Another century.
Sam with a large jug of lager, surrounded by three grinning men – Mike and two others. The lads celebrating. It’s going to be a good night.
A selfie with Victoria in the left corner, flanked by Paige, Mike, Drew, Izzy and Sam in the opposite corner, all holding up pints of lager. The gang’s all here. #Lovemylife #Lovemypals #bestfriends
I knew all their names from the stalking I’d done on Facebook.
Of course that wasn’t enough for me, was it? I had to go completely overboard and check Victoria’s Facebook page. Big mistake. Huge. Her page came up with a memory from a year ago, the sort of shot that captured a private moment – Victoria in a scarlet evening dress and Sam in black tie, sitting at a table together, gazing at each other, completely oblivious to the camera and the rest of the world.
‘You look well,’ said Mum, with her usual thorough inspection of me. In a rare break with tradition we were sitting outside in the garden on the small patio under the shade of a large cream parasol.
‘It’s all the sunshine,’ I said, waving my hand at the sky, deciding that it was best not to explain that in all likelihood my inner glow was down to a thorough sexual workout a few hours earlier.
‘It has been lovely, but it’s not very good for the older people. The surgery’s been very busy. Lots of respiratory problems and people wanting appointments immediately.’ Her lips pursed and she cast a look beyond the shadow of the parasol, as if the sunlight might be dangerous. ‘Making complaints because they can’t see a doctor immediately.’
Although Mum was practice manager, in her day she’d been one of those dragon receptionists determined to protect her doctors from annoying ill people.
‘Honestly, people need to learn to have some patience these days.’
‘Perhaps that’s why they’re called patients,’ I quipped, unable to resist the gag, even though mum wasn’t a jokey sort of person.
‘Is that supposed to be funny, Jessica?’
‘Yes, Mum. It’s supposed to be funny.’ I smiled at her.
She rolled her eyes but if you squinted very hard you might have seen the ghost of a smile on her lips.
‘Did you get Gladys’s wedding invitation in the post?’ she asked, shaking her head with fresh disapproval.
‘Yes.’ I grinned. ‘Typical Gladys.’ The navy-blue postcard with a big white knot on the front had simply said on the back:
Getting hitched. Be there or be square. Gladys Wimpole is making an honest man of Alastair Tan. You’re invited to the shindig. Bring your dancing shoes. Ceremony bit first followed by fun bit at Rose Bowl House. Champagne in lieu of presents.
‘I swear she’s getting worse. Talk about short notice.’
‘We’ve had the save-the-date notice for a while.’
‘Hmph. And what sort of wedding invitation is that? “Ceremony bit.” What’s that supposed to mean? I hope she’s not going to have one of these New Age sorts of things. Although why she’s bothering at her age, I don’t know. And why Cornwall?’ Mum’s mouth pinched in disgust. Cornwall was associated with my father. ‘For goodness’ sake, she lives in Twickenham. We’re going to have to travel down the day before and then stay over to travel back the next day. I don’t know why she wants to make all this fuss.’
‘Because she’s happy and wants to share her special day,’ I pointed out gently, leaning my elbows on the small patio table.
‘Hmph,’ said Mum. ‘Well, I’ve found a nice-looking bed and breakfast which is just down the road, because I don’t want to stay at this Rose Bowl House place. Knowing Gladys, it will be too noisy, and what sort of name is that for a house? It sounds most odd. Shall I book it for us?’
‘Actually, Mum,’ I paused, relieved that I had the perfect excuse to bag a room at the house where said shindig was taking place, because I had every intention of dancing until dawn, ‘I’m thinking of taking someone with me.’
‘Who?’
‘A guy called Sam. We’ve been seeing each other. I’m going to ask him to come with me.’
‘You’ve not mentioned him before. How long’s this been going on?’ Affront bristled from the top of her well-groomed head to her perfectly shod feet; even on a Sunday she wore neat little court shoes.
‘Not long,’ I said. ‘I met him at Aunty Lynn’s a while back, at a barbecue. He’s the son of the people next door.’
‘Oh.’ There was a wealth of injury in the single syllable. ‘And