‘I’m not going to make a scene.’
Brett squeezed her hand. The last thing he wanted was to upset Angela now. Last week the purchase had gone through on their house in the Hamptons, a stunning nine-bedroom beachfront estate with gardens to rival Furlings’. Brett had anticipated a long, protracted battle to get Angela to even entertain the idea of moving to the States, but to his astonishment she’d already agreed to consider a trial period of a year. They could rent Furlings out and ‘see how things go.’ It was more than Brett had dared hope for. Now was not the time to rock the boat.
He pulled a Cuban cigar out of his jacket pocket.
‘If you want me I’ll be outside by the river, having a smoke.’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela, visibly relieved. ‘I know this is hard for you, darling, but it’s only for one night. I know it would mean a lot to Logan too if we can keep things civil.’
Brett nodded. ‘Just see if you can shuffle the name cards around while I’m gone, so I’m not right next to them. All right?’
‘All right,’ agreed Angela. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ Jason asked Tati. ‘A glass of water?’
She shook her head miserably. ‘Go and talk to your family. I’ll find a quiet corner and die somewhere. I’m not fit to be seen anyway.’
‘What are you talking about? You look lovely,’ Jason lied loyally.
‘I look horrendous,’ said Tati.
It was true. The nausea had come out of nowhere. From the moment she woke up this morning she’d felt like death, not just sick but puffy and bloated, her skin sallow and sweaty. The dark green, brushed silk dress that had looked so cute and eighties retro in the changing room in New York, now made her look like a tree-frog that had somehow ingested its own poison. Her hair stuck limply to her head beneath a wilting green-feathered fascinator, and her swollen feet felt like pigs’ trotters squeezed into black patent Manolo pumps.
Of course she had to get stomach flu on the one day she was certain to run into Brett, not to mention all her old friends and colleagues. She’d felt judged enough at Christmas, but the pitying looks she was receiving now were almost worse than the envious glares she’d got then. Look at Tatiana Cranley, she imagined them all thinking. Talk about losing her looks!
Having missed the entire wedding ceremony doubled over on the verge of the A3 puking her guts out, Tati had insisted on soldiering on to the reception, despite Jason’s objections. If she didn’t show up, Brett would think she was running scared, and she couldn’t have that. Now though, dizzy and seasick and wilting in the afternoon sun, she was already starting to regret her decision.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you something?’ Jason sounded worried. ‘Max is bound to have some Alka-Seltzer in a bathroom cupboard somewhere.’
His concern only made Tati feel worse. Ever since she’d got back from New York, Jason had been kindness personified, cooking her meals and listening for hours while she poured out her frustrations about her board, who still hadn’t signed off on the Manhattan site and were using any excuse to stall the deal. In return, Tati had tried to be affectionate, and had even attempted to kick-start things sexually between them, with disastrous results. Their lovemaking was so awkward and forced it was mortifying, like a scene from a bad Carry On film. At least Tati’s sudden mystery illness would buy her a few days off sex, she thought guiltily. I must try harder.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she told Jason. ‘I might go and lie down for a bit, see if I can rally for dinner.’
Dinner was a living hell.
Tati forced herself to sit down and eat, but by now she had spots in front of her eyes and felt borderline delirious. Brett and Angela, thankfully, were on the opposite side of the table, far enough away to make conversation impossible. The downside was that this left Tati between Tom, Logan’s adorable but by now completely drunk boyfriend, and Dylan Pritchard Jones, her old enemy from St Hilda’s.
‘Hullo, Tatiana.’ Dylan smiled smugly. ‘It must be ages since we last saw each other. Do you know, if I hadn’t read your place card, I don’t know if I’d have recognized you.’
Clearly this was code for ‘you look like shit.’
Arsehole.
Tati decided to take the high road.
‘Hullo Dylan. How are things going at St Jude’s?’