A Bitter Feast(81)

When dinner service was finally over and the last work top had been washed down, they were still buzzing. Fergus called for a celebration and opened bottles of champagne for front of house and for the kitchen. A few glasses in, Ibby wrapped one arm round Viv and one round Fergus. “Tattoos,” he mumbled, already a little owlish. “Just the three of us. All the same. With the star.”

Viv looked at him askance. At heart, she was still a Cotswolds girl, and while lots of cooks sported art, she’d never got up the nerve. “At this time of night?”

“I know a good place. They’ll open for us, tonight,” Ibby assured them.

Fergus waved his glass. “I think it’s a grand idea. The Three Musketeers of the fecking rose, that’ll be us.” And so they piled into a taxi to Soho.

When they emerged from the tattoo parlor a few hours later, all three bore matching crossed chef’s knives and honing rods below the small red rosettes on their left forearms. Fergus hailed a taxi for Ibby and sent him on his way. Then, he looked down at Viv, who’d begun to shiver. It was cold and her arm was smarting. “Come to mine,” he said.

“No.”

“I’ll come to yours, then.” Looping his arm round her shoulders, he scanned Frith Street for another taxi. Viv tried to stop herself leaning into his warmth.

“Fergus, it’s not a good idea—”

“And why is that? Don’t be stubborn, darlin’. You know I’ve missed you.”

She pulled away. “Fergus, why didn’t you mention me in that interview, the one in the Times?”

He looked down at her, surprised. “Is that what’s eating at you, then? Of course I mentioned you. But I had no say over what he decided to print, did I?”

A taxi was coming, its yellow light glowing like a beacon. Fergus pulled her to him again as he flagged down the cab. “This is our night, yours and mine, Viv. I told you, I need you.” In the light from the streetlamp, his expression was suddenly naked. “On my life, I’ve never said a truer thing.”

And Viv knew then that she was lost.

Somehow, Melody had got through the rest of the afternoon. She’d come back to the house to find Doug still there, playing croquet with her parents, Gemma, and all the children, while Kincaid sat in a lawn chair someone had carried down to the croquet lawn for him. “I feel like the invalid uncle,” he said with a smile as she sat on the grass beside him, but she could tell he didn’t feel well. The bruising round his eye had deepened since she’d seen him that morning, and she thought he looked flushed.

“No, Char, you can’t hit it back through the hoop!” Toby shouted, picking up Charlotte’s ball, and it took Gemma’s intervention to get the game back on track.

“You’re not playing?” asked Kincaid.

“I don’t think I’m up to my father’s killer croquet,” she said. “It makes you think it’s a good thing he never took up golf.” Although at the moment, he was patiently coaching Kit in the nuances of a shot.

“I’m glad we came. In spite of everything that’s happened.” Kincaid’s expression was rueful. “I haven’t really had a chance to thank you for inviting us. Your parents have been great. They’re officially promoted to auntie and uncle status.”

“They’ll love that,” Melody said, while wondering if Doug had talked to him about Andy. And if Gemma knew as well.

Doug kept shooting loaded glances at her, but she was determined not to let him get her alone. She didn’t want his apologies—assuming he even meant to apologize.

When the light began to fade and the croquet set was put away—her father having very obviously allowed Toby to win—Melody helped Gemma get the younger kids up to the house for dinner. As they walked, she said quietly, “I’m sorry about this afternoon.”

“Not to worry. They had a great time with your mum and dad. Melody”—Gemma stopped her with a touch— “I know you’re upset. But Doug meant well.” So that answered one question, Melody thought. Doug must have told her. “He does care about you, you know,” Gemma added gently.

“Funny way of showing it.” Melody was horrified to find the tears threatening again.

“You should give him a chance to make amends.”

Melody was saved from answering that by the children scuffling over who got to wash their hands first.

Her mother had, of course, managed to gracefully feed the unexpected masses, pulling a huge fillet of salmon from the freezer, poaching it, and serving it with dill sauce and a cucumber salad. Her father had opened several bottles of his best Grüner Veltliner wine, of which Melody drank considerably more than her share while pushing the salmon round on her plate.

When everyone had finished, she busied herself with clearing the table and rinsing plates, topping up her wineglass in the process. But when Gemma and Duncan excused themselves to get the little ones ready for bed and Melody saw Doug coming towards her with a tea towel, she simply stopped what she was doing and walked straight out the scullery door.

The temperature had dropped rapidly since dusk and she was still in only jeans and a T-shirt. It was dark, too, and the light thrown through the French doors served only to cast the rest of the terrace into deeper shadow. Bumping against a chair, she stumbled, then picked her way across the terrace with her arms held out in front of her, like a blind person.