Summer at Tiffany's by Karen Swan

that bored insouciance only Frenchwomen could pull off when talking about their lovers. ‘He is in Cap Ferrat. Back next week. You are sure I should not come over?’
    â€˜At the moment, no, but I’ll let you know if his condition changes.’
    â€˜OK. Well, you give that man a kiss from me.’
    â€˜That might give him another heart attack, Nooks.’
    They disconnected just as the sound of keys scratched in the lock. Cassie turned. Through the frosted glass she could make out the hatted, billowing silhouette of Henry and Suzy’s mother, and a moment later the door opened, Hattie’s tall, wiry frame filling the doorway. She was wearing her usual uniform of black Nicole Farhi apron dress, draped taupe openwork cardigan and plimsolls, and her frizzy ash-blonde hair was contained by a bashed straw hat that was fraying in so many places it looked like it had been nibbled by a donkey. Battered holdalls dangled from each brown hand, but at the sight of Cassie – pale-faced, moon-eyed – staring back at her, she dropped both bags on the spot and wrapped her arms around her, rocking her gently from side to side.
    For a split moment Cassie felt herself go limp – a ‘grownup’ had arrived: she didn’t have to pretend to be brave now – but as they stood there, swaying slightly in the open hallway, she realized it wasn’t Hattie who was comforting her: stoic, no-nonsense Harriet Sallyford, the renowned garden designer and four-times gold-medal-winner at Chelsea, the woman who’d shown Suzy exactly how strong and imposing a woman could be . . . Her.
She
was the one trembling, holding on too tight as she tried not to cry, as broken down by the rest of them at the flattened sight of her happy-go-lucky son-in-law, who still looked at her daughter, every day, like she was a dream come true.
    â€˜He’s going to be fine, Hats. You know Arch,’ Cassie said weakly.
    Hattie pulled away, drying her damp eyes with a quick one-two motion of her hands, before clapping them together loudly. ‘Of course he is. You’re quite right. He wouldn’t dare leave my two girls. It’s not his time. It simply isn’t.’ She inhaled sharply, pulling herself together. ‘Tea?’
    Cassie watched as Hattie swept into the kitchen behind, busily choosing two mugs and sniffing the milk. Cassie picked up the abandoned bags from the doorway and closed the door softly, so as not to waken Velvet. ‘You’ve come from the hospital, I take it?’ she asked, stepping into the kitchen.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Any change?’
    â€˜Not this morning apparently, although since
I
saw him last – what, two, three weeks ago . . . ?’ Her blue eyes flicked up to Cassie’s. ‘He looks like he’s been steamrollered. I mean, his skin is
actually
grey. Roger and Emma had arrived only minutes before me and they looked like they needed oxygen themselves, poor things. No parent should ever have to see their child like that.’ She paused, a look of genuine puzzlement crossing her features as she was drawn back into the tragedy again. ‘I just don’t understand it, Cassie. He’s such a young man, so vigorous—’
    â€˜He’d been under a lot of stress, apparently, at work.’
    Hattie gave a sceptical frown.
    â€˜I know – he hid it from everyone. No one knew. Suzy barely realized the severity of it herself.’
    â€˜But . . . there must have been warning signs, surely? Men of thirty-three don’t drop down half dead after a quick run just because they’ve got a lot on at work. Surely he must have been looking unwell or complaining of aches or pains beforehand. I mean, we all know how
stricken
Archie is by the man-flu every winter.’
    Cassie shrugged. ‘He really did look totally normal. I saw him and his colour was as good as ever, and he was leading the other runners in a round of songs just before