Kitabı oku: «The Perfect Escape: Romantic short stories to relax with», sayfa 9
Gonna get ugly before too long, I can just feel it in the air.
12.22 p.m.
Still wandering round Byrne & Sacetti, one level at a time. I’m snooping round the basement wine bar now, weaving round stuffed-to-the-gills tables of Xmas boozers, trying not to trip over their abandoned shopping bags. There’s a big gang of the ladies-who-lunch brigade in, all dressed in fashionable nude colours with nude, Kate Middleton heels to match and all looking like human Elastoplasts, if you ask me. All of them unanimously shoot irritated looks at me, as I almost stumble over expensive-looking handbags, abandoned carelessly at well-heeled feet.
Apologise, but don’t really mean it. I’m only here on the off-chance I get lucky and chance on some waiter pal of Kitty’s who might know something; anything. I would have met a good selection of her buddies from work, including a lot of the Sacetti family, from a few nights on the razz that Kitty’s dragged me along to over the past few years. With karaoke nights featuring v. large; the Irish-Italians are very fond of their karaoke, it seems.
No joy, though. Can only see Xmas revellers starting the celebrations early, laying into their celebratory glasses of Prosecco and antipasti platters.
Mine is the only stressed-looking face; everyone else is having a rare old time, like the whole world has clocked off for the holidays.
Even Kitty.
12.45 p.m.
Finally … success!
I’m just nosing around the packed function room on the very top floor now, weaving in and out of groups of invitees clutching champagne flutes and trying not to look like I’m out to gatecrash a private Christmas party, when suddenly I hear my own name being yelled out loud and clear.
‘Angie? Angie Blennerhasset? That you?’
Delighted, I turn round to see Joyce Byrne, part-owner here and a good pal of Kitty’s. Married to Stephano Sacetti, other half of the Business Empire. Hardest working couple I think I’ve ever met in my entire life. Lovely, perpetually smiley, happy Joyce, still radiating Xmasy good cheer in spite of the fact she’s probably been slaving away and on her feet since sometime before I went to bed last night.
I give her a big hug and fill her in.
‘You mean Kitty just never turned up at the Sanctuary this morning?’ says Joyce, horrified, and, I swear, the shock in her voice is almost reassuring. See? Proves I’m not mad, for one thing. I’m on the right track. Something awful must have happened.
‘You’re kidding me! She was so looking forward to it! She was full of chat about the whole thing; you should have seen the girl! She was all excited …’
‘You mean … Kitty’s definitely not here now, then? Hasn’t been moved to work in the kitchen or anything?’
‘No, definitely not. If she were, I’d know. Been here since the crack of dawn. Besides, I was only just thinking how quiet the staff room was without her.’
‘And the last time you saw her was …?’
Starting to feel v. Hercule Poirot-ish now.
‘God, let me think. It was definitely last night, seriously late, I think it must have been well after one in the morning. She was just finishing up after a party in the restaurant and I was doing the till. She gave me a lovely bottle of wine for Christmas, said she’d see me soon, then bounced out of here, all excited about seeing you. And, of course, going off on holidays with gorgeous fella of hers.’
Hard to put into words the feeling of total deflation. I was so hopeful Kitty might have been here all along and just through some complete fluke, I hadn’t spotted her yet.
‘So where do you think she might be?’ Joyce asks me, worriedly.
‘Well, let’s work it out. You last saw her at around one o’clock this morning. And she’s definitely not at home now, but her car is there …’
‘Yeah …’
‘So wherever she is, chances are she hasn’t gone too far …’
Oh God. Sudden shock goes through me like I’ve just been electrocuted. Suppose Kitty was on her way home from work, and then got abducted by some sick, pervy sociopath who now has her locked up in a cellar somewhere?
Joyce really must be a mind-reader. She immediately grips my arm, quickly grabs a glass of still water from a passing waiter and makes me gulp down a few mouthfuls.
‘Angie, the worst thing you can do is let your imagination run away with you. Trust me, there’s some perfectly innocent explanation for all this. Have you spoken to her boyfriend?’
‘No, he’s not answering his mobile either. I can’t get a hold of him at all …’
‘Oh, that’s right, of course. Kitty told me he’s gone home to his folks down the country for Christmas and that she wouldn’t be seeing him till Stephen’s Day.’
‘Unless …’
‘Unless what?’
And there it is, the simple bloody answer to all this! Been staring me in the face all this time. Why didn’t I think of it before now?
‘Maybe there was some emergency with … well, with her foster mother? Something so urgent that Kitty just had to drop everything and run?’
The sudden relief at saying it aloud is almost overwhelming. Of course that’s what must have happened. Explains away everything, doesn’t it? I was an utter gobshite not to have guessed earlier!
It’s a v., v. long and complex story, but the brief potted summary is that Kitty has no family to speak of, never even knew her dad, and her birth mother passed away when she was just a baby. She grew up in one foster home after another but says none of them ever really worked out and she just drifted around from Billy to Jack, rootless. Then when she was about fifteen, she was placed with an older, widowed lady called Mrs Kennedy and the pair of them just idolised and adored each other right from the word go. To this day, Kitty considers Mrs K., as she affectionately calls her, to be the only real family she ever had, even though she was only homed with her for over a year.
But when Kitty was only about sixteen, the poor woman started to become seriously ill with Alzheimer’s, followed by a series of strokes. Awful for her and just as bad for Kitty too, though she never let on. Instead, she just did what Kitty always does: tried to keep the show on the road single-handedly for as long as she could.
Anyway, it got to stage when authorities decided Mrs K. couldn’t care for herself any more, never mind a sixteen-year-old, so on what Kitty calls the most Dickensian day of her life, they broke them up and packed Mrs K. off to the best-equipped care home going, for someone with her condition. Meanwhile, Kitty was sent off to yet another foster family, and from that point on, she just completely clams up whenever I gently probe her for more about her back-story.
Mrs K. is being well looked after, though, and to this day, Kitty still visits her at the care home every chance she gets. Only trouble is, it’s just outside Limerick, a bloody two-and-a-half-hour journey from here. Kitty’s amazing though; drives down to see her every day off that she can. I’ve even gone with her a few times, but find it all just sad beyond belief. There are days when Mrs K. doesn’t even recognise Kitty; confuses her with one of staff nurses in care home and for some reason keeps calling her Jean.
Also, I’m just not a born natural round ill people, like Kitty is. Kitty will laugh and joke and even bounce round other wards to visit all Mrs K.’s pals; you can always tell what room she’s in by the loud sound of guffaws that follow her about everywhere. Like a one-woman Broadway show. Whereas I never know what to say or do, just sit tongue-tied in corner, then end up coming out with weak, useless crap along the lines of, ‘Well, she’s certainly looking a whole lot better, isn’t she?’
Even worse, the days when Mrs K. doesn’t know us are lately becoming the good days; sometimes she won’t talk to us at all, just sits rocking away to self and singing theme tunes from TV shows, bird-happy, away in own little world. Keeps confusing me with one of the tea ladies called Maureen, and every now and then will screech at me, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Maureen? I hate bloody egg and onion sandwiches!’
Heartbreaking. My own family may not exactly be the Waltons, but Kitty’s story at least makes me appreciate what I have that bit more.
So maybe I’m finally on the money here. Because if something did happen to Mrs K., I just know in my waters Kitty wouldn’t think twice about hotfooting it all way to Limerick, would she? And she couldn’t phone me to explain on account of … well, maybe there being no mobile signal down there?
Has to have been what happened. And the only reason it didn’t occur to me before now is that for past few years, although Mrs K.’s mental state is deteriorating fast, she’s been so physically strong that not even Kitty was worried about her for the longest time.
‘Joyce, I think I should call the care home. Now.’
‘Of course,’ she says firmly. ‘You can use the phone from my office; you’ll have a bit more privacy. It’s just off the kitchens. Come on, I’ll show you.’
Obediently I follow her and the pair of us weave our way through the Christmas boozers, worry now vom-making in my throat. Don’t know what Kitty will do if anything’s happened to Mrs K. Especially not now, at Christmas. She’s the only person in the whole world that Kitty considers family; it would just be too bloody unfair by far.
Joyce efficiently brings up number of Foxborough House care home on her computer and even dials for me. Hands trembling nervously now as the number starts to ring.
‘Foxborough House, how may I help you?’ comes a polite, breezy, unstressed voice.
‘Hi, there, I was wondering if I could enquire after Mrs Kathleen Kennedy? She’s in room three eleven on the ground floor.’
‘May I ask if you’re a family member?’
Gulp to myself, stomach clenched, somehow sensing bad news. The worst.
‘Family friend.’
‘Well, I’m happy to tell you that Mrs Kennedy is absolutely fine, just ate a hearty dinner, in fact.’
‘Sorry, you mean … She’s OK then? There’s no emergency with her?’
‘No, none at all.’
‘And, well … I was just wondering if Kitty Hope had been to see her at all today? She’s my best friend and—’
Receptionist’s voice instantly brightens tenfold at the very mention of Kitty’s name.
‘Oh, yes, I know Kitty well! Such a fantastic, lively girl, isn’t she? We all love it so much when she comes to visit, she really cheers up everyone’s day round here. But you know, the last time I saw her was about a week ago. I remember distinctly, because she mentioned that she’d be away for Christmas, but that she’d be in to see her mum as soon as she got back. At New Year, I think she told us.’
Joyce looks hopefully at me and I shake my head. So, no emergency, then.
Kitty’s still gone AWOL.
1.05 p.m.
Right then. I’ve been in Byrne & Sacetti for ages now, can’t loiter round any longer. Also, it’s not fair to delay poor old Joyce any more, not when it’s like Armageddon in here. So I hug her goodbye and she smiles her warm, confident smile and tells me not to worry a bit. That Kitty will turn up safe and well and we’ll all look back on this and have a good laugh.
Attempt to give watery grin back at her, but I’m an appallingly unconvincing actress.
1.08 p.m.
Then, just as I’m facing back out into the snowy street outside, my mobile suddenly rings.
Check to see who it is, hoping against hope … Not it’s not Kitty, but it’s the next best thing! Her boyfriend, Simon! He HAS to have news, just has to …
I dip into the doorway of a fairly quiet pub, away from the noisy street and the blaring sound of Christmas Eve traffic before answering.
‘Simon! Can you hear me?’
‘Hey, Angie, how are you?! I’m sorry about the delay in getting back to you, but I’m back at home, plus I’d to take a whole clatter of nieces and nephews to see Santa today and to buy all their Xmas presents. Bloody mayhem in Smyth’s toy store, there were near riots over the last of the Lalaloopsy Silly Hair Dolls. Tell you something, I’ve never needed a stiff drink so badly in my life!’
Such a relief to hear his soft Galway accent. Strong. Reassuring. Bit like a pilot making an announcement on an Aer Lingus flight. For first time today, I feel safe. Calm. Somehow, it’s all going to be OK. I’m far too stressed out to cop why he’s on about Lalaloopsy Dolls, then remind myself: Simon comes from a massive family with approximately fifteen nieces and nephews, or whatever it was at last count.
‘Simon,’ I interrupt, a bit rudely, ‘is Kitty with you?’
‘With me? What are you talking about?’
Stomach instantly shrivels to the size of a sultana.
‘You mean … you don’t know where she is then?’
‘No, isn’t she with you? I thought you pair were having your lovely, relaxing, girlie treat day today? That I’ve been explicitly banned from, and told not to even call till hours later, when you’re both roaring drunk on champagne?’
Fill him in. On everything, on how I’ve been everywhere and phoned just about everyone, looking for her. I even tell him bit about cops, who all but laughed at me and politely told me to bugger off the phone.
Long, long silence. Not a good sign. Starting to get weak-kneed and a bit nauseous now.
‘Last time I saw her,’ he says slowly, ‘was yesterday morning, just as I was leaving the house to get on the road to Galway …’
‘Yesterday morning?’
No, no, no, no, no. This not good news. Not good at all.
‘Yeah. I came down here as early as I could, to try and beat the holiday traffic. Then I called her at about lunchtime to say I’d arrived safely and that both my parents were asking after her and are dying to see her as soon as we get back from holidays.’
No surprise here. For some reason, people don’t just idolise Kitty: they want to carry her shoulder high through villages. Simon always says from very first time he took her to the West to meet his folks, they instantly preferred her to him. She’s just one of those people that absolutely everyone adores, even people she’s only met for five minutes, like barmen, taxi drivers, etc. You even see hard-nosed, intransigent dole officers eating out of her hand, after just a few minutes in her company. V. hard not to. Kitty’s the mad, bad, dangerous-to-know type, totally magnetic and just the best fun you can possibly imagine. Kinda gal you meet for a few drinks, then end up the following morning in Holyhead. (Actual true story. Happened to us the night of her thirtieth birthday.)
‘She was on her way into work,’ Simon goes on, ‘and couldn’t really talk, so I told her I’d call her back later on. But when I did, she didn’t answer her phone. I wasn’t particularly worried, though; there wouldn’t be anything unusual in that if she was working late. So I just left a message and said we’d catch up this evening, after her spa day with you.’
‘So where do you think she’s got to?’ I ask, voice now sounding weak as a kitten’s. The image of a sick perv locking her up in cellar suddenly now very real in my mind’s eye.
‘Well, she can’t just have vanished into thin air,’ says Simon confidently. ‘Leave it with me, will you? Let me make a few phone calls. Maybe she just crashed out in another pal’s house last night after a few Christmas drinks? I mean, you know what she’s like!’
‘OK then,’ I tell him, trying my v., v. best to sound reassured. ‘Well, you know I’m back living with my parents now, so you’ll know where to find me if there’s any news.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll call you the minute I hear from her.’
Am just about to hang up when he says, ‘Oh, and by the way, Angie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Happy birthday!’
My birthday.
It had totally gone out of my head.
Heartbreaking and uplifting, Me and You is a story about how hard it is to leave our old selves behind, the tough choices we sometimes have to make and how love and friendship can heal the most damaged of hearts.
Enjoy this extract? Buy the rest of the book here:
The Naughty Girls Hen Weekend
Sophie Hart
‘Wow, it’s huge!’
Amanda Miller’s mouth fell open as the pink stretch limo she was travelling in turned off the main road and drove carefully between two imposing stone pillars, bumping its way up a long driveway. The building up ahead was enormous, like a castle or a stately home.
‘I told you you’d love it,’ squealed Lisa, who was Amanda’s best friend from school and had been appointed chief bridesmaid at her upcoming wedding. Her mass of copper curls bounced around her face as she clapped her hands with excitement.
‘Cottesley Manor Golf and Spa Hotel,’ murmured Amanda’s Auntie Brenda, a formidable woman in her late fifties, as she read the sign next to the gateposts. ‘Very swanky.’ She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows simultaneously, looking deeply suspicious of anything too swanky.
‘It’s one of the best hotels in the Peak District,’ Shelli, Amanda’s nineteen-year-old cousin, chimed in. ‘There’s a swimming pool, a jacuzzi and a trouser press in every room. I looked it up on the website,’ she finished seriously.
‘Nothing but the best for our Mandy,’ grinned Lisa, reaching across to give her a hug.
‘Thanks everyone,’ Amanda sniffed, feeling herself start to well up. They hadn’t even arrived at the hotel yet, and already she was getting emotional. There was no way she would make it through this weekend without turning into a blubbering mess. ‘You’re the best friends a girl could have,’ she told them tearfully, taking a sip of the pink cava they’d been guzzling ever since the car left Nottingham just under an hour ago.
Inside, the limo was decorated like a miniature nightclub, with flashing disco lights and long pink couches in wipe-clean fabric. Barbie Girl was blasting out over the speakers and Shelli was wriggling around in her seat, attempting to dance while sitting down. Opposite was Amanda’s friend Jo, who she worked with in the admissions department at Nottingham Trent University, and next to her was Sarah, Amanda’s best mate from uni. Sarah was sitting straight-backed with her ankles neatly crossed, sipping doubtfully at the cheap cava and making polite conversation with Jo.
Amanda watched them nervously. It was always hard bringing all your favourite people together for the first time and hoping that everyone liked each other. She really wanted this weekend to be a success, and couldn’t help but wonder just what her friends had in store for her.
‘Drink up ladies, we’re almost there,’ screeched Lisa, grabbing the remains of the last cava bottle and leaning over to top up everyone’s glasses. Without warning, the car swung round in a sharp circle as it parked up outside the hotel. Lisa shrieked as she lost her balance, pouring the cava all over Auntie Brenda’s lap.
‘Lisa! Now look what you’ve done,’ Brenda exclaimed, leaping up and banging her head on the roof.
‘Sorry, Brenda!’ Lisa looked mortified as she grabbed a handful of paper napkins and began frantically rubbing at the spreading wet patch.
‘I can dry my own crotch, thank you very much,’ Brenda told her huffily. She glanced down at herself and groaned. ‘Oh no, I look like I’ve had an accident!’
‘Come on, let’s get you inside,’ Lisa said firmly, taking control of the situation. ‘You can go straight up to your room and get changed.’
‘Do you think we should put the fairy wings on now?’ Shelli asked hopefully. She was a sweet, gangly girl, with a trendy swept-over bob haircut and delicate features.
Amanda peered out through the window. Two well-to-do gentlemen carrying golf bags were heading towards the green, while a smartly-dressed young couple walked hand-in-hand up the steps to the main entrance. ‘Maybe later,’ she replied tactfully. ‘Let’s save them for tonight.’
‘Fair enough. Don’t forget your balloon!’ Shelli grinned, handing her an unwieldy helium balloon with a picture of an L plate and the slogan Bride to Be plastered across it.
‘Thanks, Shell,’ Amanda managed, as she climbed inelegantly out of the car, the balloon bobbing in the light breeze.
The hotel itself was indeed very swanky, just as Auntie Brenda had suspected. Ivy crawled over the honey-coloured walls, and there were thick stone pillars on either side of the entrance. In the warm June sunlight, the building looked especially inviting.
Amanda noticed that their vehicle was attracting some disapproving stares from the other guests.
‘I’m not sure this is a pink limo sort of place,’ she whispered to Lisa, who was disposing of the soggy serviettes.
‘Sorry hon, your cousin insisted,’ she grinned, as they looked over to see Shelli trying to wheel her miniature pink suitcase across the gravel. Her nails were painted the exact same shade of pink as her lipgloss, and she was wearing pink wedge shoes with a matching pink belt.
‘I should have guessed,’ Amanda giggled. Then she caught sight of Sarah, emerging un-crumpled from the back door and carrying a smart weekend bag. ‘Thanks so much for coming,’ she cried, as Sarah made her way over. ‘I know how busy you are.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It’s a gorgeous hotel, isn’t it?’ Sarah smiled, pushing her designer sunglasses up on top of her head as she took in the view over the golf course and down to the lake.
‘I knew you’d like it. It’s exactly your kind of place.’
Amanda and Sarah had met when they were Sociology students at Birmingham University. Whereas Amanda had given up on lectures after a few weeks, preferring to stay in bed and sleep off the hangover she undoubtedly had from partying too hard the night before, Sarah dutifully went along to every session, letting Amanda copy her notes when she got back. Sarah now worked as an area manager for a cosmetics company and all her time and energy was focused on her flourishing career. Like Amanda, she was 27 years old but, unlike her friend, she was still single and joked that she was married to her job.
‘It’s a great venue,’ Sarah nodded. ‘I’ll have to take a look at the facilities. It could be the perfect place for our annual conference.’
‘No thinking about work this weekend,’ Amanda chastised her. ‘This is my hen do. We’re here to have fun!’
‘Sorry,’ Sarah apologised. ‘And you’re right, we’re going to have an amazing time.’
She jumped as the limo driver beeped the horn before pulling away, the huge pink car looking totally out of place amongst the rolling green hills. It looked more suited to the Las Vegas Strip than a sedate country house in deepest Derbyshire.
‘Are you two coming? Or are you going to stand outside gossiping all day?’ Auntie Brenda yelled loudly. The sound of her voice caused some nearby golfers to turn round and stare, a couple of them pointing in alarm at the damp patch on her skirt.
‘There was an accident with some champagne,’ she bellowed across the green, with as much dignity as she could manage. ‘I may be getting on, but I’m not ready for Tena Lady just yet!’ Then she marched inside with her nose in the air.
‘Sorry about that, we can’t take her anywhere,’ Amanda giggled, linking her arm through Sarah’s as they followed Auntie Brenda up the wide stone steps to the entrance.
Inside it was just as grand as the outside had been, all dark wood panelling and oil paintings hung on the walls.
They checked in, and a porter took their bags as they made their way excitedly up the main staircase, a dramatic, sweeping affair with a plush red carpet and an enormous chandelier hanging above them.
‘I feel like I’m in Downton Abbey,’ Brenda chuckled.
‘You’d have made a great Dowager Countess,’ Amanda told her seriously, as Lisa snorted.
‘Yeah, right. They wouldn’t have let you up from below stairs, Brenda,’ she teased, trying to keep a straight face as Brenda gave her the evil eye. Lisa had known Amanda’s family since she was tiny, so she had no qualms about making fun of them.
‘What’s happening with the rooms?’ Amanda asked, as they reached the top of the stairs and made their way along the corridor. ‘Who’s sharing with who?’
‘Lisa’s already asked if she can share with you,’ Shelli explained. ‘As you’ve been friends the longest and she is your head bridesmaid. So you two have got the best room.’
Lisa let out a whoop, high-fiving Amanda.
‘I thought I’d share with Brenda, as we know each other,’ Shelli continued.
‘And so that no one else has to put up with Brenda’s snoring,’ Lisa quipped.
‘So that leaves Jo and Sarah sharing a room – is that okay?’ she asked them nervously, as both women nodded their heads and insisted it was fine.
‘Great!’ Shelli looked relieved, as she stopped outside door number 301. ‘This is Amanda’s room, so I suggest we all meet back here in fifteen minutes. Does that give everyone enough time to freshen up? You’ll need to get changed into your yoga outfits, and don’t forget to bring your swimming stuff as we’ll be heading to the spa straight afterwards.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Jo grinned, as everyone headed off to find their rooms.
‘Mandy, this is gorgeous!’ Lisa squealed, taking in the four-poster bed and the lead-paned windows that looked out over the tennis courts and the riding stables beyond. The room itself was decorated in an old-fashioned chintzy style, with matching floral curtains and bedspread. ‘And check this out!’ she yelled, as she walked through to the bathroom, finding the stand-alone bath in the middle of the black and white tiled floor. ‘It’s like something out of Pretty Woman!’
‘Look what I’ve found,’ Amanda shouted from the bedroom, as Lisa ran back through to see. Amanda was searching through the minibar, pulling out miniature bottles of spirits and family-size bars of chocolate. She held up a discreet black box with red writing.
‘What’s that?’
‘An “Intimacy Package” apparently. Condoms, lube and a blindfold,’ Amanda smirked, as she read the side of the box.
‘No way!’ Lisa exclaimed. ‘I suppose the hotel is aimed at couples on mini-breaks.’
‘Well, I won’t be getting much use out of those this weekend,’ Amanda sighed wistfully.
‘You’re right there,’ Lisa agreed. ‘Just think, from now on, you’ll never sleep with anyone apart from Stuart ever again.’
‘I thought I was sleeping with you tonight,’ Amanda giggled. ‘We’re snuggling up in that romantic four-poster aren’t we?’
‘You know what I mean.’ Lisa rolled her eyes. ‘But seriously, doesn’t it seem weird? No sex with any other man, ever again.’
‘Not really,’ Amanda shrugged. ‘In some ways, it’s a relief. I don’t have to go out to clubs anymore and worry about whether or not anyone’s going to fancy me. I don’t have all that awkwardness of sleeping with someone new for the first time. And Stuart will put up with me if I haven’t shaved my legs or waxed my bikini line.’
‘Ah, it must be true love,’ Lisa teased, as she unzipped her suitcase and began wriggling out of her clothes. ‘Come on, we’d better get a move on. Everyone’ll be back here before we know it, and we’d better keep to Shelli’s schedule.’
‘Shouldn’t you be organising everything?’ Amanda wondered, as she undressed and began pulling on her leggings and a vest top. She and Lisa had known each other for so long that they had no qualms about getting undressed in front of each other. ‘You’re my head bridesmaid after all.’
‘I know, but Shelli really wanted to be involved in everything, and she had so many good ideas that I pretty much left her to it. She ran everything by me first though, so we won’t do anything terrible to you.’
‘I take it the yoga was Shelli’s idea?’
‘Yeah. She said it would be a great way for us all to bond, and to relax before the weekend kicks in. But you should have seen Brenda’s face when she suggested it! I can’t imagine her doing the downward dog, can you?’
Amanda burst out laughing, looking up guiltily as there was a knock on the door and Shelli and Brenda burst in.
‘Auntie Brenda!’ Amanda exclaimed, as she caught sight of her. ‘You look—’
‘Retro,’ Shelli cut in quickly. ‘Doesn’t she, Lisa?’
‘That’s not quite the word I’d have used for it,’ Lisa replied, trying not to snigger as she took in Brenda’s outfit. She was wearing khaki hiking shorts that sat above the knee and showed off her chunky white legs – an effect not helped by the thick red ankle socks and white plimsolls on her feet. A too-small t-shirt stretched tightly across her ample bosom, and from the way everything was jiggling under there, it was clear that she wasn’t wearing a sports bra. The whole ensemble was topped off with a white sweatband crammed on top of her wiry ash-blonde bob, and pulled down low on her forehead.
‘Yes, well I’ve no idea about these things,’ Brenda told them dismissively. ‘Sport’s not really my thing. I mean, before this weekend, I thought yoga was a character from Star Wars.’
She turned round, as Jo and Sarah appeared in the doorway behind them. Jo seemed self-conscious in leggings and an old t-shirt, but Sarah looked incredible in fitted yoga pants and a cropped vest top that showed off her toned stomach and arms. Her shiny brunette hair was tied up in a swinging ponytail, and she looked the picture of health.
‘Sarah, you look great!’ Amanda exclaimed. ‘You’ll put the rest of us to shame.’
‘It’s just my usual yoga outfit,’ Sarah shrugged.
‘Sarah’s a pro,’ Jo informed them, looking worried.
‘Not really. I’ve been going to classes a couple of times a week for about three years now. I find it really calming when my job gets too stressful.’
Everyone fell silent, suddenly feeling intimidated. Everyone, that is, apart from Auntie Brenda, who didn’t look in the least bit bothered.
‘Shall we go then?’ Shelli suggested brightly. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
