Page 55 of Annabel and Her Sisters

In the event, the family gathering came much sooner than any of us expected.

And the nature of it took us all by surprise, most of all me.

Ted did ring, the following day. He said he’d wanted to give me a full twenty-four hours to sleep on it, to think about it, to see if I regretted it.

If even, in the cold light of day, I was appalled.

He was ringing from a café down the road and I ran to meet him.

We gazed foolishly into one another’s eyes over the cappuccinos he’d ordered.

‘Appalled by what?’

‘The Rodin moment. What else?’

‘The kiss? No, Ted. Not for one moment. I don’t regret it. You?’

‘God, no. Can’t stop thinking about it. And can’t think what took us so long, really. Lucy even said to me once, why don’t you look under your nose? I had no idea what she meant.’

‘God, so did Polly!’ I was startled suddenly, remembering. ‘Those were almost her exact words.’ We stared at one another, wondering if they’d meant us. Of course they had.

‘Well, I was fat,’ he reasoned.

‘Not that fat.’

‘Don’t lie. I was. I didn’t care, you see. I do now, though.’

I smiled. ‘I’ve got Sukey to thank for that. And blimey, I was pretty unkempt myself.’

It was true: I never made an effort if it was just Ted.

Just Ted. I realized that’s how I’d thought of him, in my mind.

I’d barely put make-up on for our lunches, would rush to meet him, hair unbrushed, egg down my shirt possibly, and if we went to an art gallery, which we liked– and he was the only person apart from Polly I knew who did– to see the new Cézanne exhibition or whatever, I was always late, cursing about crossing the sodding river, dropping things from my bag– I’d had odd shoes on once, I kid you not.

But then, if it was the Tate Modern, afterwards we’d cross back over the river via the pretty Millennium Bridge and pop into St Paul’s.

We’d go and marvel in wonder from the whispering gallery, and I’d light a candle for David, and one for Daddy, and then Ted would probably glance at his watch, or I would, and off we’d rush in separate directions: me to my book or my publishers, who were nearby, and him to Jermyn Street and his wine business, before supper later with some wine merchant.

‘Which doesn’t improve my waistline,’ he’d say with an ironic grin.

But not regret. Never regret. Ted was a bon viveur and I loved him for it.

There. I’d used that word. To myself, even if I hadn’t said it out loud.

He loved life. So why, then, did we both repair to our respective houses for all those years: his in Shepherd’s Bush (‘or Brook Green, if I’m feeling swanky,’ he’d say) and mine in Fulham, for a solitary glass of wine, a plate of pasta, some drama or documentary on the telly at nine, the news and bed?

Ted had his son, Kit, there, who was Polly’s age, and I had her, but invariably, although they lived with us– cheaper– both were out.

And so we were alone. And we could have been together.

Sheepishly, we came out of the closet. After a few more dates, of course.

Except they weren’t dates because that would have been strange.

They were just our usual suppers at Rowley’s and then back to his place.

Oh yes. The works. Quite quickly. Fine, thanks.

Really… rather amazingly fine, since you ask.

And then we took a holiday. Which did get people talking.

‘Sorry– you’re going where?’ Polly’s eyes were huge.

‘Just to Rome. For a few days. Why not?’

‘With Ted?’

‘Yes, with Ted.’

Even Polly didn’t have the nerve to ask what the bedroom situation was, but when Luke came to lunch on Sunday I saw them going off into a huddle together– she hustled him smartly into the garden.

Through the kitchen window I saw Luke look astonished; his mouth fell open, then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

I grinned. Oh yes, the joke was firmly on us.

I tossed the dishcloth in the sink and pretended to go back to work in the sitting room.

But the book was finished, it was with the publishers awaiting a final proofread, it was all smoke and mirrors now. The pretence.

And Rome was blissful. Beautiful weather, lots of churches and art galleries, but no itinerary: nothing planned, just strolling into a smaller church, equally beautiful, when the Sistine Chapel was inevitably full and required booking weeks in advance or queuing for hours– no need.

Because every church was equally stunning, every gallery, every sunlit square, so there was no second best. And we ate well too, in gorgeous piazzas, in the sunshine at lovely al fresco restaurants.

But I noticed Ted never had a pudding. So I didn’t either.

Just the odd ice cream from a street vendor.

But I knew, given time, we sort of wouldn’t care.

That we’d be back to the chocolate gateaux.

But this was the honeymoon phase. Or the pre-moon, to be more precise, because actually, while we were out there, on the last day, on Saint Angelo Bridge, Ted asked me if I’d consider marrying him.

That was how he’d said it, with tears in his eyes, and I’d said no.

I wouldn’t consider marrying him, I’d say yes now, because I loved him– I did.

And then he told me he loved me very much.

We’d stared at each other in amazement. Then we burst out laughing and hugged.

‘No ring!’ he’d said, appalled.

‘Got plenty,’ I assured him.

‘No, no, you must have a new one.’

And so we hastened– OK, strolled– off to the jewellery district and found a very pretty antique citrine.

‘Yellow, like your eyes,’ he told me, slipping it on my finger.

‘Thanks a bunch.’

The assistant, who spoke perfect English, looked horrified. ‘She has blue eyes,’ she told him.

Ted feigned surprise. He stared at me as if for the first time. ‘Golly, so she does.’

We left, for yet another drink in another piazza, and then supper, and to make plans.

Which house? Shepherd’s Bush, we decided.

His was bigger– just– and prettier too, and it had a nicer garden.

Polly, Luke and possibly Kit, who was a good friend anyway, could share Fulham.

Mates’ rates, we decided sternly. We mustn’t spoil them.

Although, being far too relaxed, I sort of knew our rates would be tiny, or even non-existent.

Probably just bills? And I relished the thought of change.

I’d been in my house for far too long. Did he?

Should we sell his– and mine, even– and go somewhere completely different?

‘Possibly,’ he agreed. ‘But no rush.’

I smiled. Ted didn’t rush anywhere. Plus, it hadn’t been the family home– not that mine had, either– he’d sold that after Lorna died; they’d had a lovely house in Blackheath.

And so, if I didn’t mind, he said, he felt he hadn’t been in his current one that long and would ideally enjoy it for longer.

I didn’t mind at all. I liked his house: I’d had been there a lot, recently.

It had lots of bookshelves– my books were overflowing, stacked in piles on the floor– an open fire, which I lacked, and a south-facing garden.

I planned rambling roses trained over an arch, a lavender hedge, maybe a veggie patch right down the end. It was a bit of a mess at the moment.

‘Veggie patch?’ Ted raised his eyebrows over his Calvados.

‘No, you’re right, I’ll never dig it. And I’ll certainly never pick the veg. Leave it to Mr Waitrose.’

‘I think so. Let’s not bust a gut.’

No chance of that. Ted read a lot, which I did too when I wasn’t writing, so the evenings– and mornings and afternoons, if I’m honest– were placid, tranquil, peaceful. We realized we were semi-retired.

‘Is that a bad thing?’ I asked, when he mentioned it. He’d put in a couple of hours in Jermyn Street that day: a lot for him.

‘I don’t think so, do you?’

‘No. I mean, if there is a hill, we’re definitely over it, if not sliding down the other side.’

‘Together.’

‘Quite.’

‘On our ample backsides.’

‘You speak for yourself.’

We got married, not in my church, obviously– that really would have been weird, with Ralph at the helm– but at my childhood church in Primrose Hill, at the end of Elsworthy Road.

We both definitely wanted a church wedding, but nothing too smart or morning-coated.

I wore a cream silk dress, and he had a dark suit on with a very jazzy waistcoat, and then the reception was in Joan’s garden, with everyone assembled.

By everyone, I mean just our very nearest and dearest: Luke, Polly, Lucy and Kit, who I’d known for ever, and yes, they all thoroughly approved and indeed mimed theatrical collapses of relief, Lucy and Kit at the thought of the near miss with Sukey, who they’d met, Polly similarly with Ralph, who she still claimed kept too many options open.

He’d been spotted recently with someone else, but hey, why not?

With them were Lucy’s boyfriend, Ned, plus Max and Hannah, who was lovely, and who Luke clearly adored.

She was very smiley and pretty but musical and intelligent too, and she didn’t hang on his every word like his usual arm candy.

So that was the children, but also chatting on the lawn quaffing glasses of champagne were Pammy, looking thrilled to bits and smoking furiously in a fabulous, swirling emerald coat and multiple necklaces, Joan, Ginnie and Hugo with Tom and Lara, and Clarissa and Derek with Ed, but not Rob, who was away on tour.

So that was the family. Friends– well, we’d gathered many, over the years, the pair of us, so in the end we just went for one set of two each: Hebe and Sam for me, and great friends of Ted’s called Jim and Jenny for him. And Mum and Piers.