‘Jason will be fine,’ Angela reassured her. ‘And I’m sure the cake’s not ruined. It’s as big as a house, they can’t have eaten that much of it.’
The two little boys in question looked so terrified when they saw Logan’s mother coming over, not to mention sick to their respective stomachs from the combined effects of cake and alcohol, Angela didn’t have the heart to yell at them. Instead, instructing Mrs Worsley to put on a DVD in the playroom and dump all the under-elevens in front of it, she wandered outside into the grounds in search of Brett. Suddenly she wanted to be with him, wanted the two of them to be a couple on this special day, twenty-one years since their first child was born.
Outside, Furlings’ rose garden was heaving with people. Most were having a wonderful time flirting, star-spotting and drinking copious amounts of Brett Cranley’s vintage champagne. A few, however, were less than happy. While Angela Cranley ploughed her way through the crowd in search of her husband, Dylan Pritchard Jones stood rooted to the spot beneath a mulberry tree, listening to Jane Templeton tell a long and unremittingly tedious story about a friend of hers from Oxford who’d attempted a bicycle ride across the Asian Steppe, got lost in Mongolia and written a book about it. Dylan hadn’t noticed it before, but St Jude’s chair of governors was really quite spectacularly ugly. She had blotchy skin, a whiskery chin like a witch’s, and the sort of thick ankles more normally associated with extremely elderly women in support stockings. Jane Templeton wasn’t elderly. Dylan guessed she was in her mid-fifties. But there was a matronly quality about her, from her heavy, pendulous bosoms to her resolutely undyed grey hair that made her look far older.
What made it harder to bear was the fact that there were so many young, beautiful girls here, just waiting to be flirted with. Dylan had already spotted Keira Knightley, a regular in the valley during the summer months, and local model Emma Harwich, who looked spectacular tonight in a backless white dress that clung to her bottom like shrink wrap on a perfectly ripe peach. Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had arrived late and – much to everyone’s surprise after all the hype about her boyfriend – alone. She also looked stunning, much to Dylan’s irritation, in a gunmetal minidress that barely skimmed the top of her thighs and black Alexander McQueen ankle boots. Her long hair was swept up and cleverly pinned so that it looked short. Combined with her dramatic dark eye make-up, the overall look was halfway between punk and rock chick, and spectacularly sexy.
‘So she took it to Simon and Schuster. That was her first port of call,’ Jane Templeton wittered on.
‘Interesting,’ said Dylan, stifling a yawn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maisie, his wife, being chatted up by a good-looking man in an immaculately cut dinner jacket. When the man turned his head, throwing it back to laugh at one of Maisie’s jokes, Dylan saw to his fury that it was Danny Cipriani, the England rugby star and one of Maisie’s long-time crushes.
‘… But she didn’t end up with them. There was a bidding war, you see. Even though the book wasn’t finished. Anyway, you’ll never guess what happened after that.’ Jane Templeton gripped Dylan’s arm with her bony, arthritic fingers.
‘No?’ He forced a smile.
He can’t possibly fancy her, can he? he thought, trying to reassure himself as he sneaked another glance across at Maisie and the rugby star. I’ll bet she’s boring on about the baby. He’s probably just being polite. No sooner had Dylan had this thought than Danny Cipriani rested his hand on the small of Maisie’s back in a distinctly impolite, intimate gesture. The cheek of it!
Dylan longed to make an excuse and go over there, but Jane’s grip on his arm was like a vice.
‘Well, she went to New York …’ Jane went on.
Dylan’s eyes glazed over. Just then Tatiana Flint-Hamilton swept past him. She had a flute of champagne in her hand and an amused glint in her eye. Whatever had happened to the boyfriend, it didn’t seem to be fazing her. ‘Hello, Dylan.’ She waved at him regally.
‘Hello, Ta …’ he began. But Tati had already moved on, sashaying through the throng followed by scores of admiring male eyes, paying Dylan no more attention than a passing fly.
Self-important bitch, thought Dylan, watching her go. When he looked back to where Maisie had been standing with Danny, the two of them had gone.
This was not going to be Dylan Pritchard Jones’s evening.