Rosie’s
mock-outraged expression. ‘What? She does run a bloody B & B.’
‘Just go!’
Half an hour later, the boys were in their pyjamas with their faces pressed to Toby’s bedroom window that looked out over the drive. ‘Sandrine!’ yelled George. ‘I can see her car.’
They dashed down the stairs, a whirlwind of arms and legs, to the front door. ‘Hey!’ cried Rosie as Sandrine’s wide face loomed in the entry-system screen. She hit the button that opened the gates. Two seconds later, Sandrine was climbing out of her orange Renault and they were hugging each other hard. Rosie stepped back and looked at her. Sandrine was in jeans and a flowery top, she’d guess came from Evans in Manchester, which was Sandrine’s favourite shop, catering, as it did, for the larger lady. Christy occasionally bought her something from somewhere like Brora, but Sandrine never wore it or shrunk it in the wash. Her hair was longer than before and she was wearing pink lipstick and purplish eyeshadow.
‘How are you doing? Was the drive OK?’
‘Piece of cake,’ Sandrine replied, in her funny deep voice. ‘About four hours door to door. And no worries about parking at the destination.’ She grinned. ‘Your own gated drive, lady. Now that’s what I call fancy.’
‘I told you,’ Rosie giggled.
Toby pulled at Sandrine’s arm. ‘Come and see the garden. We’ve got a trampoline.’
‘OK, my darling.’ She gestured at her tiny wheelie case. ‘Shall I just put this in my room first? I can’t believe it. An actual bed. No more futon in the living room for me.’
A horn honked, as a silver Audi – Christy’s – turned into the drive. Christy parked adeptly beside the Renault and jumped out. In so many ways she’d hardly changed since those Brightman’s days. Same chestnut hair (with just a few highlights added) that she used to tie back in a ponytail, but which now framed her face in a chin-length bob, her curls tamed with expensive and time-consuming straightening treatments. Same big brown eyes and pointy nose, same alert expression as she gazed around her.
She was wearing a dress with a black skirt and a top with a pattern of exploding red flowers and flat pumps in a red that reflected the colours. The effect was very French. As soon as she’d broken free from her mother and her fondness for frilly frocks, Christy had always dressed like a grown-up: jeans and T-shirts had never been her thing.
‘Chris!’
‘Ro!’
More hugs, first for Rosie, before the customary bottle of Moët was retrieved from the passenger seat and handed over. Rosie hid a smile as she accepted it. She remembered well how Christy used to say champagne was just fizzy pop, that people who insisted on designer French labels instead of Cava were arse-wipes. But that
was a long time ago before she realized a bottle of French vintage stuff was the best way to woo A-list clients.
Christy turned to Sandrine. ‘Hey, sis!’
‘Hey!’ They hugged, then Christy turned and looked up at the house. A slow appreciative whistle. Rosie had always envied Christy’s ability to whistle.
‘Yowza! It’s even bigger than it looks on Street View.’
‘Shall I give you a tour? Isn’t that what your mum always used to say?’
‘Please don’t say you’re turning into my mum.’
They giggled as they ascended the stairs into the hall, climbing over Rosie’s sons, who were huddled over the iPad that they never failed to unearth, no matter how carefully she hid it. ‘Hi, boys,’ Christy said,
‘Nrrr-ffm,’ they mumbled. The boys had never warmed to Christy like they had to Sandrine, even though she lavished them with generous presents at birthday and Christmas time. ‘Sandrine, come on the trampoline. Now!’
‘Don’t you want to do the tour, Sands? I can tell them to leave you alone?’
‘I’m staying the night, aren’t I? I can have the tour later. Come on, boys.’
They dragged her towards the garden.
On the wide landing,
mock-outraged expression. ‘What? She does run a bloody B & B.’
‘Just go!’
Half an hour later, the boys were in their pyjamas with their faces pressed to Toby’s bedroom window that looked out over the drive. ‘Sandrine!’ yelled George. ‘I can see her car.’
They dashed down the stairs, a whirlwind of arms and legs, to the front door. ‘Hey!’ cried Rosie as Sandrine’s wide face loomed in the entry-system screen. She hit the button that opened the gates. Two seconds later, Sandrine was climbing out of her orange Renault and they were hugging each other hard. Rosie stepped back and looked at her. Sandrine was in jeans and a flowery top, she’d guess came from Evans in Manchester, which was Sandrine’s favourite shop, catering, as it did, for the larger lady. Christy occasionally bought her something from somewhere like Brora, but Sandrine never wore it or shrunk it in the wash. Her hair was longer than before and she was wearing pink lipstick and purplish eyeshadow.
‘How are you doing? Was the drive OK?’
‘Piece of cake,’ Sandrine replied, in her funny deep voice. ‘About four hours door to door. And no worries about parking at the destination.’ She grinned. ‘Your own gated drive, lady. Now that’s what I call fancy.’
‘I told you,’ Rosie giggled.
Toby pulled at Sandrine’s arm. ‘Come and see the garden. We’ve got a trampoline.’
‘OK, my darling.’ She gestured at her tiny wheelie case. ‘Shall I just put this in my room first? I can’t believe it. An actual bed. No more futon in the living room for me.’
A horn honked, as a silver Audi – Christy’s – turned into the drive. Christy parked adeptly beside the Renault and jumped out. In so many ways she’d hardly changed since those Brightman’s days. Same chestnut hair (with just a few highlights added) that she used to tie back in a ponytail, but which now framed her face in a chin-length bob, her curls tamed with expensive and time-consuming straightening treatments. Same big brown eyes and pointy nose, same alert expression as she gazed around her.
She was wearing a dress with a black skirt and a top with a pattern of exploding red flowers and flat pumps in a red that reflected the colours. The effect was very French. As soon as she’d broken free from her mother and her fondness for frilly frocks, Christy had always dressed like a grown-up: jeans and T-shirts had never been her thing.
‘Chris!’
‘Ro!’
More hugs, first for Rosie, before the customary bottle of Moët was retrieved from the passenger seat and handed over. Rosie hid a smile as she accepted it. She remembered well how Christy used to say champagne was just fizzy pop, that people who insisted on designer French labels instead of Cava were arse-wipes. But that
was a long time ago before she realized a bottle of French vintage stuff was the best way to woo A-list clients.
Christy turned to Sandrine. ‘Hey, sis!’
‘Hey!’ They hugged, then Christy turned and looked up at the house. A slow appreciative whistle. Rosie had always envied Christy’s ability to whistle.
‘Yowza! It’s even bigger than it looks on Street View.’
‘Shall I give you a tour? Isn’t that what your mum always used to say?’
‘Please don’t say you’re turning into my mum.’
They giggled as they ascended the stairs into the hall, climbing over Rosie’s sons, who were huddled over the iPad that they never failed to unearth, no matter how carefully she hid it. ‘Hi, boys,’ Christy said,
‘Nrrr-ffm,’ they mumbled. The boys had never warmed to Christy like they had to Sandrine, even though she lavished them with generous presents at birthday and Christmas time. ‘Sandrine, come on the trampoline. Now!’
‘Don’t you want to do the tour, Sands? I can tell them to leave you alone?’
‘I’m staying the night, aren’t I? I can have the tour later. Come on, boys.’
They dragged her towards the garden.
On the wide landing,
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