If Melissa had been at the corner at the time we’d arranged to meet, she might have saved me from the inexorable fate hurtling around it.
But, although I’d lingered long enough in the fading light to elicit at least two twitches from expensive curtains nearby, along with the cold gaze of a silver-haired duchess-type in patent buckled shoes – a gaze that matched the blank-eyed stare of the grand houses on this side of the square – Melissa hadn’t arrived. Worse, nor was she answering my calls.
A droll ‘Where’s the tea dance?’ from a man in pinstripes didn’t reassure me about my choice of outfit either, although the teenager’s polite nod as he strolled across the street was much more welcome. A football mate of Zach’s, I thought, from our block; out of his natural habitat, perhaps, tracksuit bottoms adrift around his hips, giant headphones jammed down, but he reminded me my own home was only streets away – albeit in a different universe.
The uncomfortable polarity of Kensington and Chelsea – Britain’s richest borough – with the poorest neighbours. Double-gated Victorian mansions, sleek , Georgian townhouses: all overshadowed by the ugly inconvenience of concrete tower blocks. Immigrants and council tenants living centimetres from countesses, celebrities and oligarchs, while down the famous Portobello Road, market traders vied with foreign princes and media moguls for parking places.
Listen carefully and you might even catch a distant echo of the 1958 race riots, when an overspill of anger led to the eventual creation of the world-renowned Notting Hill Carnival.
So who exactly did it all belong to these days?
Not me, that was for sure. I’d ended up here by way of Yorkshire and marriage to a local lad – but it was home enough, today.
Nearly seven thirty and still no Melissa. Rare indeed for a woman who lived by her stopwatch: one of the many things I’d loved about her since she left an M & S steak pie, a bottle of Chardonnay and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s (melted) on my doorstep two years ago, at the very peak of my crisis. Her very reliable reliability.
Except for right now, apparently.
And, given that I couldn’t get hold of her, I had two choices – the more attractive of them being admittedly pathetic.
I took a deep breath and set off to find the house – alone.
Past the bijou boutique selling dresses more expensive than our monthly rent, past a subtle-looking restaurant boasting two Michelin stars, looking for number 74 proved more difficult than anticipated, but eventually I found it.
And when I did – the most imposing house on this side of the square, naturally – I rather wished I hadn’t.
Set safely behind iron railings, garlanded casually in wisteria and ivy, it was as perfect as something from a Jane Austen adaptation, its handsome facade marred only slightly by a building site next door.
And yet, for some reason, the house gave me the chills: the many windows both impassive and implacable, the side-run down to the tradesmen’s entrance below stairs sounding a warning to take heed of.
Beware, it said, interlopers aren’t welcome here.
Yet there I was, loitering in the shade of a real palm tree in an enormous hand-carved urn, too late to attend what was called, on yesterday’s WhatsApp thread, a ‘casual kitchen supper’ – a term I’d had to look up to check I’d understood.
When a get-together had been suggested, I’d expected custard creams around a tea urn in a draughty church hall – not a full-on dinner party, or kitchen supper, or whatever on earth this called itself when it was at home.
Held at Nella and Marcus Jackson’s very exclusive home, at that: a couple I barely knew, a couple well outside my usual circle.
Facts I did possess: Melissa taught Nella yoga, privately, hence our invite to help with the street party. The high-powered husband, Marcus, was standing in the upcoming local by-election. We’d met once, at a local fundraiser, introduced by Melissa; he’d been polite but distracted – looking past me to see who else he could charm.
Conversation exhausted, I’d moved on to safer pastures by the time Nella herself rocked up, late after a rumoured meeting with TV executives.
No one could miss Nella: all shaggy blonde pony hair and iridescent smile. Clad in soft tawny fur, tall and glamorous as a film star, she’d glided in, oblivious to admiring glances, slipping her hand girlishly into her husband’s. I’d escaped soon after, never wanting to leave Zach for long.
Now, slowly, I opened the ornate gate, thinking wistfully of my own small flat. The idea of arriving in tandem with my best friend was a very different proposition to arriving at this mansion alone, and I was starting to feel uncomfortable in my own formal frock and high-heels – 1970s open-toed mules I’d snapped up in Portobello Market last year, on a whim: just a little too tight.
Don’t get me wrong, I believed wholeheartedly in the proposed street party, following the disasters in the community – not least the terrible accident at Christmas that had claimed the lives of seven people.
But I could help in other ways, without attending this supper thing, couldn’t I? Even if those ways weren’t entirely clear to me now, no one would notice, surely, if I just slipped away.
‘Hello, lovely!’ The glossy front door swung open above me, silent on slick hinges. ‘So glad you could make it.’
Nella Jackson, in all her gorgeous – if extremely casual – designer-clad glory, framed in the twilight, like one of Raphael’s angels, or a Botticelli goddess perhaps.
Or Amanda Holden on Britain’s Got Talent! I imagined my mother coo; she’d be having kittens in her poky Northern cul-de-sac if she knew the company I was about to keep.
‘Hi! I’m Ruby.’ Did Nella have an actual clue who I was? ‘Melissa’s friend? Thanks so much for inviting—’
‘Now stop that immediately!’ Nella wagged a coral shellacked nail down the stairs at me. ‘Everyone else has been here for ages, of course – but there’s no need to apologise, really.’
Too late, I realised I hadn’t. ‘Um… so sorry.’ What could I say that she could possibly understand? ‘Been wrangling teenagers, you know…’ I gestured apologetically at myself, suddenly feeling horribly overdressed. ‘So I thought I’d glam up a bit—’
‘Glam up?’ Nella looked concerned. ‘Sorry, I’m lost—’
‘Need an A to Z?’ I grinned hopefully. ‘No, I just meant, you know, herding teens takes it out of you, doesn’t it? So I went for glamour.’
Nella’s polite face suggested she simply thought I was mad.
‘Don’t worry.’ Her elegant arm beckoned me up towards shapely shins, gleaming beneath moss-green velour pedal-pushers. ‘It’s all cold food, mainly, so nothing’s spoiled.’
‘Oh gosh, sorry.’ The familiar feeling sharpened. ‘I brought you these, for afters.’
I waved the shiny red packet of my corner shop’s finest chocolate: a safer bet than a cheap bottle of Pinot, I’d decided an hour ago – and expensive at £6.99 a box.
‘How lovely!’ Nella glanced at them. ‘You shouldn’t have, darling. Can’t do dairy or sugar at the moment, but the others will love them.’
‘Oh, I… sorry…’ I trailed off. ‘So, is, um, is Melissa here?’
‘She was early actually.’ Nella flicked her tawny blonde locks over the tanned shoulder peeping from a faded, retro T-shirt of a lion as majestic as her. ‘Along with that lovely headmaster of hers. But…’ She gazed over my head at the pavement. ‘Oh…’
‘What?’ The familiar metallic taste of loneliness flooded my mouth; one I’d begun to recognise these days.
‘Just… silly of me. On your own tonight, are you?’
‘Yes.’ Absolutely alone. I nodded stupidly, the cold hard grasp of shame arriving fast behind the pain. ‘Just me and my shadow, I’m afraid.’
‘Shadow?’ She peered over my head again, even more worried.
‘No I mean’ – Oh God – ‘my, like, actual shadow.’ I gestured at the ground beside me.
Was there even a shadow, though, at this time of evening?
Jonny would have known – but Jonny wasn’t here.
‘Well, that’s wonderful. Single pringle, eh?’
But I caught the expression following on the heels of Nella’s surprise. What was it this time: pity? Or maybe its uglier friend, suspicion.
‘Quick bite in the kitchen, then down to business, OK?’ Already turning in her elegant stilettos, she didn’t wait for my endorsement. ‘Come.’
Heart plummeting into my own second-hand shoes, I saw there was no way my vintage dress and jaunty scarf were cutting it here: land of Miuccia Prada and manuka honey.
Forlorn, I slipped the scarf into my pocket, feeling like a little girl caught dressing up by her mum. Nella was tall enough to be my parent, that was for sure.
But, following her up and across the big porch towards the door, my eye was caught by something high above me.
I paused, squinting up at the elegant rank of top-floor windows.
A figure, I thought, watching us? Now moving into shadows cast by the dying sun – or, maybe, just fading light, sliding slowly across the glass.
‘Sorry!’ I repeated, yet again – straining to see better. ‘But I think…’
Was that a pale face, pressed against the pane – or only my overactive imagination?
I knew what Jonny would have said – but who could I ask?
Nella had already disappeared inside.
And Jonny? Well, Jonny was long gone.
Along with my heart.
‘It’s years since I went to a dinner party.’
‘Oh, me too,’ I agreed carefully. But was it even one? I wasn’t sure because, honestly, I never went to them at all. We used to splash out occasionally on a pub roast, but usually we’d been happy with a takeaway and a rerun of Cool Runnings to ease the pain of real life. Every Christmas, in fact, the whole family re-watched Notting Hill, just for the bittersweet hilarity of it being absolutely nothing like where we actually lived, blue door or not.
But that was before.
‘Casual’s where it’s at these days, isn’t it?’ Nella’s husband Marcus swung a bottle of champagne around as I fiddled with my strapless bodice again, ruing the moment I thought this dress might give the impression I belonged on this side of the square. ‘Gotta let it all hang out sometimes, eh, Rex?’
Marcus was svelte, though, in his white T-shirt and faded Levi’s, whereas Melissa’s husband Rex was definitely letting it hang out, the swell of belly above his golf shorts more than obvious.
‘Oh yeah,’ Rex – a middle-aged man-child, shaped like a bear – nodded enthusiastically. ‘Kitchen’s cool with me.’
But was this room even a kitchen? I wondered. It was like something from Vogue or Elle Decoration in the hairdressers – huge and decorated exactly like the photos of every other kitchen this size, all glass and slate and islands.
You haven’t arrived if you don’t have a kitchen island, I could hear my sister mutter from her own fake-Shaker kitchen in York – and this one was the size of Cuba. Floating in the midst of a shiny floor, bowls of exotic fruit and framed posters with bright words, the Jacksons’ pièce de résistance was a pink neon light, hanging above a squidgy sofa, that read:
F*** me Now, Don’t Forget me Later
‘That’s a Tracey Emin.’ Marcus followed my eyeline. ‘Or maybe a new artist Nella discovered, can’t remember. Not very… PC, maybe, these days.’
‘Well, I think it’s…’ But his effort to include me was rendering me more self-conscious. ‘You know’ – what was the correct answer? – ‘kind of – exciting.’
‘Maybe.’ He nodded sagely. ‘That’s an interesting view.’
Only when he turned away did I manage to exhale.
The printed menu said: Lime and dill jus over salmon mousse souffle & delicate salad, followed by white peach granita.
What even was granita when it was at home? I caught Melissa’s eye.
I’d been relieved – if not slightly aggrieved – to find her ensconced in the cavernous room when I’d sloped in, the ursine Rex shooting the breeze with Marcus, possessive arm around my friend’s trim waist.
‘Hello.’ I’d raised a quizzical eyebrow at Melissa over Rex’s shoulder.
‘Hey, hon!’ Lithe and elegant as ever in skinny jeans and cork wedges, Melissa had inclined her head subtly at Rex, mouthing, I’ll explain later.
OK, I mouthed back, turning to admire the garden.
The warm July night had allowed the doors to be pushed back, leading onto floodlit decking and an enormous, serene Buddha, throwing a studio at the end of the lush lawn into shadowed relief, the whole effect like looking onto some kind of Eden.
Tiny twinkly garden lights strewn about the shrubbery only underlined the paradisal effect – in which I felt entirely tense, not helped by the fact I was now perching on a Swedish-type stool so angular it must have been designed by a sadomasochist.
‘What’s that?’ Melissa broke free of Rex to point down the garden. ‘A zipline?’ A crow of delight replaced her frown. ‘Can we have a go?’
‘Not sure it’ll take your weight, sweetie.’ Nella cocked her head in sympathy. ‘Beau was so brilliant on the one in Cannes at Easter, we got him one. You understand, don’t you? He just loves whizzing up and down.’
‘Oh, sure,’ Melissa said, more honed and toned than any woman I’d met, and grinned wryly. ‘Don’t fancy another night-time dash to A & E anyway. And what’s that posh shed?’
‘That? Oh, just my little potter’s studio,’ Nella said. ‘Now I hardly do any TV, I throw pots. We all need a place to retreat, don’t you agree, Ruth?’
I realised she was addressing me. ‘Oh – oh yes.’ I dragged myself back from Melissa’s words, and the memory of my own last terrible dash to A & E. ‘I expect so.’
‘Although the neighbour… Well, it’s been audacious.’ Nella’s refined purr dripped now with a surprising tone. ‘Not moved in yet and making so much mess renovating, it’s hard to retreat at all right now. Cheeky, don’t you think?’
‘Oh?’ I gripped my drink, terrified the fragile glass would shatter in my clammy hand. A retreat to me meant a night off from the Addams Family in the flat above, arguing with such relentless continuity I could set my watch by them.
‘We’ve not met him yet. Anyway, girls’ – Nella clapped her hands with enthusiasm – ‘time is money, as they say.’
Money. Definitely didn’t want to think about that right now – the red bills, the unpaid invoices…
‘Is Lena coming?’ Melissa checked her phone. ‘I’ll just— Oh God!’
‘What?’ Her vehemence alarmed me. ‘Mel? Is it Ceci?’
‘Oh no, sorry, it’s—’ She jabbed at buttons frantically. ‘Nothing. It just died, that’s all.’
‘I’m hoping Lena’ll join us in a bit, if she sorts her little man.’ Nella checked her phone. ‘She’s a PR whizz, and a real asset to the street party.’
‘Little man?’ I was confused.
‘Her son Heathcliff’s at the primary, Ruth. She’s a hoot, Mel, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, hon, a proper scream,’ Melissa was still staring forlornly at her phone. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a charger?’
‘By the way, Nella’ – I cleared my throat – ‘it’s Ruby.’
‘Is it a new generation iPhone?’ Marcus peered over Melissa’s shoulder. ‘Oh, a Samsung! Very brave. Afraid we had an amnesty on our old chargers, donated them to the food bank. Gotta do our bit, yeah?’
‘Put it away, babes.’ Rex’s long face was changing to a booze-induced pink. ‘Stop fretting.’
‘Sorry.’ Melissa shoved the phone into her back pocket. ‘Addictive, aren’t they, the bloody things? So, who exactly is this bloke next door?’
The old house’s overhaul had begun just after the terrible gas explosion at the far end of the square, which killed an old couple no one ever remembered seeing, along with their disabled daughter, and a young Chinese family with toddlers in the adjacent grubby bedsit.
The whole neighbourhood felt terrible about it, rich or poor, not least because few of us had noticed the dead before they became ghosts amongst us, heaving yet more anger onto a community already polarised; the exuberantly rich living their best lives beside those dependent on food banks.
In the spring, to raise money for all the dispossessed, Northgate Primary had held a grand cake sale – pretty bunting, cherry cupcakes and apple-cheeked, multi-ethnic children. Every last crumb had been hoovered up, charming photos splattered all over social media courtesy, it seemed, of six-year-old Heathcliff’s mum, Lena Nair – the aforementioned PR guru.
This promptly inspired St Edmund’s, the church on Northgate Square, to arrange an Easter bring and buy. Stalls positively groaning, the quality of the jumble more Net-a-Porter than Oxfam, the sale soon became the stuff of legend. Old dears fought over Manolo Blahniks and Mulberry bags, local queens hissed over the last Vivienne Westwood bustier – and once again, every last item sold.
And so the idea for a communal street party in Northgate Square bloomed. Ostensibly a fundraiser, the loftier motive was to bring us together: a society of strangers, despite living cheek by jowl, knife by Nespresso machine. People who would normally ignore – or actively avoid – one another, united in a common goal. One by one, we were drafted in, by friends, by family or by our neighbours – hence tonight’s meeting.
But tonight wasn’t at all what I’d anticipated.
‘Expect the neighbour’ll turn up sometime. Now, you look more of a beer man to me, Rex, am I right?’ Marcus peeled open the giant fridge. ‘Dump the champers, mate, and try one of these little babies.’
‘Don’t mind if I do, ta very much.’ Rex chose from a shelf of colourful craft beer. A picture of a blonde-bearded hipster on its side, the can seemed incongruous in his heavy hand. ‘No kids tonight?’
‘They’re on homework,’ Nella confided, ‘slaves to it, aren’t they, Markie?’
‘Absolutely,’ Marcus agreed. ‘Got Mum’s looks and Dad’s ambition.’
‘Silly.’ Nella crinkled her eyes at him and then, to my surprise, at me. ‘I bet your guys study hard, don’t they? Melissa’s told me all about them.’
‘Um…’ Glumly, I imagined Zach, currently glued to his PlayStation, alternating Giant Wotsits with a big bag of Skittles. ‘Sometimes, I guess.’
‘Sensible.’ Rex sipped the froth off his beer with an approving nod at Nella. ‘Education is the key to all success, after all.’
‘I thought that was inherited wealth and liposuction.’ Melissa rolled affectionate eyes. ‘But then he never thinks about anything except league tables, do you, honey? Football or school.’
‘That’s not true.’ Rex pursed his mouth. ‘I just care about all my pupils. You know that, don’t you, Ruby?’
‘Er – yes, of course,’ I agreed politely, gazing at the froth on his top lip.
How well I actually knew Rex was debatable though.
Since my own tragedy, Melissa had become a great friend, that was true; my best friend, in fact – but my interaction with Rex was generally limited to school events, or parents’ evenings. Pleasant enough, but I didn’t remember him helping Ali or Zach. Not even when…
‘I want to give them the chance to shine, like Ceci has,’ Rex explained stolidly. ‘Give them chances like yours get at St. Bede’s.’
‘Well, actually—’ Marcus started, but Nella cut across him quickly.
‘Ceci?’
‘Cecilia. Our— Rex’s daughter. And of course you do, honey.’ Melissa patted Rex’s bottom. ‘Of course you care.’
‘A brilliant headteacher must be absolutely focused, surely.’ Nella awarded Rex a charming smile. ‘Goodness, is that the time? I think we’ll have to give up on Lena for tonight.’
Melissa grinned. ‘Well, Lena’s kid’s a challenge at the best of times. Proper whirling dervish. I wouldn’t fancy trying to control him—’
‘Indeed. So shall we get on with it?’ Nella shot her husband a quick look I could neither miss, nor decipher.
‘Your iPad’s in the study, sweetheart, if you want your Pinterest board. So, fancy a quick tour, Rex?’ Marcus tore his eyes from his wife’s face. ‘You’ll want to see that garden studio, mate.’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Rex looked chuffed. ‘We might get one, eh, Mel? A mini pub! I could keep my beer tankards out there.’
And why would he not collect beer tankards? Men are such simple creatures, Jonny’s penchant being old ticket stubs from every gig we’d ever gone to. They still lived in a drawer in our bedroom. My bedroom.
‘A pub in our four foot of garden?’ Melissa gave a short laugh and topped up her drink.
‘It’s not four foot.’ Rex stopped whatever he was going to say. ‘How about a mini gym?’ He kissed her forehead. ‘Help you keep trim, babe.’
‘Ah, hon, have a bar,’ Melissa soothed. ‘I get enough gym at work.’
Odd really, it had never crossed my mind before – how seldom I’d actually seen Melissa with her husband.
‘Ladies.’ Nella moved towards the door. ‘Reconvene in three? I’ll just grab the iPad.’ She shot another look at Marcus and still I couldn’t read it.
‘OK to bring my glass?’ Melissa held it up, half empty.
‘Bring the whole bottle,’ Nella said warmly. ‘Drawing room, Ruth?’
‘The drawing room?’ Did real people use that term outside Cluedo? ‘Sure. And it’s—’
‘Dores, be an angel and clear.’ Our hostess addressed an actual waitress who’d appeared. ‘We’ll be in for coffee in about, oh, twenty?’
‘Sure,’ said the young woman, all neat dark dress and sleek ponytail, her English heavily accented. ‘Mrs Jackson.’
‘If Nella’s not doing TV, or good works,’ Marcus was telling Rex as we left the room, ‘she’s down in the studio all hours, throwing another pot.’
I could use some pot, I surprised myself by thinking, given the last time I’d smoked a joint was around the time Ali was conceived – accidentally. At least it might help me relax a little now.
We crossed a wide hallway lined with art I’d never understand, beside pictures of beautiful, sunlit holidays. I knew Ruby would quiz me as soon as Nella disappeared to fetch something.
‘This is a lovely picture,’ I lied, stopping in front of one entitled ‘Joyous’, that frankly looked like a toddler had done it, blindfolded. ‘Not really my idea of joy though.’
‘Mel, what happened earlier?’ Bless Rubes: she really was trying not to sound irked. ‘I waited for ages.’
‘I’m so sorry, hon.’ I put my hand on hers; mine was icy.
I was truly sorry to have let my best mate down. She looked good, if a bit swamped by that fifties dress; lovely in a big-eyed, gamine sort of way, like a kind of Winona Ryder. But she also always looked tired, and sad. ‘Rex got all insistent we came early. Marcus wanted to show him the Tesla.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Though she obviously didn’t really. ‘Sorry, the what?’
‘That expensive electric car.’ I pulled a face. ‘You know men!’
‘Not sure I do these days,’ she murmured as Nella emerged again.
‘Is that the actual Orient Express?’ I stared at a photo of the smiling family.
A phone chirped; Ruby fished it out furtively of the pocket of that funny dress. However hard she tried not to, I knew she still hated leaving Zach home alone. But then, at least being home meant he wasn’t on the street, risking another boy eyeballing him wrong, mistaking him for the enemy.
‘They call this shade Sicilian Syllabub,’ Nella was waffling. ‘The designer had the brilliant idea of complimenting my complexion in here.’
Ruby’s ‘Bloody hell’ sprang like a blown bubble into the dying summer light; lingered in the fragrant silence, full of the scent of roses.
‘Sorry!’ Oh dear, Ruby. ‘It’s just…’
But, from beside the biggest floral arrangement ever seen in an actual house – one Ruby’s own small florist shop would struggle to emulate – Nella simply turned with a graceful smile. I had to hand it to her: she was poised.
‘Honestly, I do realise it might seem kind of extravagant but, girls, it’s such an investment, matching skin tone to paint.’ The smile seemed only a little frozen, and whether that was the facial fillers, so subtle you could barely see them, or Ruby’s expletive, was impossible to know. ‘We all need to help ourselves, don’t you think? Self-care is our biggest responsibility to our children, isn’t that what that lovely Jan Vermaak blogs about?’
I thought it was food, shelter and love, a little voice murmured.
‘Jan? She comes to the gym with her eldest daughter sometimes,’ I said. And she was poisonous, passive aggressive to the highest degree. ‘Always pounding the treadmills!’
‘Happy mum, happy kids!’ Nella waved us to an emerald sofa the size of Scotland. ‘Or is that very bad of me? Am I being too frivolous?’
‘Yes. No. I mean – no, of course, look after yourself.’ I clocked Ruby’s nod, as if self-care and tonal colour coordination were her highest priorities, rather than just paying her bills. Honestly, I think we’d both far rather have been on Ruby’s own saggy old brown sofa with a Mr Lucky takeaway and an episode of Love Island, with Zach and Ceci for company.
Yep, I’d take monosyllables over Sicilian Syllabub any day.
‘We’re super lucky, of course, I do know, Ruthie.’ This last intoned like a well-learnt mantra as Nella swiped through her iPad.
‘Um, it’s…’ Gingerly, Ruby leant on a canary-yellow cushion, tapping a spot on her sweetheart neckline helpfully. ‘It’s Ruby. Not Ruth…’
‘Ruby?’ Nella said absently. ‘Oh, I’m terrible with names!’ She mimed a gun to her head. ‘Shoot me now! Gosh, now where is my Pinterest board.’
‘I bet a downward dog goes down a treat here.’ My gold hoops flashed in the mirror as I turned to the big sash window onto the square. ‘We could do a sponsored session, at the street party. That private lawn in the middle would be perfect – if we can get the keys, of course.’
‘Oh, don’t you have a set? We all—’ Nella stopped, abruptly.
‘Ha!’ I raised a. . .
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