The Sunday Lunch Club by Juliet Ashton

Author:Juliet Ashton [Ashton, Juliet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK

Chapter Eight

Lunch at Neil and Santiago’s

HOME-MADE MEZE: CHARGRILLED AUBERGINES/HUMMUS/TARAMASALATA

STUFFED PEPPERS/ARTICHOKES/LABNEH/PERSIAN RICE SALAD/SLOW-COOKED LAMB/SPATCHCOCKED GARLIC CHICKEN

BAKED FETA

TIRAMISU/BAKLAVA

‘Anna?’

‘Neil! Hi, what can I—’

‘You’ve got to get over here.’

‘Eh? I’m in my dressing gown, Neil. What’s the rush?’

‘I’m expecting the whole Sunday bloody Lunch sodding Club in two hours and Santiago’s gone missing.’

‘Missing? Like, abducted?’

‘No! I mean he’s . . . not here. He’s not answering his phone. How can he do this to me? It was his idea to ditch the caterers and do the food ourselves this time!’

‘He was right – it’s more personal when you go to the trouble to do it yourself.’

‘Will you keep to the point! I’m going crazy here. The food’s not even half done. Paloma is, well, she’s being Paloma. How can I cope with an eight-month-old child and prepare the house and the food and me? Oh God, she’s crying. Shush, shush, my darling, yes, Daddy’s here. Oh God, Anna, she won’t stop. Is she ill?’

‘Probably hungry. Or wants to play.’

‘Play! Are you mad, woman? There are peppers to stuff.’

‘Sod the peppers. Roll on the floor with your daughter instead.’

‘With my back? Anna, I beg you, come over and save me.’

‘From what?’

‘From Paloma!’

When Anna put down the phone, she turned to Santiago. ‘What do you see in him?’

They laughed. For quite a long time.

‘I feel bad now,’ said Santiago, as the laughter ended in a long, happy sigh.

‘No you don’t.’

‘Actually, I don’t.’ Santi’s eyes were so dark they seemed black, and now they creased with cheerful wickedness. ‘It’s about time Neil got to know his own daughter.’ He sat up, excited suddenly. ‘Do we have time to visit Dinkie?’

They did. As she hurried through the pastel hallways of Sunville, trying to keep up with Santi, Anna wondered if all Spanish men were so soppy about the elderly. She hoped he was typical, but so much about Santi was a one-off. His ability to stand back and let Neil shine without ever competing, his nonchalance about his looks, his rock-solid reliability.

After scolding them for turning up before she had a chance to make herself ‘decent’, Dinkie extracted every last syllable of gossip from them. She wanted to know how Maeve was; ‘She hasn’t called me in a while. All that business with Storm . . .’ She cheered up when she heard the latest about Neil. ‘You mean to tell me he’s looking after the baby all on his own?’ Dinkie put her hands to her face. ‘Jaysus, I don’t know which of them to feel more sorry for.’

From the outside, the enormous white cube of a house flanked by neon emerald lawns was serene. Inside, Paloma’s wails bounced off the artwork and the porcelain floor tiles. She’d already colonised the glacial spaces of the house Neil had spent years planning and building: a playpen sat beneath the limited edition Warhol prints; a potty had rolled under the white grand piano. Now Paloma was overriding the built-in sound system with her sobs.

‘What?’ Neil was desperate. On his

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