had to mean that she was going to be forgiven, surely?
To Legs’ relief, Ros swallowed her sister’s breezy line that she’d decided the dress was safest left in her flat. She was also surprisingly enthusiastic when she heard of the planned weekend in Devon: ‘It’s about time you started going to the cottage again, we all know how much you love it there. And you can drop Nicholas off on the way. It’s Will’s turn to have him. Save him coming here. He always complains so much.’ Her face was bursting with relief.
It had been a long-running point of contention since the divorce that Ros flatly refused to take her son even a part of the way to Somerset for his weekends and holiday visits with his father, not even as far as the M25, meaning that Will was forced to make the six-hour round trip twice each visiting weekend, unless Legs or one of the grandparents stepped in to help. It was Ros and Legs’ mother Lucy who most often lightened his load by transporting her grandson en route to or from the family’s holiday cottage when she escaped to paint and frolic naked in her garden, but this summer, her watercolour sabbatical at Spywood had already stretched from late May to high summer without interruption.
‘Mum can’t stay there much longer,’ Ros said disapprovingly. ‘She said something about finishing those watercolours of Eascombe Harbour last time I spoke to her, but the reception was awful. You know what it’s like there. Best to text that you’re coming so she makes space.’ She carefully avoided mentioning the likelihood of finding Lucy naked among the shrubbery, although bothsisters knew that was a distinct possibility, ‘Dad’s run out of freezer food, so she must be coming home any day. Can you pick Nicholas up on your way back as well?’
‘I don’t see why not; I love the drive to Inkpot, it’s so pretty.’
Ros let out a long-suffering sigh.
Just as Lucy’s unconventional nudity was never mentioned, the sisters kept schtum about another awkward truth. They both knew that Legs was still close to her old friend Daisy, currently six months pregnant with Will’s third child, but sisterly loyalty stopped the emotive subject being raised. As far as Ros was concerned, Daisy (or ‘that woman’) was never mentioned in conversation, and she and Will’s children did not exist in Ros and Legs’ day-to-day consciousness in Ealing. It was simpler that way.
No such silent diplomacy applied to Legs’ personal life; Ros fixed her with a beady look as they sat down to eat. ‘Do you think you’ll see Francis at all when you’re at Farcombe?’
She nodded. ‘He wants to meet up.’
Ros picked up her fork and stared at the prongs. ‘He’ll never take you back, you know.’
‘That’s not what this is about.’ She tried not to think again about that long letter she’d sent soon after the split, saying it had all been a horrible mistake, begging him to take her back. The fact that he had never even acknowledged it still ploughed stitches of humiliated pain between her ribs whenever she thought about it. For a long time she’d convinced herself that she’d forgotten to add a stamp.
‘We’ll see.’ Ros flashed that smug smile which had irritated Legs since childhood.
As she opened her mouth to protest more vociferously, Nico burst into the room at last and dived into his chair, breathless with excitement. ‘The bidding on your dress is already at over a thousand pounds, Mum! How cool is that?’
‘Very cool.’ Ros lay down her fork. ‘Now please don’t run in the house again, or be late to table. You may say grace –
how
much?’
Legs closed her eyes. It had already gone above her top bid again. As soon as she’d finished eating, she’d have to dash downstairs and pledge the rest of her savings on the tattered wedding dress.
Chapter 3
Throughout the week that followed, now linked by instant messaging as well as emails on her whizzy phone, Legs was surprised how much she
To Legs’ relief, Ros swallowed her sister’s breezy line that she’d decided the dress was safest left in her flat. She was also surprisingly enthusiastic when she heard of the planned weekend in Devon: ‘It’s about time you started going to the cottage again, we all know how much you love it there. And you can drop Nicholas off on the way. It’s Will’s turn to have him. Save him coming here. He always complains so much.’ Her face was bursting with relief.
It had been a long-running point of contention since the divorce that Ros flatly refused to take her son even a part of the way to Somerset for his weekends and holiday visits with his father, not even as far as the M25, meaning that Will was forced to make the six-hour round trip twice each visiting weekend, unless Legs or one of the grandparents stepped in to help. It was Ros and Legs’ mother Lucy who most often lightened his load by transporting her grandson en route to or from the family’s holiday cottage when she escaped to paint and frolic naked in her garden, but this summer, her watercolour sabbatical at Spywood had already stretched from late May to high summer without interruption.
‘Mum can’t stay there much longer,’ Ros said disapprovingly. ‘She said something about finishing those watercolours of Eascombe Harbour last time I spoke to her, but the reception was awful. You know what it’s like there. Best to text that you’re coming so she makes space.’ She carefully avoided mentioning the likelihood of finding Lucy naked among the shrubbery, although bothsisters knew that was a distinct possibility, ‘Dad’s run out of freezer food, so she must be coming home any day. Can you pick Nicholas up on your way back as well?’
‘I don’t see why not; I love the drive to Inkpot, it’s so pretty.’
Ros let out a long-suffering sigh.
Just as Lucy’s unconventional nudity was never mentioned, the sisters kept schtum about another awkward truth. They both knew that Legs was still close to her old friend Daisy, currently six months pregnant with Will’s third child, but sisterly loyalty stopped the emotive subject being raised. As far as Ros was concerned, Daisy (or ‘that woman’) was never mentioned in conversation, and she and Will’s children did not exist in Ros and Legs’ day-to-day consciousness in Ealing. It was simpler that way.
No such silent diplomacy applied to Legs’ personal life; Ros fixed her with a beady look as they sat down to eat. ‘Do you think you’ll see Francis at all when you’re at Farcombe?’
She nodded. ‘He wants to meet up.’
Ros picked up her fork and stared at the prongs. ‘He’ll never take you back, you know.’
‘That’s not what this is about.’ She tried not to think again about that long letter she’d sent soon after the split, saying it had all been a horrible mistake, begging him to take her back. The fact that he had never even acknowledged it still ploughed stitches of humiliated pain between her ribs whenever she thought about it. For a long time she’d convinced herself that she’d forgotten to add a stamp.
‘We’ll see.’ Ros flashed that smug smile which had irritated Legs since childhood.
As she opened her mouth to protest more vociferously, Nico burst into the room at last and dived into his chair, breathless with excitement. ‘The bidding on your dress is already at over a thousand pounds, Mum! How cool is that?’
‘Very cool.’ Ros lay down her fork. ‘Now please don’t run in the house again, or be late to table. You may say grace –
how
much?’
Legs closed her eyes. It had already gone above her top bid again. As soon as she’d finished eating, she’d have to dash downstairs and pledge the rest of her savings on the tattered wedding dress.
Chapter 3
Throughout the week that followed, now linked by instant messaging as well as emails on her whizzy phone, Legs was surprised how much she
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