The Hive by Gill Hornby

it going to be one of those things that is so much more work than it’s worth?”
    â€œBubba.” Heather was practically swooning. “I think it’s the most brilliant idea I’ve ever heard.”
    â€œDoes Bea know about this? Have you told her you’re thinking of this?” demanded Colette. Her voice was edgy. “I mean, I really think Bea should be told…”
    â€œWell, this does sound interesting.” They turned, as one, to the open door. They sat up, reflexively, straight. All faces, save those of Georgie and Jo, were instantly lit from within. Suddenly, lunch was looking up.
    â€œDo tell. What exactly should I be told?”
Main Course
    Risotto of fresh herbs with truffle shavings, served with roasted baby beetroot
    Preparation time : 10 minutes
    Cooking time : 25 minutes
    Rachel shuffled up to make room next to herself on the long pine bench, but Bea went and half perched—like she didn’t really want to catch something—beside Colette instead.
    â€œA ball. Wow. Awesome. And heroic of you, Bubba, I must say. Heroic.”
    Bubba was modest. “Oh, you know: From each according to their abilities…”
    Bea cocked her head. “Really? No. I don’t think I do know. Anyway. One thing to get straight: it can’t be a summer ball, I’m afraid.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œNo. I always do The Quiz in the summer.” She checked her phone quickly. “The Quiz is the summer…”
    â€œBut…”
    â€œâ€¦The summer is The Quiz.” She picked a cherry tomato from Colette’s bruschetta.
    â€œLet me get you a plate,” said Heather.
    â€œNo thank you.” Bea took some goat’s cheese from Clover’s. “I’m not staying.”
    Bubba was defiant. “But what about the weather? It doesn’t matter what the weather is like for a quiz, but for a ball it’s crucial. The whole point is to be in the garden, drinks around the lake…”
    Rachel and Jo cleared away the plates from the starter. Bea lifted an entire bruschetta from one as it passed, and continued as if Bubba had not spoken.
    â€œI think the best thing would be a Christmas Ball. Sounds marvelous. The English summer so loves to disappoint, anyway. Let’s not even give it the option. A Christmas Ball. It’s decided. Bubba, you’re completely brilliant.” And she checked her phone again.
    Georgie thumped her oversized, heavy-bottomed pan in the middle of the table with a brisk “Help yourselves.”
    â€œMy favorite,” said Colette.
    â€œPoor you,” chipped in Clover. “Risotto’s a nightmare.”
    â€œYeah.” Georgie stuck a ladle in the rice. She passed the Parmesan and grater. “Poor, poor me.”
    â€œIsn’t this fabulous?” Bubba swept her arms to take it all in: the humble meal served straight from the pan at the rough-hewn country table. “Straight out of—I don’t know— Wuthering Heights or Jude the Obscure or something.”
    â€œChrist,” muttered Jo, striking her familiar pose of bored crossness—she was in a one-woman war against the pretentious.
    Heather was racking her brains. “Have I read those, Georgie? What happens?”
    â€œOh. You know. Usual. Everyone’s miserable-slash-bonkers and then they snuff it,” said Georgie briskly. Jo snorted. “Cheers, Blubber. Hey, it’s not my idea of a good time either, but one is trying one’s best…”
    â€œSorry. And it’s actually, um, Bubba? ” She laughed nervously. “That came out wrong. I meant, you know, the sort of rustic charm of it all.”
    Bea was using Colette’s dessert spoon to scoop risotto off Clover’s plate and periodically checking her phone, which remained disobligingly mute.
    Clover spoke through a mouthful of rice. “Why on earth would you ask Georgie what books you’ve read, Heather? We all