They never spoke of it again but the gears of their marriage seemed to turn with more friction now; small irritations Melissa had previously overlooked grated more than ever.
Mark suggested a meal out one evening – ‘to talk’. They went to the new restaurant that had opened down the road, which had just appeared in the Observer magazine. It was as they stepped towards the white canopy of The Bay, between miniature bay trees in square metal pots, that a photograph was snapped – or stolen – as Melissa thought of it. She hadn’t even noticed a flash.
But a week later, a friend of Saskia’s had spotted the Society pages piece in Hello! magazine. Melissa, smiling, in her black sheath dress and heels, making an effort, and ‘Handsome Baby Doc Mark’, solicitously touching the small of his wife’s back as they entered, ‘the exciting new eatery that has opened close to the glamorous couple’s Dartmouth Park home.’
Saskia had been surprised by Melissa’s muted reaction to the piece, and then sympathetic about the sudden onset of food poisoning that sent Melissa rushing to the downstairs toilet, where she vomited and shook so hard that she could feel her teeth rattling in her skull.
It was just one picture. It meant nothing.
That’s what she told herself in the coming weeks, and she almost began to believe it.
But lately Melissa can’t seem to shake the feeling that her whole world is simply a snow globe that could tip over and shatter into a million lethal pieces with the slightest push of a fingertip.
Glancing out of the window on the landing now, Melissa sees that the sky seems to be slung low, like a heavy white blanket. The light has a sickly, oppressive edge to it and the house feels full of shadows. Maybe this headache is a warning that a thunderstorm is coming. It feels as though even the weather is out to sabotage the day.
Giving herself a mental shake, Melissa walks into the kitchen and feels marginally better at the industry there. The caterers have been busy all morning and the fridge is heaving with platters and dishes of colourful, tastefully arranged food, but every surface is clean and shining, ready for the guests to arrive a little later.
Ocado have been and gone; the flowers have been delivered – a tall arrangement of lilies that perfectly offsets the newly hung green and gold wallpaper. Really, everything is looking perfect.
Melissa sweeps her hair back from her shoulders, taking care not to ruin its smooth line. Now she only has to slip into the dress and sandals she bought for today and then it won’t be long until the first guests arrive.
Finally, she allows herself to feel a ripple of pleasurable anticipation. The house looks great, she looks great, and it will be the kind of day that makes all her hard work worthwhile.
Today is about her, Melissa.
And Tilly. Of course.
The doorbell chimes and Melissa walks down the hallway to open the door, wondering if there are any deliveries she has forgotten about.
‘Ah,’ she sighs. ‘Hello.’
Hester – stiff helmet hair, horrible pink blouse, and brown slacks – smiles shyly up at her. She’s a small, scurrying sort of a woman who reminds Melissa of a squirrel.
Melissa hates squirrels.
The sight of Hester now causes a claustrophobic sensation of disappointment to crowd in, as if she is literally stealing her air. It takes her brain a second or two to see that the other woman appears to be holding a tray of scones, of all things.
‘What can I do for you?’ she says, eyeing them suspiciously, her smile tight but bright.
Something shifts in Hester’s expression and she lowers the tray a little before her prim lips twitch.
‘It’s good to see you, Melissa,’ she says. ‘Well, I can see you’re having a function of some kind and I know you must be very busy. I was at a loose end today and I’ve been doing some baking. I made rather too many scones. I wondered if you might find a use for them?’
Irritation spikes in Melissa’s chest.
Function?
It’s such a blatant lie that she had accidentally ‘made too many scones’. There seem to be a thousand of the bloody things on that tray.
Scones are definitely not going to sit alongside polenta with figs, red onion and goat’s cheese, or the balsamic-glazed pecans with rosemary and sea salt.
‘It’s okay, thank you, Hester,’ says Melissa, smiling warmly to stifle the strange urge to scream. ‘I’m quite covered for food. I have caterers, you see.’
The polite refusal seems to pierce the other woman. Her face slackens around the jaw and her shoulders sag. She’s always been passive-aggressive, Melissa thinks. It’s why she has tried to keep her distance in recent times.
Melissa takes a deep, steadying breath. Did people have to be so oversensitive? She knows what she’s going to have to say. Mark thinks it’s funny to call her the Ice Queen, but she doesn’t actually want to go around actively upsetting people. She comforts herself with the thought that Hester will probably be too intimidated to accept the invitation. It isn’t really her sort of party, after all; her with her scones and her 1970s ‘do’.
‘But I’m very grateful for the offer, Hester,’ she continues. ‘And, um …’ The words gather, oversized and chewy, in her mouth. ‘Would you like to drop by at some point later? It’s nothing fancy,’ she adds in a hurry, ‘just a small gathering. I’m sure you’ve got better things to …’
‘I’d love to!’ Hester’s response rings out, a little too shrill, before Melissa has even finished her sentence. Her face and neck flush and blotch with pleasure.
Melissa regards her wearily. ‘Marvellous,’ she says, forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile. ‘Any time from five then. I’ve still got rather a lot to do, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t chat. See you later.’ She closes the door before Hester has time to make any more demands.
Bloody Hester.
At least she’d been forced to take her fucking scones back with her.
HESTER
Although Melissa said any time after five, I didn’t want to appear too keen so I have waited until almost twenty past to go round. I lift the heavy doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head. With its tarnished gold snout and blank eyes, it seems to assess me unfavourably as I rap once, and then again with more confidence than I am feeling.
My heart is beating a little too fast and my armpits prickle uncomfortably in the flowered dress that was chosen after much painful wardrobe deliberation. It was dispiriting to note that everything I own, although clean and pressed, is a little worn and soft to the touch from wear. This is the best I could do. They will have to take me as they find me.
Strains of music and loud male laughter seep from the house but no one answers. Just for a second, I get the wildest, oddest, sensation that they aren’t going to let me in. I will stand here, ignored, until I am forced to take my bottle of Blossom Hill Merlot home. I don’t even like wine, and this cost more than five pounds.
But a vague flash of colour through the stippled glass of the door sort of coagulates into a shape and the door opens.
Tilly blinks, then frowns. Finally, she smiles.
‘Hester? What are you doing here?’
I swallow and smile brightly, hoping she won’t be able to see how much her surprise has stung me. Has she forgotten how close we were, too?
‘I’m coming to the party, of course,’ I say, tilting my chin. ‘Your mother invited me this afternoon.’
Her cheeks flush as she remembers her manners. She’s all smiles now, beckoning me inside.
‘Go on through and get yourself a drink,’ she says. ‘Ma’s out there holding court, I expect.’ She turns to the stairs and her legs scissor away and above me at speed. She is wearing a pair of short dungarees over black tights, which hardly seem like party clothes to me.