‘I’ve heard such a lot about you,’ Angela said kindly as they shook hands. ‘We’re so glad you could make it.’
In a floor-length Calvin Klein shift dress in slate grey, low cut at the back, and no jewellery other than a plain diamond cross necklace, Angela looked stunning, as pared down and chic as Stella was colourful and eccentric. Max saw Angela regularly at school and in the village, once a week at least, but rarely remembered her looking quite as radiant as she did tonight. Indeed, the last time she’d seemed so completely happy was in the garden of The George Inn at Alfriston. They had never spoken about that day since, or about Angela’s mystery Frenchman. True to his word, Max had told nobody, not even Stella, about running into her. In some unspoken way, he felt that his chance encounter with Angela Cranley that afternoon had deepened their friendship. It was a moment he wanted to keep for himself – rare and, in its own way, quite perfect.
Angela certainly appeared genuinely pleased to see him here tonight. As for Max, he was always happy to see Angela. She was one of those women, like Stella, who could light up a room simply by walking into it.
‘Your house is breathtaking,’ Stella was saying.
‘Thanks. It might be more breathtaking if Gringo hadn’t chewed up half the upholstery,’ Angela joked. ‘You don’t want to buy a very poorly trained basset hound, do you?’
‘Not really,’ laughed Stella. ‘Max said your son still lives at home. I must say, now that I’ve seen the place, I don’t blame him. He’s a lucky young man.’
‘In some ways he is,’ Angela agreed. ‘He hasn’t always felt lucky. But I think – I hope – he does tonight.’
‘When I was twenty-one, my dad took me to the pictures and bought me a gin and tonic in the pub and my mum baked rock cakes with little silver keys on top made from sugar,’ said Stella. ‘I thought that was the height of sophistication.’
Angela smiled. She’s nice, she thought. Funny and genuine. No wonder Max looks so happy. She felt a tiny, unworthy stab of envy, but stifled it. After all, she was happy too, wasn’t she?
Brett had got home yesterday morning from New York and was clearly making a real effort to shake off his bad mood and get back into her good books. Business had gone well out there evidently. He’d arrived home from the airport with an enormous duty-free gift bag for Angela, as well as a hand-tied bouquet of flowers that he’d actually stopped off to buy from the flower shop on Brockhurst High Street. Logan had launched herself into his arms the moment he got through the door, claiming her father for herself as she always did. But Brett had made a point of putting her down and coming over to kiss his wife.
‘I missed you, Ange,’ he whispered in her ear, reaching down and grabbing her hand tightly for emphasis.
She’d felt happy. Relieved. ‘I missed you too,’ she told him. She looked around the room now for Brett, hoping to introduce him to Stella, but he’d disappeared off somewhere.
Angela made small talk for a few more minutes, mostly about Stella’s work as a ceramicist and how she was finding life in the village. Then Max Bingley and Stella Goye drifted away, and another couple came up to talk to Angela; then another; then some business friends of Brett’s … Before Angela knew it, it was ten o’clock. She hadn’t seen Brett in hours and, other than catching a half-glimpse of him walking onto the dance floor with Logan, hadn’t laid eyes on her son at all.
It was a relief when Mrs Worsley, tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Could I have a word, Mrs Cranley? It’s about the cake.’
‘Oh God,’ sighed Angela. ‘What’s that bloody dog done now?’
But for once, Gringo wasn’t the guilty party. In a fit of exuberance, brought on in part by running around the tables drinking the dregs of the adults’ cocktails, two little boys from Logan’s class had apparently decided they couldn’t wait for candles and speeches and had attacked Jason’s beautiful piano cake with their bare hands. Dylan Pritchard Jones, eager to impress Jane Templeton, his putative future boss, had apprehended the culprits and, disregarding their protests of innocence (‘You’ve got half a ton of chocolate cream icing round your mouth, William!’), dragged them to Mrs Worsley for punishment.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the housekeeper was saying over and over, wringing her hands despairingly. ‘If only I’d seen them. Sixteen hundred pounds’ worth of chocolate cake, ruined! Poor Jason.’