On the day of Edie’s party, the weather breaks again. The sunshine decides it’s time for a rest, and tag teams rain in instead.
It’s been falling in a steady drizzle all day, and ups its game to official Met Office ‘bucketing it down’ status by 8 p.m., when the party is due to begin.
It’s added some logistical problems to the whole event, with more people driving, but Cherie has got around this by hiring a coach and driver to ferry people back and forth. I’ve driven us, in Auburn’s car, after much faffing around and unusually high levels of girl-dom in the cottage.
The dresses have turned out well, if I do say so myself. All three of us are wearing the same design, as we have similar builds – simple satin sheath dresses with thin straps. Mum is in a beautiful dove grey that makes her eyes shine and is perfectly complemented by her secret spy tracker pendant.
Auburn looks amazing in deep green, her hair shining and loose, flowing over her back, wearing killer heels that make her as tall as Van. If not for the chewed nails she could pass for a retired supermodel.
Mine is black, because it clashes brilliantly with the neon pink hair and the matching boots. I have some black fishnets on, and have a full face of make-up, and I look okay. Which is good, because I’m feeling pretty shitty.
I’ve not seen Tom since that night in the café, and I miss him. I’ve tried analysing all of this, and making lists, and writing about it in my notepad, but it’s that simple – I miss him. He brought something to my life that it’s poorer without, and I don’t just mean spectacular sex. I miss the chats peppered with geek references; I miss having someone to be myself with; I miss the sense of comfort and security I got when I was around him – the sense that no matter how bad things got, I’d always be able to slip my hand into his, and feel better.
And – let’s be honest – I also miss the spectacular sex. It’s all very sad, and blue, and miserable, and other words that I don’t want to be associated with a party.
I pretended I was okay while we all got ready, and Van – handsome in a tux he borrowed from Frank, one with a distinct Seventies air with its wide lapels – set up the camera on a timer to take a group shot of us before we left.
‘What a handsome bunch,’ Mum said, as we all froze, like those families you see in sepia prints from a hundred years ago. ‘Beautiful inside and out.’
I’d topped up Bella’s water bowl, and left the TV on for her. She doesn’t mind being left for a few hours, but I always feel bad, and assume the voices will give her some company. This is undoubtedly silly, as Bella Swan is very self-sufficient – but to make myself feel better, tonight she can watch Animal Planet.
We arrive at Briarwood a little early, so we can deposit Anton du Beke in the hallway, where he will be greeting the birthday girl in person. He spent the journey lying over Van and Auburn’s laps in the back seat, and seemed perfectly happy with that.
By the time we pull up outside the house, the coach, along with several cars and jeeps, is already there – Cal and Matt have been on Big Man Furniture Moving Duty, and Laura and Cherie have been setting up all the catering.
Lizzie and Martha and Josh and Nate have been employed as waiting staff, and are all looking splendidly smart in black and white uniforms. Both the girls are wearing tuxedo-style outfits as well, with their hair slicked back in the style of a Fred Astaire film – perfect for the occasion.
Their job is to keep everyone’s glasses topped up, and make sure nobody chokes on a chicken wing. Lizzie seems relaxed and happy, prowling around the outside of the house, taking photos on her phone – I’m assuming she’s smoothed over her worries about Josh and Martha leaving, or at least managed to ignore them.
Briarwood itself looks spectacular. Tom has rigged up some projectors in the gardens, which are casting ever-moving spotlights over the front of the building, like the opening credits of a 20th Century Fox movie. The fountain has been dressed up with fairy lights in rainbow colours, and matching lights have been draped over the surrounding bushes and shrubs. The fact that it’s wet just seems to make it look even more magical, the bright glimmers cutting through the darkness and the rain.
Inside, I see, as we all traipse through, is even better. The pots of paint and discarded tools and dust-sheets are gone, and although the side of the building with the old cloakrooms is closed off, the rest of it looks awesome.
Mr and Mrs F’s old living quarters have been given a quick lick of paint, and completely emptied out. Now, the rooms are filled with trestle tables covered in damask cloths, heaving with every imaginable kind of party food – mini pies, vol-au-vents, platters of smoked salmon slivers, a whole roasted ham spiked with cloves, home-made Scotch eggs with piccalilli dip, skewers of tender seasoned pork, tiny glasses filled with rich chocolate mousse, dainty little marzipan tarts, a huge chocolate fountain surrounded by chopped strawberries and marshmallows and brazil nuts.
Another table is laden with drinks, and even ice buckets filled with bottles of bubbly and white wine. There’s a whole selection of cider from Joe’s cave, spirits and mixers, every kind of juice, and a small pile of Guinness cans that must be for Matt. One table has been set up as a cocktail bar, which Becca has promised to man with help from Lizzie. The teenagers are here, filling up flutes with champagne, arranging them on silver trays so they can circulate among the guests with a welcome drink.
Edie’s birthday cake – made by Laura of course – is lush. It spells out her name in giant sponge letters, coated in chocolate ganache, with tiny icing birthday wishes all over it. She’s been bagging each of us in the café, getting us to pipe our own message on there, all week. I snap a quick picture of it on my phone – it’s a work of art, and a tribute to Edie’s much-loved presence in the village. It seems a shame to even eat it.
I realise as I gape at it that I’ve not eaten since breakfast – being girly takes way too much time – and barely restrain myself from diving right in.
The others drag me away, and into the ballroom. We all pause in the doorway, and look around, eyes wide. The only word I have for it is ‘wow’. The chandeliers are lit, sparkling over the whole room, and the walls have been stripped and painted in one of those quiet, tasteful tones you see in National Trust properties. Tom has somehow managed to set up glitter balls, just like on Strictly, dangling from the ceiling, spinning and shimmering in the low light, casting dancing shapes on the polished floorboards.
A few tables and chairs have been scattered around the edges of the room, so people can rest between dances, and the love seat in the bay window has been set up as Edie’s own personal space. It’s filled with cushions and a sparkly sequinned blanket and even a footstool. The banner overhead pronounces: ‘Happy Birthday Edie – you get a 10 from us!’ in colourful letters.
I smile as I imagine Edie sitting there – the Queen of the Dance – and decide that this is the perfect place for Anton. I call Van over, and he sets him up, looking lovely in his top hat and tails, waiting for his 92-year-old date.
All of the café crowd are already here, dressed to the nines in fancy frocks and suits, dashing around making sure everything is as perfect as it can be in advance of the Queen’s arrival. Laura is wearing a blue dress that shows so much cleavage she keeps staring down at it and hoisting the top half back up, her hair pinned and curls cascading around her neck like a curvy Jane Austen heroine. Cherie is magnificent in a vintage ‘70s frock covered in sunflowers, and Zoe has gone with the teenagers, and opted for a dinner suit instead.
The menfolk are looking approximately two billion times smarter than they usually do, and Frank is especially dashing, his silver hair Bryll-creamed into place. He’s such a vibrant man that it’s easy to forget how old he is – and he fits these clothes, and this scene, in a way that seems to come naturally to him.
Edie’s nieces and nephews and extended family are here, as is pretty much the whole of the rest of the village, as well as some of her former colleagues from the library and her friends from the Community Centre. The table next to her throne is already heaving with gift bags and brightly wrapped presents. How absolutely brilliant to be as old as Edie, and have this many friends. It’s enough to make a girl feel emotional.
I pat Anton on the cheek, pull myself together, and ask if there’s anything I can do to help. Cherie pauses, thinks, and passes me her phone.
‘You can be on look-out duty,’ she says, pointing outside. ‘Becca’s bringing Edie. Little Edie’s staying at home, Katie’s babysitting – she chickened out, despite being the best dancer in Budbury. Says she’d rather stay in with Saul and the baby. Anyway, they should be here soon. She’s going to text us when they’re five minutes away so we can get ready.’
I nod, and take the phone, suddenly nervous in case I miss the code word. Not that there is a code word. No, hang on, this is Becca we’re talking about. There will be a code word.
I wander around the room, admiring the decorations, keeping an eye on Mum, and pretending not to do what I’m actually doing – which is looking for Tom.
I finally catch a glimpse of him on the far side of the room, and let out an audible sigh when I do. Like the rest of the men, he’s dressed up, in a suit and bow tie. But unlike the rest of the men, the sight of him makes my heart rate bump and my breath catch in my throat. He’s gorgeous, and I want to run across the room, knocking people out of the way as I go, and throw myself into his arms.
As though he senses my gaze, he looks up at that exact moment, and we live out a perfect cliché – our eyes meet across a crowded room. I see him stare at me, look me up and down, and know that he feels exactly the same as I do. This whole ‘just friends’ thing is truly rubbish.
Just as I see him start to make his way towards me, the phone in my hand beeps. It takes me a few seconds to react, I’m so lost in Tom, but I soon snap myself out of it and read the text from Becca.
‘The beagle is landing,’ it says. ‘Battle stations.’
I dash across to Cherie, who is standing at the centre of all the activity surveying her kingdom, and shout: ‘Five minute warning!’
Cherie claps her hands, and bellows at Frank and Cal: ‘Roll out the red carpet! Get the music on! Get your umbrellas!’
Everyone jumps to attention, and I see the two men head into the hallway, carrying a big bundle. They stand on the steps, and together let it flow out into the garden – a proper, full-length, actually-like-Hollywood red carpet.
Tom disappears off to the corner of the room, where he has various gadgets that I presume are to do with sound and vision set up, and the rest of the guests all make a mad dash towards Cherie, who has pulled a big cardboard box out from beneath Edie’s gift table. She is handing out umbrellas, all of them in bright primary colours, like a sergeant major issuing ammo.
I have no idea why, but I learned a long time ago not to question Cherie’s actions – she usually has a plan. I join Mum and Van and Auburn in the umbrella queue, and once we’ve all been supplied, Cherie leads us outside.
She directs us perfectly, taking into account different height levels and the need not to get poked in the eye by random spokes, and within a couple of scurrying minutes, we’re all in place. We stand along the edge of the red carpet, umbrellas aloft, a perfect canopy of red, green, blue and yellow forming a sheltered archway over the carpet.
For a second, we all stand there, rain hammering down on our brollies, the random spotlights playing across our faces in the darkness – then everyone bursts out laughing when we realise how brilliantly silly we look. But hey, we’re keeping Edie’s red carpet dry, and that’s what counts.
Just as we hear Becca’s car pulling into the driveway, Tom hits the music, and the theme tune from Strictly Come Dancing belts out from the speakers just inside the hallway.
It’s impossible to resist the temptation to start doing a silly dance, and none of us are good at resisting anything – so pretty soon after the opening notes, the whole umbrella-wielding entourage starts to bop and wriggle, brollies twirling and shaking as Becca parks the car.
Sam gets out of the passenger side, dressed in a dapper suit jacket that seems to be made of velvet, and dashes round to open the doors for the ladies. Becca steps out first, giving us all a thumbs up as she looks at the umbrellas shimmying in the rain, and is followed by Edie.
Sam already has a big striped golfing umbrella up and open above her head, protecting the perm she obviously had touched up today.
Edie pauses, and looks at the crowds, and the red carpet, and the sight of us all dancing to the theme tune of her favourite TV show beneath our undulating archway of umbrellas. She gazes at the beautiful lit-up facade of Briarwood, and the roaming searchlights, and just for a moment it seems like it’s all too much for her.
She stands still, perfectly turned out in a baby blue dress and matching sequinned cardigan, and clasps her cheeks in both her wrinkled hands. She stares at us all, and I see her take off her specs and wipe tears from beneath her eyes as she takes it all in.
She says something – I can’t tell what, because the music is too loud – and within seconds Becca and Sam are on either side of her, offering her their arms. She smiles, radiant with happiness, and links her arms with theirs, looking like a child between them.
Then, God bless her, she struts down that red carpet like the star she is.