‘little monkey’. I didn’t remember this but Dad had told me once and I’d held on to the phrase ever since, an oral talisman that reminded me of her.
‘How is it?’ I asked again. ‘How are the soybean magnates?’
‘Oh fine, fine,’ he replied. It was always his answer. There could have been another war brewing in the Falklands and he would have shrugged it off. It was an unflappable calm which explained both why he’d been successful in diplomacy and his marriage to Patricia worked.
‘But forget about me,’ Dad went on. ‘Look at all this!’ He waved at my banner. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘All right. Got a few hundred names, I reckon. Will you sign?’
‘Try and stop me,’ he said, picking up a pen.
As Dad leant over the table, I heard Patricia’s voice floating towards us. Not the words, just the shrill tone. I watched her approach, flanked by Mia and Ruby. Hugo was lagging at the back, phone clutched to his ear.
‘Morning, darling,’ said Patricia, proffering her cheek.
‘Morning, did you find a hat?’
Patricia made a noise of disgust. ‘No, they were all hopeless.’
‘I took some photos though, look,’ said Ruby, grinning. She pulled out her phone. They were ludicrous: Patricia with what looked like a turquoise bath puff attached to her head; Patricia wearing a pink boomerang; Patricia in a red beret.
‘No sniggering please, girls.’
‘Oh, Pat, come on, we’re only joking,’ Ruby replied, slipping her phone into her pocket.
Before Patricia could complain about the nickname I turned back to the table and introduced them all to Jaz, then told everyone to add their signatures to the petition.
‘But what exactly am I signing for?’ demanded Hugo. ‘I don’t like signing things I’m not fully informed about.’
Mia tutted. ‘Sweetheart, it’s to save the shop, and Flo’s job. It’s not a pyramid scheme.’ She held out a pen which Hugo looked at suspiciously before leaning over the sheet and adding his name.
‘Is Zach here?’ asked Ruby, peering through the shop window.
‘He’s probably downstairs.’
‘Who?’ asked Dad.
‘My colleague Zach.’
‘I’m with you, Rubes, he’s a honey,’ said Jaz, winking at her.
‘Where does he come from? And who are his parents?’ demanded Patricia, who was mourning the departure of Jasper from Ruby’s life and, with it, the idea of her daughter becoming a duchess who lived in a castle.
‘He’s Norris’s nephew. A photographer.’
Patricia’s lip curled. A photographer didn’t sound at all like someone who might own a castle.
‘He’s hot and he rides a motorbike, and he teases Flo, which is very good for her,’ said Ruby, grinning. Then she turned from her mother to me. ‘I saw Rory in the kitchen this morning, had a cup of tea with him. He said you two were up very late last night.’
‘Can we not talk about last night,’ I said, at a flashback of the bronzer brush. This absolutely was not a topic I wanted to discuss in front of Dad and Patricia.
Jaz cackled.
‘I don’t want to know,’ said Dad. ‘I might just go into the shop and have a browse.’
‘Me too,’ said Ruby, hurrying in after him.
The others hovered in front of the table and Hugo’s face flinched as if in pain.
‘You all right?’ I asked.
‘Worried about time,’ he muttered, glancing at his wrist. ‘Mia, we really should be going if we’re going to get to Claridge’s.’
‘But where’s this boyfriend of yours, Florence?’ interjected my stepmother. ‘I thought he was going to be here? Your father and I are longing to meet him.’
Right on cue, Rory’s face appeared behind them.
‘Hello, hello,’ he boomed, so everyone spun to face him. He was wearing a beige overcoat, Raybans and a pair of leather gloves. ‘How’s my little campaigner?’ he asked, leaning over the table and kissing the top of my head.
‘Bit tired,’ I said, ‘but Rory, meet my friend Jaz and my stepmum Patricia.’
Patricia beamed so widely her eyes formed little slits. ‘Rory, hello, I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to meet you. We were starting to worry because poor Florence here has never had a bo—’
‘BOLOGNAISE!’ I shouted. I couldn’t think of anything else. I’d panicked and belted out the first word that came to mind.
‘Are you feeling all right, darling?’ asked Patricia.
‘Mmm, fine, I was just thinking about my lunch. And I’ve never had a proper bolognaise before. Some people make it with cream and others say you should never put mushrooms in it. What do you all think?’ I was gabbling, as if speaking faster would alleviate the social tension I felt. This gathering