the subs bench. Work complete, I risk a tentative enquiry.
‘So do you think you’ll be back on side soonish?’
‘Oh, undoubtedly,’ she says. ‘These stupid doctors insist I need longer to rest, but they’re professional neurotics.’
‘How did the tests go?’ asks Gareth. ‘Have they found anything to give them cause for concern?’
‘It’s inconclusive,’ says Zelda dismissively, standing up. ‘Now surely the troops need sustenance?’
She turns her back on us, shoving a selection of M&S packets into the Aga. This is so un-Zelda – she’s the culinary queen – but there’s nothing I can say which won’t sound ungracious. She turns back, looking at me searchingly.
‘How’s the heart, Lulu? I do hope you’re not still pining for that idiot boy.’
‘I’m not, I promise,’ I tell her, which is true. Instead I’m pining for someone most likely married. Doh! If Gareth wasn’t here, I might tell her the whole sorry tale; despite her flinty moments, Zelda is someone who cares deeply about those she loves. But the work aspect means that I cannot afford to give it any oxygen whatsoever. ‘My heart’s a barren wasteland,’ I tell her, ‘but maybe our Valentine’s party will change everything.’
I tell them all about it, explaining that its partial purpose is getting Gareth to scrutinize Rufus.
‘Do you really think he’s gay?’ asks Gareth. ‘Why wouldn’t he share? Is your dad some kind of prejudiced Victorian patriarch?’
I wonder how Dad would react if Rufus was gay. Or if I was gay. Or if Alice was into bestiality. He’s so remote that it’s difficult to tell. When Mum died, he became more distant than ever, handing us over to the care of a series of au pairs. We pretty much looked after ourselves, with Alice taking command of whichever mousy Swede was nominally in charge. Dad was always at university, jiggling test tubes or firing up Bunsen burners or whatever it is that chemistry professors do. After a respectable two years he introduced us to our stepmother-to-be, the youngish sister of one of his colleagues. Julia’s perfectly nice, but she’s no Mum, and nor did she ever try to be. Me and Alice were such a unit by the time she pitched up – insolent pre-teens with too much to prove – and she never attempted to go head to head. Instead she popped out Rufus and our higgledy-piggledy family limped on like two separate battalions in a single barracks. It was only once we hit our twenties and got over ourselves that we were won over by Rufus’s toothy charm. Dad’s taken a fellowship in Boston so we’re allowed to enjoy Rufus without having to take him or Julia into account. He’s coming home for a conference soon, a prospect I feel stupidly nervous about.
‘Dunno,’ I say. ‘What might the clues be?’
‘Oh, don’t be so facetious,’ snarls Gareth, who’s drearily defensive about gender politics. ‘Do you think gays all worship at the temple of Dolly Parton and have their balls waxed weekly?’
‘Oh, yuck, I’m imagining Elton John’s undercarriage now. And no, I totally don’t think that.’
‘Does he like rugby?’ says Gareth, softening.
‘I think so. Don’t all men like rugby? It’s one of the many reasons I don’t understand them.’
‘Hmm, you need to see where his priorities lie – with the score or the players. My floor-to-ceiling posters of Will Carling were the only thing which got me through the ignominy of boarding school.’
As Rufus would most definitely smell a rat if Alice and I suddenly developed a passion for rugby, I tell him we’ll have to stick with Plan A. Mind you, it’s pretty much impossible to engage with anything beyond week one of filming right now. Every time I think about Monday, my whole body clenches up with terror. As I hug Zelda goodbye I fake a confidence that I just don’t feel, determined not to give her anything else to worry about beyond her own recovery. I can get through this – can’t I?
Chapter Five
Come Monday morning, the incessant screech of my alarm clock kicks in at five a.m. I slam it off, acutely conscious of Alice’s two hours’ grace, and reluctantly drag my weary body from the cosy embrace of the duvet. I catatonically brush my teeth, looking through the window at the inky darkness and wondering what on earth possessed owls to plump for nocturnal. Why would anyone want to be awake in this?
There’s something fun about having the road to yourself, even if it’s hard to feel like Lewis Hamilton in a Peugeot