the only one not standing up and buzzing animatedly. She glanced impatiently at her oversized man’s watch.
‘Come on, what are we waiting for? Let’s get cracking,’ she said, perched as she was in the circle of chairs Angie had set out at the far end of the room, by the fire.
‘Oh, I think we’ll give them a few more minutes, don’t you? It’s only just seven-thirty.’ Angie patted her hair, her gaze roving out of the window which gave onto the gravel drive.
‘Why? They can just join in when they arrive, surely?’
‘Except that might look a bit rude, Peggy. Seeing as it’s their first night.’
Peggy snorted and muttered something about the people in this village not getting out enough if they were sent into a frenzy by having a couple of Americans amongst them, when suddenly, headlights illuminated the room from without.
‘They’re here!’ squeaked Angie. Jennie leaped to rearrange her asparagus rolls. ‘And d’you know, I think Peggy’s right. Maybe we would look a bit more serious and literary if we were all sitting with our books? What d’you think?’
There was a general consensual murmur at this and everyone dived for a seat as if the music had stopped in a game of musical chairs. Peggy rolled her eyes. By the time Chad and Hope pushed through the front door, which Angie had left conveniently ajar, we were all sitting in a circle, a bit pink and overexcited but, hopefully, with intelligent looks on our faces. Our books were open, although unfortunately on different pages. Angie’s was upside down.
Chad was as handsome as I remembered: tall, slightly burly, square-jawed and wearing chinos and a shirt, no jacket. Hope, beautiful, tiny and dark, was effortlessly casual in a grey cashmere jumper, sweat pants and pumps, instantly throwing into suburban relief our ties and high heels.
‘Hope! Chad!’ Angie got to her feet with a bit of a swoon, manufacturing the impression she’d just come out of a literary trance, so engrossed had she been in the narrative. ‘How lovely to see you. Now I know you’ve met Jennie and Poppy before, but this is Angus, Peggy, Sue – I won’t do surnames,’ she fluttered with a tinkly laugh. Everyone stood up: some in a rush so their books fell on the floor; some with a bit more ease, like Luke; and some, like Passion-fuelled Pete, even giving a little bow as he shook Chad’s hand.
Chad, looking even more Adonis-like close up, displayed impeccable manners and some perfectly straight white teeth as he smiled. He smiled a lot and intoned ‘Chad Armitage’ every time he was introduced, making his way around the circle and looking right into everyone’s eyes. He was followed by Hope, whose tiny little hand as she extended it seemed as fragile as a bird’s wing. She really was awfully pretty, I thought, as I drank in more perfect teeth and silky hair. We all beamed as she greeted everyone warmly. Only Peggy’s smile was more amused, and she declined to stand, politely offering her hand and muttering to me that at her age she only stood for royalty and the over-seventies. Certainly not for a man. What did Angie think she was doing?
Angie, who’d once met Camilla Parker-Bowles and never quite got over it, was indeed becoming more and more lady-in-waiting-like as she proffered the two remaining chairs. Then she decided they were too ropey for the Armitages and made Luke and Jennie swap, in order to give Chad and Hope more acceptable ones.
‘So!’ said Chad, rubbing his hands and looking huge on the chair Angie had finally deemed suitable, a tiny gilt rococo number she’d bought at Sotheby’s. His voice was thrillingly transatlantic. ‘What are you guys reading, then? Hope and I are so excited about this, incidentally. We did a lot of reading groups back home and got so much out of it.’
Angie cleared her throat. ‘Well, this week we’re all reading The Ghost by Robert Harris. It’s not a frightfully intellectual book,’ she hurried on, ‘and of course we will read something more challenging later on, but it’s a rattling good read with a terrific plot. A good starter book, we thought.’
‘Oh, OK, good idea,’ Chad agreed. He took the book from Pete beside him, who offered it. ‘Hey, I like the sound of this,’ he said, reading the blurb on the back. ‘Makes a change from Philip Roth, doesn’t it, Honey?’
This, to Hope, who, if she was surprised by the popular nature of the novel,