‘Ahem, ahem!’ said Enigma meaningfully. ‘Are we having an Alzheimer’s moment, Rose, dear?’
Sophie didn’t know what they were talking about but gave a surprised giggle and Enigma chortled with her, looking proud. ‘I heard that on a television programme. “Alzheimer’s moment.” It’s funny, isn’t it? I say it all the time to my friends. Some of them get quite annoyed with me. Of course, I can be senile myself–I do forget things sometimes.’
Sophie said, ‘I’m always forgetting where I’ve left the car, or dialling a number and then forgetting who I’m phoning.’
Unfortunately Veronika happened to walk out of the church at exactly the moment Sophie and Enigma were laughing. Her face contorted.
‘Oh, pet, don’t pull faces like that!’ said Enigma. ‘The wind might change!’
‘Grandma Enigma!’ Veronika looked enraged and as if she might burst into tears.
‘Veronika,’ began Sophie, not knowing what she was going to say but feeling bad for her, because there had been some schoolgirl spite in Enigma’s remark.
‘Don’t you talk to me!’ hissed Veronika. All around them ears quivered as guests sensed interesting funeral conflict.
‘That’s enough now, Veronika,’ said Enigma sharply, looking as if she wanted to give Veronika a smack.
‘I’ve really got to go,’ said Sophie desperately. ‘Thank you so much for having me. I had a lovely time. OK. I really must go!’
She practically sprinted from the church, inwardly hollering, OH, YOU HAD A LOVELY TIME, DID YOU? AT A FUNERAL?
It must have been stress that had caused her to recite the words her mother used to make her practise in the car before she went to a birthday party. ‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Blake.’ Smile. Don’t hang your head. Look Mrs Blake in the eyes. ‘I had a lovely time.’
A lovely time? Her toes were blushing.
She had nearly escaped to the freedom of the street when she heard footsteps behind her and felt a touch on her arm. It was Grace. Oh, the mortification of feeling attracted to a man who slept every night with a woman who looked like that. Translucent, flawless skin. Clear green eyes. Heartbreakingly full lips. They were a different species. If Grace was a gazelle, Sophie was a ground mole.
‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Thomas and Veronika’s cousin. Callum said you shared a cab today. I just wondered if you’d like to come for lunch next Saturday?’
‘Lunch?’ repeated Sophie. She had to tip her head back to look at Grace. Her voice sounded hoarse and feeble, as if even her larynx recognised its inferiority.
‘Callum and I are living in my mother’s house on the island. I thought it might be nice because…’
She stopped and seemed to be searching for a reason why it would be nice. Perhaps Rose or Enigma had forced her to issue the invitation.
‘…we’re going to be neighbours!’ she finished, and smiled expectantly at Sophie. Her smile was exquisite but remote. She was like a world-famous celebrity talking by video-link to a sycophantic journalist.
Sophie wondered why she’d liked Grace so much at Veronika’s wedding. She was generally slightly resentful of people who made it obvious they didn’t care less whether you liked them or not, because she herself was conscious of an unattractive need to please. Sometimes when talking to somebody she was suddenly revolted by herself, aware of how eagerly she was leaning forward, chin jutting, mimicking the other person’s gestures, moving with them, nodding and smiling, gently nudging their conversation along with a constant stream of appreciative chuckles, soothing ‘hmmms’ and surprised exclamations. ‘Really!’ ‘Did he?’ ‘You’re kidding!’ Love me, love me! People like Grace didn’t change their body language depending on the other person. They set the pace. They stood, elegant and still, while people like Sophie fluttered around them.
Well, Sophie wouldn’t be doing any fluttering around Grace.
Her mother had trained her in the delicate art of suddenly remembering an invented social engagement. Sophie, like Gretel, was extremely good at it and never even came close to blushing because it was crucial that the other person didn’t guess you were faking and have their feelings hurt.
‘Saturday?’ she said brightly. ‘That would be really nice. I’m sure I’m free. Oh, no, wait!’ She crunched her forehead regretfully and gave her handbag an annoyed little slap. ‘I’m not free! I’ve got a friend’s birthday lunch on that day. Oh what a pity. I don’t even want to go, to be honest. Well, perhaps another time.’
‘Oh. But, well, what about Sunday?’ asked Grace, and suddenly she didn’t seem cold, she seemed desperate, as if she was pleading for Sophie to come to lunch.
Well, if she was needed, that was different! Sophie felt her heart melt on cue. ‘You’re a soft touch, Soph,’ her dad, who was the softest touch of all, always told her. She abandoned her mythical ‘such a bore’ BBQ and went straight into normal flutter-like-a-moth mode. ‘Oh, Sunday would be lovely. It’s so nice of you to ask me.’
So now here she is, driving that familiar route down the freeway, seeing her first glimpses of the river, mysterious slate-grey today, beneath a heavy layer of pearly mist hovering just above the water.
In just a few short hours it will all be over and she will be in the pub with Claire, telling her about it. That’s the way to get through today’s lunch; it’s just a new story to tell Claire, so the worse it is the better it will be for comedic value. The funeral had provided Claire and her boyfriend Sven with virtually a whole night of entertainment. Actually, thinks Sophie, she seems to spend a lot of her time providing entertainment for her couple friends. They love having Sophie over for dinner, sympathising with the latest disasters in her life, saying to each other, ‘There must be someone we can set her up with!’ The men flirt outrageously with her and the women tell her they’re jealous of her single state. Sophie suspects that after she leaves they always have better sex than normal. She gets at least one dinner invitation a week. One couple even eagerly suggested she become their flatmate and move into their spare room. For some reason, Sophie is the perfect third partner in a non-sexual ménage à trois. She gives them something they need. She doesn’t know what, but it’s nice to be helpful.