that, the morning ran away with itself. A huge saucepan of chilli was bubbling on the hob, salads were in the fridge, dressings mixed, glasses and silver sparkling. Etta had put on a frilly pale pink shirt and pink-striped trousers from the Blue Cross shop and just made up one eye, when she heard imperious tooting. Looking out she was horrified to see Martin, Romy, the children and the bloody Range Rover at the gate. So she rushed out to open it and Martin drove right in within an inch of the trestle tables.
‘You’re going to have to move those against the wall, Mother.’
‘But there won’t be enough room for people to sit. Can’t you park outside?’
‘And block all your guests? We knew you wouldn’t cope on your own, Mother, so we’ve specially cut short our weekend to support you,’ said Martin.
‘New outfit,’ said Romy accusingly, ‘we are splashing out.’
‘Granny looks cool,’ drawled Trixie, wandering out in the briefest of T-shirts. ‘What can I do?’
‘Get dressed, young lady,’ said Martin, ‘and clear up your mess in Mother’s living room and put back those cushions.’
‘Helloo!’ It was Painswick bearing a couple of quiches and two bottles of Chablis, and a huge bunch of carrots like an orange porcupine for Mrs Wilkinson, who practically broke the gate down.
Next moment, Priceless emerged from Etta’s bed with the munchies, gobbled up Gwenny’s breakfast, eyed Painswick’s quiches, then trotted purposefully out into the garden with one cushion that Trixie had just put back on the sofa after another.
Next to arrive were Joey and Woody, clutching six-packs. Sizing up the crises, they started opening bottles.
‘Now we’ve got some chaps,’ said Martin and was soon bossing them around to move the tables against the garden wall.
Etta’s right eye never did get made up. Glancing out of the kitchen window, she was so enchanted to see Valent’s red and grey helicopter landing on the helipad, and Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm leaving their admirers beside the fence and rushing whickering and bleating up the hill to welcome him, that she absent-mindedly added a huge pinch of chilli powder.
‘Nothing much wrong with that horse,’ said the Major, who’d just arrived with Debbie.
Romy, not believing her mother-in-law was an adventurous enough cook, surreptitiously added another hefty pinch of chilli as Etta ran out of the house to greet Valent. As he walked down to the little orchard gate next to the mature conifer hedge, Wilkie and Chisolm trotted after him.
He was very suntanned and, although he looked more tired and thinner, he seemed much happier. He was wearing a pale blue shirt tucked into jeans and he bent and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Wilkie’s sound.’ He scratched Mrs Wilkinson’s neck as she frisked his pockets. ‘You wrought another miracle.’
Then he looked round at the crowds piling into what was left of Etta’s tiny garden after the aggressive parking of Martin’s car and, unlocking the gate, invited everyone to spread out into the orchard, where the apples were reddening or turning gold.
‘Yuck, there’s poo in the field,’ said Drummond loudly.
‘Takes one to know one, you little shit,’ murmured Joey.
‘Mrs Wilkinson is the guest of honour,’ said Valent. ‘She needs to mingle with her friends.’
Chisolm was already showing off, clambering up trees from which she’d stripped the bark in search of pears to drop down on guests.
Hoping Dora and Trixie would soon turn up to push bottles round, Etta charged about seeing people at least had a first drink. Valent, grabbing a can of beer, had headed straight for the Throstledown stable lads, singling out Rafiq.
‘Well done, lad, you certainly sorted out Furious. When’s he running again?’
‘Marius hasn’t said, he prefers soft going.’
‘Well, he must put you up again, bluddy good.’
Valent then said he’d been spending a lot of time in Pakistan, and asked where Rafiq’s family lived.
Valent’s really, really taking trouble, thought Tommy gratefully, exactly what Rafiq needs.
Carrie and Alan, who’d spent much of the night rowing over Trixie, were the next to arrive.
‘Mother, you’ve been at the bottle,’ accused Carrie, examining Etta’s gold hair.
‘And you look gorgeous,’ said Alan.
‘Not sure at your age,’ persisted Carrie.
‘And your hair looks as though you’ve been pulled through a hedge fund backwards,’ Trixie told her mother, as she finally emerged from Etta’s bedroom, ravishing in the shortest of strapless blue and white flower-printed dresses, reeking of her 24 Faubourg.
A wolf whistle greeted her. Turning, she saw Seth in the doorway, ostentatiously staggering in under a crate of red.
‘That’s far too much,’ gasped Etta. ‘You are