Because You Loved Me by Beth Moran

Author:Beth Moran [Moran, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction & Literature, Family Life, Contemporary Women
ISBN: 9781837513307
Amazon: B0BCVRR34L
Barnesnoble: B0BCVRR34L
Publisher: Boldwood Books
Published: 2023-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

17

I took an almond and clementine cake to the Hall on Boxing Day. Homemade. I was so eager to arrive with the cake in one piece, I drove the quarter of a mile up to the house instead of walking.

Parking my car in between an Audi and Erica’s Alfa Romeo induced a brief reality check. I wondered, between mute busters, how many other guests found themselves glued to the seat of their swanky cars by an overwhelming cascade of inadequacy. I restarted the engine. My drug, the promise of solitary silence, pulled at me with its invisible cord. But I knew that leaving now represented a fall off the wagon no less injurious than a shot of vodka to an alcoholic. I closed my eyes. Fought. Breathed. Nearly had a heart attack when the car door flew open.

Reuben. He reached over and switched the engine off before standing back, holding the door like a chauffeur. I scrabbled to undo my seat belt and clambered out, lifting the cake from its protective nest of blankets in the passenger footwell. As I took a step toward the house, Reuben moved in front of me, barring my way.

‘You need a minute.’

‘What?’ I was still dizzy with the scent of isolation.

‘Take a minute.’ He held out one hand, in a gesture of greeting. ‘Hi, I’m Reuben. Nice to meet you.’

I shook his hand, which was dry and rough with calluses. ‘Hello?’

Reuben smiled. ‘There you go. That’s all you have to do.’ He led the way as we moved across to the front entrance. ‘Oh, and you might want to do up the button on your trousers.’

The Hall looked like a set from a film. Pots displaying Christmas rose bushes stood on every step leading up to the front door. Half the garden shrubbery appeared to have been brought inside. Each room overflowed with winter greenery – lining mantelpieces and banisters, framing the vast mirrors, nestling on every surface. Tiny ornaments tucked among the foliage gleamed in splashes of silver and blue, and in the centre of the grand hallway, the tree took pride of place. I nearly laughed when I saw it. A fat, lopsided, scrubby fir tree, barely higher than my head, scrappy, dog-eared decorations too tacky even for Jimbo’s souvenir stall covered it entirely.

‘I love your tree!’ I moved past Ginger, who had welcomed us in, and took a closer look.

Ginger stroked one of the decorations: a clay star with a point chipped, painted with messy gold brushstrokes. ‘Our boys made these.’ She smiled at me. ‘They might be less than perfect, and showing the odd signs of wear and tear, but aren’t we all, Marion?’

About twenty others gathered in the main reception room, drinking mulled wine, sherry, or fruit punch, chatting in small clusters as Sunny and Katarina weaved in and out bearing plates of nibbles and fancy-looking canapes. I took a deep breath. I tried to recall Scarlett’s lesson on party mingling (something about fat bankers?) and wafted the throat-girl away with a sturdy exhalation.

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