‘No,’ said Laura.
‘Sure,’ said Gabe simultaneously, earning himself a reproachful look from his wife and an adoring one from Logan.
‘She’s eleven!’ Laura protested.
‘Nearly twelve,’ Logan corrected.
‘It’s only a sip,’ said Gabe. He handed Logan his glass. Laura could have sworn the girl’s hands were shaking as she tasted the forbidden bubbles. Or perhaps it wasn’t the champagne that was exciting her?
‘Thanks,’ Logan handed the glass back. ‘I’ll see you both later.’
‘You encourage her,’ said Laura to Gabe, once she’d gone. ‘You do know that, right?’
Gabe nuzzled into his wife’s neck. Sex earlier had been amazing, and a much-needed stress reliever. They were fighting too much. Gabe hated it. He shuddered to think where he’d be without Laura. ‘Why don’t you encourage me?’ he whispered, sliding a hand down over Laura’s taffeta-clad bottom. ‘Just a little bit.’
‘Get off!’ she slapped him away.
‘Come on,’ teased Gabe. ‘You know you want to.’
And of course Laura did.
On the verandah, where the cake was being dissected into slices and handed out, Jason Cranley pulled his mother aside.
‘I’ve hardly spoken to you all evening,’ he said, leaning back against the wall and feeling the cool bricks through the cotton of his dress shirt. He’d been dancing, very unusually for him, with Annalise and some other girls, and had discarded his DJ and bow tie somewhere in the vicinity of the dance floor. His blond hair was spiked upwards with sweat and his cheeks were flushed. Angela remembered this look from his boyhood, running to the car after soccer matches or cross-country runs, invariably the loser, but always cheerful in those days, before his teens and the depression that had blighted all their lives. She felt a pang of love for him so sudden and deep that it made her clutch her chest.
‘I can’t believe you’re twenty-one,’ she sighed. ‘A grown man.’
‘You’re not going to blub again, are you?’ teased Jason.
‘No,’ said Angela, brushing away tears.
‘Listen Mum,’ said Jason, suddenly serious. ‘I want you to know I love you. And I’m really, really grateful for tonight. It’s been amazing.’
‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ said Angela, slightly nervously. There was something about his solemn tone that she found jarring.
‘I love you,’ Jason said again, this time hugging her tightly.
Angela frowned. ‘Is everything all right, Jase?’
‘Of course,’ he laughed, releasing her.
‘You’re quite sure? You’d tell me if something was the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter, Mother,’ he assured her. Gringo, the family basset hound, picked the perfect moment to wander over, tail wagging, with the remnants of a priceless silk cushion wedged between his teeth. Seeing his mother about to explode, Jason grabbed the dog by its collar. ‘I’ll deal with this,’ he said. ‘You’d better go and rescue Dad.’
‘What do you mean, rescue him?’
Jason pointed outside, to where Brett was standing by the bar, surrounded by a gaggle of local mothers from the church committee, no doubt hitting him up for a new roof. ‘Come on, Gringo. Let’s find you something to eat that’s made of food, fella.’
Angela watched as Jason disappeared inside, with Gringo trotting merrily at his heels.
Banishing her worries, she headed back outside.
The party rumbled on into the night. At around midnight, Gabe Baxter began looking around for Laura, wondering if they ought to make a move. He realized guiltily that he hadn’t seen his wife for almost an hour, and hoped she was OK. She’d commented earlier that one of the few advantages of finding you were not pregnant, yet again, was that you could drink as much as you liked at parties. Gabe suspected that Brett Cranley’s assertion that it was impossible to get a hangover on really good vintage wine was going to be put to the test tomorrow morning at Wraggsbottom Farm.
He collared Max Bingley. ‘Have you seen my Laura recently? I can’t find her.’
‘She was on her way up to the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago,’ said Max. ‘She looked a bit green round the gills to be honest,’ he added. ‘I daresay she was after some Alka-Seltzer.’
Gabe weaved his way upstairs and along a winding corridor that led to a series of bedrooms. He’d been to numerous Furlings’ parties over the years, but unfortunately he’d been drunk at all of them, so had no idea which door might lead to a bathroom.
‘Laura? Are you up here?’
Opening the first door on his right, he was greeted by an ear-piercing scream. Emma Harwich, stark naked and sprawled out on a four-poster bed, was going at it hammer and tongs with an older, blond man whom Gabe vaguely recognized.
Wasn’t he one of Brett Cranley’s business partners? And didn’t he have a wife downstairs?