Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

I said to Marsha, 'They drank too much, that's all.'

'Robert's completely wicked,' Sophie murmured, trying to squirm away from Marsha so she could curl up on the floor again. 'Why do women have legs?'

Marsha gripped her even more firmly, and shook her. 'This isn't funny,' she hissed.

'But I haven't even got to the punchline,' said Sophie.

I thought Marsha was going a bit far. 'It's only a hangover,' I said.

'He's dead,' said Marsha.

Sophie started to cough. 'I feel like death,' she wheezed. 'I swear I'll never touch the stuff again.'

I was in need of a replay. I wasn't sure I'd understood correctly. 'He's what?' I asked Marsha. 'What did you just say?'

'Dead,' repeated Marsha. 'Robert Jamieson is dead.'

'Who's dead?' asked Sophie, as though she'd only just entered the conversation.

Marsha lost patience. 'Robert Jamieson! ' she yelled at the top of her voice. 'Robert Jamieson is frigging dead .'

Sophie spluttered with laughter. 'That's not funny,' she gurgled.

'It's not meant to be,' said Marsha.

I was laughing too, until the room began to spin and I had to sit down heavily on the sofa.

'That's awful,' I said. I couldn't work out why I was feeling so guilty. Perhaps it was the way I'd been slagging Robert off to myself, and without ever having seen him. I'd heard so much about the man, and now he was dead, and I never would meet him. Poor Sophie. What rotten luck. Just as she was getting over Miles, as well.

Sophie hauled herself to her feet and stood there swaying. 'But I didn't even hear him go out!' she wailed.

'Take it easy,' said Marsha.

'He hasn't even left the house,' said Sophie.

'Ninety per cent of all accidents take place in the home,' I reminded her.

Marsha started to say something, but Sophie interrupted. 'Look, I know he's not dead. Let's go up and talk to him right now.'

'Which hospital did they take him to?' I asked.

'For Heaven's sake,' said Marsha, and I realized with a shudder of comprehension that we'd all been talking at cross-purposes.

'Listen to me,' Marsha said in her sensible school-teacher voice. 'We're not talking about an accident. We're talking suicide. And we're not talking about this morning.'

'So what are we talking about?' I demanded.

'We're talking about a man who stood in front of his bathroom mirror and slit his throat from ear to ear.'

Now I knew why her manner had turned cold. I was feeling pretty chilly myself.

'You're lying,' said Sophie, but I knew instinctively that Marsha was telling the truth.

'Jesus Christ,' I said.

'And we're not talking about this morning,' said Marsha. 'Robert Jamieson has been dead for the past twelve years.'

'You have got to be kidding,' said Daisy. 'You mean Sophie Macallan was having it off with a dead person? '

I corrected her. 'She thought she was having it off with a dead person.'

'Either way it's creepy,' said Susie.

Miles was staring at the carpet. 'Sophie was going through a bad patch.'

'So how did you…?' Luke's voice trailed away. 'I'm sorry. None of our business.'

Miles shrugged. 'Doesn't matter. It's water under the bridge.'

'Things change,' Clare said darkly.

Some of her confessions had been a bit near the knuckle, I thought, especially considering Miles was present. Maybe she was trying to punish him for something, but she'd made the rest of us feel slightly uncomfortable as well. I addressed her directly and, I hoped, flippantly, trying to take some of the sting out of the evening.

'Quite a story,' I said.

She smiled at me. 'Wasn't it just,' she said.

I'm not usually slow, but a few beats passed before I realised her smile had been dripping with sarcasm.

'You women,' I said in retaliation. 'You all have such vivid imaginations.' The remark came out sounding a lot more vicious than I'd intended.

'Oh, piss off,' said Susie.

I tried to peck her affectionately on the cheek to show I was only joking, but she shied away with an expression of disgust. You didn't have to be Nostradamus to predict she was going to give me a hard time of it later on.

'But what about Sophie?' asked Daisy. 'What happened? I mean, I know what happened in the end, but there are so many different rumours about what led up to it.'

'So what did happen?' asked Luke.

'You mean you don't know?' Daisy asked. 'I thought everybody knew.'

'Maybe we should go,' Miles said to Clare. 'Maybe you've said enough.'

'You don't have to tell us the rest,' said Susie.

'I think we get the picture,' I added.

Clare looked me in the eye. It was as though she'd decided I was the enemy here.

'I don't think you get the picture at all,' she said. 'You wanted to know what happened, didn't you? Well there's more.'

Miles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It served him right, I thought. He'd asked for it, and now he was getting it in spades.

'Lots more,' said Clare.

Miles was feeling sorry for himself. When I asked what the matter was, he explained with a certain degree of embarrassment that somebody had swiped his Mont Blanc in Kensington Church Street…

'Hang on,' said Luke. 'What happened to Sophie?'

'All in good time,' said Clare.

'You can't just leave it up in the air like that.'

'Shut up and let her get on with it,' said Susie.

'But she keeps jumping around,' protested Luke.

'I'm telling it the way I remember it,' said Clare.

'Yes, but…'

'Shut up and let her get on with it'

Miles explained that somebody had swiped his Mont Blanc in Kensington Church Street the night before. I'd dealt with step-by-step Mont Blanc preparation at an earlier stage of the cook book, and was about to ask him why he'd gone all the way to Kensington Church Street to buy a chestnut cream dessert when he went on, 'Bastard swiped it out of my breast pocket while I was getting out of the car. Trendy new form of mugging, apparently. Quentin lost his Sheaffer the same way.'

And I realized, just in time, that he hadn't been referring to the edible type of Mont Blanc at all but to an incredibly expensive brand of fountain pen. Talk about a close shave; another few seconds, and I would have been nailing my ignorance to the masthead. Time to pack those puddings in,' I muttered.

I'd been talking to myself, but Miles overheard. 'You sound just like Sophie — always cutting out bread and potatoes or dairy products or whatever. It's a girl thing, isn't it? Always on some stupid diet.'

'I eat what I like,' I said, annoyed that Miles thought I might be one of those ditsy types with an eating disorder.

'Well, good for you,' he said in that faintly patronizing manner that never failed to make me grit my teeth. He spotted the waiter approaching. 'And what would you like to eat now?'

I ordered the shaggy parasols in white wine and parsley dressing followed by steamed quiff of wild boar with peeled grape polka-dots. Miles ordered a teensy spinach and bacon salad, and that was that. Now he'd made me feel like a glutton, and I accused him of having tricked me into ordering too much. He pleaded not guilty and explained that he had to leave room in his stomach for a dinner date later on.

I didn't have the heart to ask who the dinner date was with.

Cinghiale at lunchtime was packed with people whose faces were vaguely familiar. And here I was, right in the middle of the glittering throng — or a throng as glittering as any throng could be when everyone in it was dressed in shades of black and white and grey.