Perfect Strangers

‘Charlie’s doing okay,’ Francesca smiled.

‘Although I’ve heard that the bonuses have been cut this year,’ added Sarah. ‘Bloody Americans, they had to get greedy and screw it up for the rest of us, didn’t they?’

Sophie didn’t want to get into a discussion about finance or greed at her father’s wake.

‘So where did he propose, Fran?’ she asked, trying to change the subject.

Her friend launched into an expansive description of her ‘super-romantic’ weekend at an exclusive country-house hotel: two days of spa, sex and Michelin-starred dinners. It sounded very much like the weekends Sophie used to spend with Will, all except the six-carat ring at the end of it. Not that she wanted to think about him today, either.

‘When he took me out into the rose garden at midnight,’ continued Francesca, ‘then produced a Cartier box, I couldn’t believe it.’

‘I’m really happy for you,’ said Sophie honestly.

‘Well, obviously you’re all invited,’ said Francesca. ‘We were thinking a winter wedding in the sun.’

‘Where did you have in mind?’ asked Megan.

‘I want the Turks and Caicos. I’m not bothered about a church wedding and I never wanted to wear a big puffy meringue dress.’

‘The Aman resort out there would be just perfect,’ said Sarah.

‘I know, I’ve already made enquiries,’ smiled Francesca.

‘Then I’d better start saving,’ said Sophie, making a quick mental note of how much it was all going to cost her. The hen night – or more likely weekend – was bound to be somewhere splashy, the wedding gift list registered at Harrods or Thomas Goode.

‘Soph, Charlie is paying for all the accommodation, so you’ll only have to find the air fare.’ There was a slight air of superiority mixed in with the familiar pitying tone but Sophie chose to ignore it. Francesca had her faults, but at least she was here, and she appreciated the gesture.

‘And if that’s a problem, I’m sure we can sort something out. Someone must be flying private. I’ll ask around, see if you could cadge a lift . . .’

Sophie raised her hand to stop her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll manage. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

And she meant it. She didn’t care how much it was going to cost her. She didn’t care if Will was going to be there with a new pedigree girlfriend. She didn’t care if she had to go without food for a week, if that was what it took. For one weekend she was going to get her old life back, no matter what it cost her.

It wasn’t until three o’clock that the last of the mourners left. The catering staff bustled about clearing away the half-empty wine glasses and stiffening sandwiches. Sophie found her mother standing alone in the conservatory at the back of the house, staring out into the garden. Julia Ellis had always been what people called a handsome woman; not beautiful, exactly, but striking, with high cheekbones and a long, elegant frame. She had certainly been the one to turn heads at the black tie dinners over the years. But today she looked ten years older, the lines around her mouth seemed more pinched and her eyes were rimmed pink.

She turned around to give her daughter the slightest of smiles.

‘It went as well as could be expected,’ she said coolly.

‘I think so,’ said Sophie reassuringly. ‘People weren’t exactly here to enjoy themselves. But it was a decent turnout.’

Julia snorted. ‘I see the Derricks, the Smyths, even the bloody Fosters stayed away – Annabel Foster has never had a migraine in her life and yet she develops one this morning, I don’t think so.’

Sophie kept silent.

‘Look, this place is a mess,’ said Julia, turning to face the kitchen. She began collecting glasses of warm white wine and taking them to the sink. Growing up, Sophie had never known Julia to lift a finger around Wade House, their eight-bedroom Arts and Crafts house in one of the most fragrant parts of Surrey. But since the army of home help had disappeared, she had grudgingly taken on the role of housewife. Not that her efforts had stopped the house from falling into slow disrepair. Without the cleaners, the decorators, the interior designers and landscape gardeners, Wade House was wilting. Damp patches had appeared in dark corners, once white walls looked smeared and grey. The lawns were limp and untidy, while the pond, once a clear sheet of turquoise water, was covered in a thick crust of moss. It was a high-maintenance house that needed money to be spent on it – and money was one thing they didn’t have.

Yet Julia had refused to sell it. Even when the golf club memberships had to be sacrificed, the weekly shop switched from Waitrose to the closest branch of Lidl. Sophie knew that by holding on to the house, Julia Ellis was holding on to the past, but the time had come to let go.

‘Mum, don’t you think we should talk about what we’re going to do now?’ she asked as she helped to clear up.

Julia didn’t appear to hear her, thrusting the glasses into the soapy water, oblivious to the white suds that were spilling up the front of her good black dress.

‘I hear Francesca is getting married,’ she said. ‘To a friend of Will’s, I believe.’

‘Charlie Watson. They met at Will’s birthday party last year.’

‘I’d thought Will might have come along today,’ said Julia casually.