If only he’d told her how he felt about her before he left! But the truth was, he hadn’t known then. Not really. He’d been so immature back then, bemoaning his trivial life problems like some sort of navel-gazing moron, after Magda had shared something so personal and profound with him.
I was an arsehole. A complete fool.
But that was the old Milo.
The front door was unlocked. Dropping his backpack on the floor with a clatter, Milo woke Wilf, who’d been sleeping quietly in his basket under the coat rack. Opening one eye and turning his head to the side in the very faintest possible display of curiosity, the border terrier farted loudly and went back to sleep.
‘Well, that’s charming,’ Milo grinned. ‘That’s all I get after five months in the bloody back of beyond? So much for man’s best friend.’
Hearing laughter from the dining room, he opened the door and stood frozen. Was this a dream? There was his dad, perched on the edge of the dining table, detritus from breakfast strewn all around him. And there, on his father’s lap, was Milo’s mother, wearing a short silk dressing gown that could only be described as skimpy, with her hair down and unbrushed, giggling – actually laughing, out loud – at something his dad was whispering in her ear. Clearly Milo wasn’t the only one who’d changed since the summer. His parents seemed to have morphed into two teenagers. Or at least into people who liked each other and laughed at each other’s jokes.
‘Mum?’
Annabel and Eddie spun round in unison. ‘Milo!’
‘What on earth are you doing home?’ asked Eddie. ‘We thought your flight was next weekend?’
‘It was. I changed it. Thought I’d surprise you,’ said Milo. ‘Evidently I succeeded.’ He raised an eyebrow laconically.
‘You’re so thin!’ Annabel exclaimed, leaping off Eddie’s lap and belting her robe more tightly around her. If Milo wasn’t hallucinating, which was quite possible at this point, he could have sworn he saw his mother blush. ‘Didn’t they feed you over there? And you’re so brown! Look at you.’
‘It’s Africa, Mum. It was hot.’
‘Yes, but don’t they have sun cream? I hardly recognize you. Oh, good grief, your fingernails!’ Annabel picked up Milo’s hand in disgust. He almost felt relieved. Here was the mother he remembered. ‘You look like you’ve been ploughing a field with your bare hands. And your hair’s far too long. Go up and have a shower right away and I’ll book you in at the barber’s in an hour to have it off.’
‘I don’t want to “have it off”,’ said Milo. Other than with Magda. ‘Where’s Magda?’
‘Magda? In the kitchen, cooking for tonight,’ said Annabel. ‘Why?’
Milo felt the relief wash over him like a cool wave. She hadn’t left, then.
‘What’s tonight?’
‘Your father’s book launch. Except it isn’t really a book launch; it’s more a vitally important political dinner.’
‘Oh.’
‘So you aren’t to pester Magda. She’s far too busy to waste time yabbering away to you.’
‘Am I invited? To this vitally important dinner?’
Eddie and Annabel exchanged glances.
‘Do you want to be?’
‘Of course.’
Eddie looked astonished. The old Milo would rather have eaten his own hand than sit around with a bunch of boring politicians.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can come. But only if you behave yourself impeccably.’
‘And cut your hair,’ added Annabel.
Milo kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘I’m not cutting my hair. But I will be on my best behaviour. Now, you’ll both have to excuse me. I’m afraid I have an urgent appointment to keep.’
Eddie grinned. He was delighted to see Milo back home, but he clearly found this new, mature version of his son highly amusing.
‘An urgent appointment, eh? May one ask with whom?’
Milo grinned back. ‘With a bacon sandwich.’
Well. It was half true.
Magda was sitting at the kitchen table, almost invisible behind an enormous mound of peeled prawns.
‘Hello, stranger,’ said Milo, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel.
She looked up and gave him the briefest, most perfunctory nod of greeting before returning immediately to her work.
Milo’s heart plummeted. ‘Are you angry with me?’
‘No.’ Magda continued peeling.
‘Well, you’re acting like it. I’ve been gone for months! Don’t I get a hug at least?’
Magda’s eyes blazed into his. ‘A hug? Oh, I see. A hug’s all right down here in the kitchen, where nobody can see, is that it?’
Milo frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘What do you think I’m talking about?’ Exasperated, Magda pushed aside her bowl of shells. ‘Your party. Your “friend” Jamie and your mother treating me like the hired help.’
‘Aren’t you the hired help?’ Milo asked tactlessly.
Magda was furious. ‘I wasn’t that night. I was your guest. You invited me! I even brought a new dress.’ To her own surprise, there were tears in her eyes. She hadn’t thought she still cared so much about this. But seeing Milo again brought it all flooding back. ‘Can you imagine what an idiot I felt? How embarrassed I was? You stood there and disowned me.’
Milo looked at her helplessly. He didn’t remember any of this! He had a vague mental picture of Jamie King being a dick, but that was about Roxanne, not Magda.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I didn’t mean to disown you! I didn’t realize. I guess I didn’t think.’
‘No.’ Magda returned to her prawns. ‘You never do.’
Now it was Milo’s turn to get impassioned.
‘That’s not true,’ he said, snatching the bowl away from her to force her to listen. ‘I mean, maybe it was true back then. But it’s not true now. I do think. I’ve thought about you. A lot.’
Magda blushed scarlet. This was not the response she’d expected at all. Why on earth had she started this stupid conversation in the first place?
‘OK, well. I can’t talk now,’ she mumbled. ‘I am so behind with this soup and then there’s the pastry cases to make for the beef Wellington and all the prep work for the trifle and that’s before I even start the cleaning.’ She knew she was rambling but she couldn’t seem to stop. ‘You should see the list your mother’s given me. You wouldn’t be—’
Milo cut her off. Marching round the table he pulled her to her feet and in to his chest before she had a chance to protest.
Despite herself, Magda could feel her heart beating nineteen to the dozen as he hugged her. Milo looked different. He very thin, and tanned, but it was more than that. He seemed older somehow, despite the silly student beads and the straggly, gap-year hair. He smelled of sweat and toothpaste and something with patchouli in it, and she was finding it harder and harder to stay angry with him.
‘Do you forgive me?’ he spoke into her hair.
‘I suppose so,’ Magda mumbled, disengaging herself as soon as she politely could and sitting back down.
‘So,’ she asked, a little too brightly, returning to her work. ‘How was your trip?’
His face lit up. ‘Amazing. Life changing, actually. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen Africa,’ he added, more than a touch pompously.
Magda suppressed a smile. ‘Is that so?’
Now it was Milo’s turn to blush. He wasn’t sure how he’d pictured their reunion exactly. But not like this. He wanted to show Magda that he’d changed. That he wasn’t the spoiled, entitled boy who had left five months ago. The boy who was so blind, he’d deeply humiliated her at his own leaving party without even realizing it. He wanted her to see that he was a man now, an adult with opinions and real-life experiences who should be taken seriously. But standing in front of her now, Milo felt younger and more foolish than ever. It was all going wrong!
He cast around desperately for something to say.
‘Mum seems on very good form. She and Dad looked very loved-up just now.’
‘She does seem a lot happier lately,’ Magda replied cautiously. It wasn’t her place to gossip about Lady Wellesley – with Milo, or anyone else for that matter.
‘I’m going tonight. To the dinner,’ blurted out Milo. He wished Magda would look at him.
‘That’s nice.’ Magda continued peeling.
‘I’m trying to take more of an interest in politics.’ He could hear how stilted the words sounded. He felt like a little boy, dressing up in his father’s clothes, desperately trying to play the part of the grown-up. But he ploughed on anyway. ‘I need to understand Dad’s world better. So I can make a difference. When I was in Africa—’
‘Milo.’ Magda cut him off mid-sentence. ‘I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad it was a good trip. Really. But I simply don’t have time to talk at the moment. Help yourself if you want something to eat, but then, please, let me finish this.’
‘Of course.’ Milo forced a smile. ‘We’ll catch up later.’
Winded with disappointment, he left the room. He didn’t want the bacon sandwich any more. All of a sudden he’d lost his appetite.
Magda waited for the door to close before wiping her hands on her apron, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.
What’s wrong with me? she thought bitterly.
A few minutes in Milo’s company and her emotions were churning like washing in a machine. She felt angry and happy and nervous, all at the same time. Worse than that, she had no idea how to react around him, what to say, how to be. Either she was too close to him, too intimate – that hug had been painful – or she came off as cold and aloof and ended up hurting his feelings, as she had just now.
He was the one who had treated her badly. And yet here she was feeling like a Class-A bitch.
Guiltily she returned to her mountain of prawns.
William Berkeley, the Tory Party chairman, sank back contentedly in Eddie Wellesley’s battered leather chesterfield armchair, puffing on a Padrón 1964 Anniversary cigar. They really ought to have waited till after dinner. But the chance to slip away to Fast Eddie’s study and enjoy a decent smoke beforehand had been too good to pass up. Truth be told, William Berkeley wasn’t much for literary parties. Too much noise and clatter, and too many stupid women banging on about Orange prizes and God knows what.
‘House looks lovely,’ William observed, through a thick cloud of cigar smoke. ‘Annabel’s excelled herself as usual.’
‘Thanks. But we’re not here to talk about the house,’ said Eddie.
‘And the book’s clearly going to be a triumph.’
‘Or the book. Or the TV show,’ Eddie added.
‘Thank God for that,’ muttered the chairman, only half under his breath. He really had less than nothing to say about a reality television programme that was apparently hosted by a young lady who’d been named after a department store. Or perhaps a parade.
‘I want to know where I stand with the party, William.’ Eddie lit his own cigar and took a long, satisfying puff. ‘Am I forgiven?’
William Berkeley made a purring sound, like a cat being presented with a saucer of cream. It was pleasant to have men like Wellesley paying one court.
‘Well now, Eddie, you have many friends and supporters in the party, as you know. You’ve already had your membership restored.’
Eddie gave William a knowing look. ‘That’s not quite the same thing as being forgiven.’
‘Perhaps not. But Garforth’s here tonight, isn’t he?’ said William. ‘That should tell you something.’
James Garforth, the new Home Secretary, was the highest-profile political guest to have graced Riverside Hall to date.
‘Hambly isn’t, though,’ said Eddie.
‘One step at a time, old boy,’ William Berkeley patted his paunch reassuringly. ‘Tristram’s always been a supporter of yours, you know that. But he is the PM. And you did go to prison.’
Eddie scowled. Patience had never been his strong suit.
‘I think the book will help,’ said William. ‘It strikes the right tone. Sorry, but not grovelling.’
‘Will it get me a safe seat?’
‘I’m really not at liberty to say,’ Berkeley began, before breaking off in the face of a withering look from Eddie. ‘Oh, look, all right, yes. Barring disaster, you’re being talked about for Chichester and Swell Valley at the next election. No one likes Piers Renton-Chambers. He’s been a terrible damp squib.’
‘Really?’ Eddie’s face lit up like a small child’s on Christmas Eve. ‘That’s wonderful news!’
‘Yes, and very much off the record,’ William reminded him sternly. ‘You’ll have a lot of sucking up to do to the local parliamentary party, aka the swivel eyes.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Eddie.
‘And there can’t be a whiff – not a single, solitary fart’s worth – of scandal.’
‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’ Eddie had the cheek to look affronted.
Both men smoked on in silence for a few moments. The noise of the drinks party drifted in from the drawing room, a blur of voices and laughter, growing louder as the alcohol flowed. The majority of the guests were due to leave by eight, leaving only a hardcore of VIPs for the sit-down dinner at nine.
After a while, William asked idly, ‘By the way, have you heard anything about David Carlyle’s book?’
‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m surprised he can read, never mind write. What is it?’
‘That’s the thing. No one knows. It’s shrouded in mystery.’ William waved a fat hand around dramatically. ‘Apparently it’s with Doubleday, but they’re denying all knowledge.’
‘They’ve probably all died from shame,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s probably some torrid potboiler for plebs: Fifty Shades of Grey Shoes.’
‘Now, now,’ William chuckled.
‘Maybe he used a pseudonym. Chip. O. N. Shoulder.’
‘Ha!’ The chuckle became a full-on laugh. ‘That’s very good. But seriously. He doesn’t have anything on you, does he? Anything that didn’t come out at the trial?’
‘No,’ Eddie said sourly. ‘If you remember, I was thoroughly disembowelled at the trial, thanks to that bastard. There’s nothing.’
‘Good.’ William Berkeley clapped his hands, smiling broadly. ‘Then we’ve nothing to worry about. Is it almost suppertime, do you think? I could eat a horse.’
‘Well! Isn’t this nice? All the heaving throngs have gone, and we can finally relax.’
Annabel smiled stiffly down the table at her illustrious guests, looking anything but relaxed. The book launch drinks had gone off without a hitch, but the really important part of the evening was just beginning.
The chairman, William Berkeley, sat on Annabel’s left. She’d intended to launch a full-on charm offensive at him during the bouillabaisse. But then William and Eddie had drifted in to dinner thick as thieves, so she’d refocused her attention on the Home Secretary, James Garforth, on her right. Whatever it was that had propelled young Garforth to the top of the political tree, Annabel decided, one could rule out charisma. Whether it was the lingering Birmingham accent or the glazed look of naked ambition in the eyes, Garforth was as drearily humourless as a feminist book group discussing the latest Tony Parsons. Worse, he used embarrassing business clichés, talking about ‘going forward’, and ‘thinking outside the box’ on immigration. ‘That’s exactly the sort of issue where we Conservatives need to blue-sky it,’ he concluded triumphantly. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Further down the table, Eddie’s political agent, Kevin Unger, was making small talk with Rita Blaize, wife of the Number Ten spin doctor and all-round electoral guru, Philip. Phil Blaize scared Annabel. She couldn’t read him at all, yet she had a sneaking suspicion that he might well be the most important man in the room. Which made it all the more distressing to have to watch him being bored to death by a distinctly tipsy Camilla Berkeley, the chairman?
??s wife, who only ever wanted to talk about hunting.
‘Of course, it was different when I was a gel,’ Camilla boomed. ‘I gort my first hunter at nine. Happiest day of my life! The whole county used to see off the hunt in those days. It wasn’t just the landowners. All these animal rights Johnnies who bang on about class, they couldn’t be more wrong. Hunting’s not elitist! Never has been. It’s urban bloody ignorance, that’s wort it is. Now if you have the PM’s ear, you really must get him to look into it.’
Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Milo appeared to have the Home Secretary’s wife in stitches, which pleased and panicked Annabel in equal measure. And Eddie was devoting far too much time and attention to Lisa Unger, the agent’s wife, one of the few people present with literally nothing to offer him politically, instead of rescuing the spin doctor from Camilla Berkeley’s tweed-clad advances.
When at last Magda staggered in carrying a vast silver soup dish, Annabel could have wept with relief.
‘Ah! The bouillabaisse. Marvellous. You may start serving, Magdalena.’
Milo took one look at Magda, then directed a furious glare at his mother. Not only had she made the poor girl get dolled up in full black and white maid service, which looked patently ridiculous at such a small, informal dinner, she’d clearly also driven Magda to the brink of exhaustion. Her eyes looked small and red, wisps of hair clung to the sweat on her forehead like seaweed on a wet rock and her hands were trembling, whether from nerves or physical strain it was hard to tell.
‘Let me help you.’ He stood up, earning himself an irritated look from his mother and a panicked one from Magda.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ The soup tureen clearly weighed a ton. Staggering towards the table, Magda tried to remember what Lady Wellesley had instructed her this morning about serving. Start at the head of the table and move left. Or was it right? No, definitely left.
‘Come on,’ Milo insisted. ‘That’s far too heavy.’
‘For heaven’s sake sit down, Milo. Magdalena can manage,’ snapped Annabel. She didn’t know why, but something about Magda always seemed to bring out the worst in her.