any more,’ I told her as we went down into the kitchen, changing the subject abruptly, as she flicked the coffee machine on again. It brewed in moments and she poured it into cups. ‘Or at least your lives.’

‘Why not?’ She turned, shocked. ‘You know we love it. Spot the disguised snooty neighbour– Marianne, obviously,’ she jerked her head next door, ‘or the Dog Fox in a Dressing Gown, in Ginnie’s case.

’ She giggled. ‘Remember that shooting party she had and that louche old aristo who used to corridor-creep? Climb into bed with all her friends?’

‘Exactly, aristos. Smart, snooty neighbours. Too posh,’ I said, sipping my coffee. ‘We all have sensitivity readers now, even for light romance, fluff like mine. If I so much as mention an exeat or a polo game I get “Alienating?” in the margin. Or, “Relatable?”’

‘Blimey. So who are you supposed to write about? Your drug-dealing friends next door?’

‘God no, that wouldn’t be a Lived Experience.’ I made quotation marks in the air. ‘No, I have to stay in my own lane. As long as it’s the right lane, the woke lane, which obviously it’s not, always. Anyway, it’s exhausting enough doing it without talking about it. When’s Ascot?’

‘Next week. Five, whole, sodding days. In searing heat. I’ve checked my app. With Mrs Bucket again.’

I giggled. Mrs Bucket, a client’s wife, had been introduced to Hebe last year and had sounded exactly like Hyacinth Bucket: ‘Eu, helleu, I’m Cynthia.

’ So Hebe, thinking she was putting it on, had replied: ‘Eu, helleu, I’m Hebe,’ delighted at the joke.

Sam’s face had drained. It was how the woman spoke, so Hebe had to keep it up all day, with Sam looking aghast. Not that he’d ever be cross.

Quietly amused, probably. Sam was a honey; a delightful, smiley investment banker she’d met when she’d left the ad agency to work in the City.

She’d ended up working for Sam as his PA and fallen madly in love, as he had too.

So she’d dumped the coke head in the creative department and lived happily ever after.

Oh yes, the stuff that dreams are made of.

‘Pity me,’ she warned, sipping her coffee as we perched at her island, ‘as I feign interest in the gee-gees at the rails in the collecting ring. Whilst you’re with the lovely André stroking rafters and talking about the size of nuts.

He’s exactly the same age as you, by the way, I’ve checked.

Looks younger, I know.’ She saw my face.

I think it might have been getting mildly murderous by now and she moved hastily on, crossing her skinny tanned legs.

‘OK, enough. For now. Why don’t you come to Elizabeth Street with me?

Have a spot of lunch? I need to find a new hat. ’

‘No thanks,’ I smiled and drained my coffee. ‘If I don’t deliver by the end of the month I’m in trouble.’

Actually I was never in trouble. My publishers were dreamily relaxed, but it was all part of the Big Excuse for getting out of things. Hebe knew me too well.

‘You mean you can’t think of anything worse. You’ll get shopping legs in moments, collapse in a heap and want to go home.’

I laughed. I didn’t love shopping as Hebe did, who could forage those rails for hours, another difference between us.

Yet we loved each other. So much. Vive la différence.

My mind went back that way again. North or South.

Clever or practical. Luckily Hebe didn’t read my thoughts this time, and broke into them with something else.

‘How’s your mum getting on, by the way?’ she asked, as I gathered my phone and keys. We went back upstairs.

‘Pretty good, actually. She’s with Ginnie, as you know.’ I frowned. Paused in the hall. ‘Although the dogs are a bit– you know.’

‘Well, bloody hell, seven . I mean, I love your ma to distraction but even I might draw the line…’ My face must have darkened because she stopped. ‘No, I know. It was in the contract,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Exactly,’ I said testily. ‘Frankly it wouldn’t matter if it was twenty, the deal would still be the same.’

‘Quite,’ she said staunchly as she hugged me on the doorstep. ‘Give her my love, won’t you?’

‘I will. She adores you, you know that. Always asks.’

‘And tell her to come and see me when she’s back in London. Now she’d come to Elizabeth Street.’

It was true, she would. Mum’s skirts might be tweed these days, but they were always DAKS, and her cardigans were cashmere from Scotland, her shirts, silk from The Fold. My mother was very glamorous. I said I’d be sure to pass on the message. Then I hugged my friend again and said goodbye.