Page 48 of Annabel and Her Sisters

If I’m honest, parking outside Giovanni’s house the following day was almost the last thing I wanted to do– the last thing on my mind– but the arrangement had been made.

Added to which MT had messaged me to say he and Susan were so excited I was coming, and hoped an early supper was all right, they rarely did anything late in the evening these days, and did I still like fish pie?

They remembered I did from my youth, and Susan would make it before she went to bridge.

How could I not go? Older people set such store by visits like this.

Of course I had to change gear, and mood, and make tracks.

But my mind was still churning as I got out of my car outside their lovely white town house in Wilton Crescent.

Obviously, I’d googled the whole thing into the small hours last night– and no, I hadn’t mentioned it to Polly; I didn’t want anyone’s opinion on this but my own– and had discovered a great deal.

In the first place, in order to make the conversion– which was no small thing and had to be approved by the Pope and all sorts of secular grandees– it wasn’t just the new priest who had to be grilled (that wasn’t the word used but it was how I interpreted it), it was his wife.

As to her full Christian fervour and her commitment to the faith.

And I did wonder about my– you know– fervour.

Plus, it wasn’t the sort of thing you could bluff, was it?

I stood contemplatively a moment on the pavement.

Not so much in front of the grandees, but…

I glanced heavenwards… in front of Him.

I mean, obviously I believed, but were there degrees?

Variants? Clarissa, Ginnie and I had all been brought up going to church, at school too, but only some Sundays at home– not every Sunday.

If we had friends round for lunch, or were busy, we didn’t go, and we didn’t really chat about it that much, we just went when we could.

My mother was fairly devout and went most Sundays now that she had more time, but she kept it to herself.

I think she, and possibly I, believed it was personal.

Between her and Him. And I do remember I often felt a bit apologetic in my twenties when I barely went at all, and then pitched up for all those weddings, catching His eye as I bustled in, usually late, in a hat with David, thinking– sorry I haven’t seen You for some time, and sorry I’m only here because Sally and Rob are getting hitched.

But on the other hand, I wouldn’t be without it, either.

Particularly when I was in a corner. Let’s not forget how it had helped me with David. What a corner that had been.

Luke had been confirmed with his class at school and had mechanically gone through the motions.

Polly, however, had questioned it. She would have been the only girl in her class not to go ahead, apart from those of different faiths, but she wasn’t sure.

She was about fourteen at the time. David and I said– fine, not a problem.

Then she’d gone to see my mother, perhaps unnerved by our total acceptance of her decision.

She was used to a bit more opposition, was a fairly rebellious teenager. When she came back she told me:

‘Granny says she gets it completely, it’s quite a commitment. And she said well done for thinking about it properly, not everyone does. But she also said something else.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said, pseudo-casually, my back to her as I stirred something on the hob, knowing my mother of old.

‘She said, you might not be wholehearted about it now, but it’s quite nice to have in the cupboard for later.

Should you need it.’ I nodded, knowing she’d said exactly the same to Clarissa.

‘So what d’you think?’ she asked. I turned.

She was perched on the table, lips pursed. ‘Because now I don’t really know.’

I shrugged, turned back to my white sauce. ‘Up to you. Totally your decision, Pol.’ I paused. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t get presents.’

There was a stunned silence behind me.

‘You get presents?’

‘Oh yes.’ I imagined her jaw dropping as I added more milk. I stirred it in. Then I added nonchalantly– wickedly– ‘From your godparents. That’s where my pearl earrings came from, from Giovanni. And my gold bracelet was from Uncle Bob.’

Polly was at the altar with the rest of her class before you could say little blue boxes from Tiffany’s.

But my mother’s cupboard analogy was a good one, I thought, as I locked the car now and tapped the parking number into my phone.

It was apposite. Keep it in your back pocket, you never know when you might need it.

Although, of course, Polly had then lost it.

She’d thrown it out in disgust, hadn’t wanted it.

But what of me? It was still firmly in my pocket, for sure, but could I wear it, not just inside, but outside?

Pretty much all over me? I felt ashamed about not being sure.

I was sure I really liked Ralph, in fact I was incredibly keen on him, could definitely imagine becoming much more intimate with him– unlike with André– so why was I hesitant about embracing this part of him?

Particularly when it had helped me so much in the past?

It occurred to me, as I opened the gate to number sixteen and walked up the familiar path, that Giovanni, being Italian, was presumably Catholic.

Somehow I didn’t feel I’d bring it up today, though.

But maybe another time. Yes, perhaps another time, I’d pop round and find out more about what the difference was.

I mean, I knew about the obvious ones– transubstantiation, confession, Hail Marys and all that– but there must be more.

All my googling had made me realize it wasn’t just religious fervour that was required; I’d have to convert, too.

Ralph would know I’d look into it, of course.

He would know that by six p.m. today, the day following our conversation, I’d be on top of all of this and thinking hard.

I rang the doorbell. Ralph’s dear, hopeful face came to mind, the one in my rear-view mirror, and I wondered if he was going about his business today feeling anxious.

About me. It made me smile rather tenderly.

Or was it fondly? I sighed, confused. Giovanni answered the door.

‘Darling!’ He held out his arms extravagantly and I laughed and fell into them. Giovanni was ever the enthusiast. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. ‘It’s been far too long!’

‘I know, and it’s all my fault. I should have come round more, although actually, I blame MT for flipping well living in Milan.’

‘Wretched girl, how dare she marry an Italian and live in my home town?’

‘Well, quite. Thoughtless.’

‘Rude.’

We grinned and he ushered me inside. He looked older, of course, greyer about the temples, but was still tall and upright, no stoop to his gait as he led the way downstairs to the kitchen.

‘You see her a lot?’ I asked.

‘Of course, what better excuse to go home?’ He turned and beamed, and Giovanni had a great smile. ‘We love it. And she’s so busy with her work, so she’s not here in London much.’

‘I know, I rarely see her– I must go myself. It’s definitely my fault, too. Oh, Susan! How lovely to see you.’

Susan, in a floral dress and pearls, was looking glamorous as usual, hair immaculately blow-dried, another wide smile as she hugged me lightly.

Older people were often a bit fragile and she was tiny anyway, like a little doll.

‘Darling girl! This is too heavenly for words and I’m just so sorry I’ve got to dash out, but you know my poor bridge partner can barely make it beyond seven thirty she gets so tired, so our games get earlier and earlier.

But look, I’ve made the pie.’ She bustled to the oven and peered in, then back at the table which she’d laid with a cloth and flowers.

‘And tonight is a competition!’ she hissed at me, eyes alight.

I laughed. ‘And like MT, you’re not remotely competitive, are you, Susan?’

‘Moi?’ She touched her pearls in mock horror. ‘Not remotely. But we have to win or those wretched men will never let us forget. Oh GG, you haven’t got the poor girl a drink!’

‘You go,’ I assured her as she fluttered to pour two flutes of champagne. ‘Giovanni and I will manage, and you and I can go and see Mum soon, I’ll pick you up. She’s back in London.’

‘No!’ She turned from the glasses on the side, astonished. ‘Oh, how gorgeous, that is definitely a date. I have so missed our lunches, my Wednesdays are just not the same. Back in her old place? But I thought…?’

‘No, with Joan.’

Two pairs of eyes widened in alarm. Both mouths opened in shock.

‘Worry not,’ I assured them quickly, ‘you wouldn’t recognize the place.

Polly’s given it the once-over– industrial cleaners, the whole bit.

She’s taken it down to the bones and it’s like something out of Interiors magazine now.

Well, not quite,’ I added hastily, looking around at their terribly tasteful designer kitchen.

‘But it’s clean and tidy and Mum has her own sitting room and there’s a large walled garden for the dogs. ’

‘Excellent,’ Susan breathed. ‘And I’d love to see Joan, too, she’s so fascinating in her own eccentric way.

We’ll go together, darling, it’s a date.

Now, GG, just the peas, my love, and the pie will be ready in ten minutes.

And Annabel, see that he doesn’t drink the whole bottle!

’ She kissed me lightly and then, seizing a suede clutch bag, exited up the basement steps, a waft of Chanel in her wake.