Authors: Jane Marciano
'Alice?
Dear,'
she
felt
her
arm
being
clutched
by
a
lanky
woman
of
indeterminate
years,
her
cropped
hair
dyed
an
improbable
shade
of
black,
struggling
to
rescue
the
trailing
fringe
of
a
cream
chiffon
shawl
from
under
the
feet
of
those
who
came
too
near.
'James,'
whispered
Esther
Barton,
her
mother's
best
friend,
kissing
Alice
on
the
cheek,
'looks
dreadful.
Too
much
of
this,'
she
tilted
her
hand
to
her
mouth
as
her
head
simultaneously
jerked
backward.
'Oh
for
goodness
sake,'
she
broke
off
giving
her
shawl
an
almighty
tug.
'It
will
be
a
rag,
a
total
rag
if
one
more
person
steps
on
it.'
'Then
take
it
off,'
Alice
exclaimed.
She
reached
out
to
assist
her.
'It's
boiling.'
'Certainly
not,'
Esther
clutched
the
shawl
more
firmly
round
her
freckled
elbows.
'I
haven't
got
the
arms
any
more.
Not
like
you.'
Alice
laughed
affectionately.
'You're
nuts.
Poor
James,
give
him
a
break.'
'You
don't
have
to
tell
me
about
divorce,'
Esther
shuddered.
'’nearly
killed
me
when
I
went
through
mine.
It
doesn't
excuse
Maisie
and
Marcus
running
wild.
He's
got
no
control
over
them
at
all.
Look.
They're
ruining
the
hydrangeas.
Oh
God,
Maisie's
eating
them,
actually
eating
them.
Alice,
do
something.'
'I
can't,'
Alice
protested.
'Dad
wants
me.'
'Oh?
'
Esther
immediately
paused.
'Anything
wrong?'
'No,
nothing.
Actually,
it’s
me
who
wants
to
tell
him
something.
And
Mum.'
'Sure
that's
wise?'
Esther
arched
one
eyebrow.
'Why
does
everyone
automatically
think
I'm
going
to
annoy
him?'
Alice
protested.
'Honestly,'
she
rapidly
changed
the
subject.
'Can't
Vix
organise
the
kids?'
'
Vix?
Esther
almost
screamed
in
disbelief.
'Stop
it.
She's
in
full-on
celeb
mode.'
And
she
was.
Smiling,
as
James
had
once
muttered,
as
though
she
had
been
plugged
into
the
wall,
Alice
saw
her
sister.
At
thirty
five,
four
years
older
-
or
younger
by
two
as
Victoria
unblushingly
allowed
the
tabloids
to
report,
only
too
happy
to
be
admired
for
her
less
than
stellar
acting
career
as
her
doll-like
dark
prettiness,
was
now
sitting
on
a
garden
bench
with
a
group
of
admiring
men
surrounding
her.
'Oh
alright,'
Alice
grumbled
to
Esther
heading
off
to
save
her
mother's
flowers
from
James'
children's
assault.
'But
they
won't
take
a
blind
bit
of
notice.'
Ten
minutes
later,
having
installed
the
fractious
pair
in
front
of
a
DVD
of
the
latest
Shrek
movie,
with
one
of
the
waitresses
hired
for
the
day,
easily
persuaded
to
switch
duties
from
glass-collector
in
soaring
temperatures
to
child-watcher
in
a
cool,
comfortable
drawing
room,
she
caught
a
fleeting
glimpse
of
James,
glass
in
hand,
quietly
closing
the
door
of
his
father's
study.
She
didn't
try
to
stop
him.
Why
bother?
With
James
these
days,
there
was
no
arguing
with
a
tumbler
of
whisky.
Instead
she
simply
checked
her
phone.
Nothing.
Traffic.
Yes,
that
was
it.
Maybe
he
just
wasn't
there
yet?
She
tucked
her
phone
back
into
the
pocket
of
her
dress
and
walked
back
onto
the
terrace
just
wishing
all
these
people
would
go
and
she'd
get
this
over
with.
As
she
expected,
her
father
was
still
surrounded
as
indeed
was
Victoria.
Even
her
mother,
usually
so
reluctant
to
be
pushed
into
the
centre
of
things,
was
quietly
beaming
at
the
compliments
being
showered
on
her
about
her
beloved
gardens.
'So
beautiful,
Molly,'
Alice
heard
one
of
Harry's
fan
club
marvel.
‘You’re
a
genius.
Does
Harry
ever
help?’
they
teased,
knowing
full
well
the
answer.
‘I
adore
Harry,’
Molly
jokingly
sighed.
'Could
run
the
country.
But
don’t
ever
let
him
near
so
much
as
a
blade
of
grass.
Quite
dreadful.'
Next
day,
Alice
knew,
at
least
one
newspaper
would
have
a
picture
of
Harry
with
his
arm
round
her
mother's
shoulder,
quoting
her
word
for
word
while
he
described
her
as
his
rock.
And
she
was.
Alice
paused
taking
in
the
solid
scene
of
respectable
family
unity.
Claude
didn't
fit
in
to
this.
Any
more
than
he
did
in
Neuilly.
The
one
occasion
when
she
had
brought
him
down
to
lunch,
expecting
them
to
be
as
delighted
with
him
as
she
was,
had
resulted
in
a
silent
drive
back
both
knowing
the
entire
lunch
had
been
nursing
a
puzzling
subtext.
Not
impolite,
her
parents
would
never,
especially
her
mother,
be
anything
but
courteous.
Her
father's
mild
enquiries
into
the
price
of
property
in
France,
the
high
cost
of
education,
if
finding
backing
for
any
new
venture,
particularly
one
as
risky
as
the
art
market,
was
as
hard
in
France
as
it
was
here,
were
all
delivered
in
a
tone
that
could
have
been
remarking
on
the
weather.
Claude
was
open,
honest,
he
knew
nothing
of
appearances.
Finally
he
had
with
a
frank
rueful
shrug
said
that
financially
he
was
so
strapped,
he
wasn't
going
to
be
buying
a
bank
anytime
soon
let
alone
be
able
to
rely
on
just
being
a
painter
to
keep
le loup
from
the
door.
For
the
moment,
teaching
it
had
to
be.