GEMMA FOX
Caught in the Act

Dedicated with lots of love and thanks to

my editor, Susan Opie at Harper Collins,

my agent, Maggie Phillips at Ed Victor,

but most of all to my family and friends

and the large wrinkly blonde mongrel

who thinks he’s still small enough to

get under my desk.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

About the Author

Other Books By

Copyright

About the Publisher

ONE

Carol Hastings lost her virginity on 7 July to Macbeth, Lord of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor and King thereafter. The photographic evidence was there in the downstairs toilet, alongside her wedding certificate and a bad photocopy of her decree absolute; the original being far too valuable to put on public display.

Even now, after all these years, Carol woke up some dark nights in a cold sweat, dreaming that she was still married and in a flurry of panic would run downstairs to check. Not that Carol had married Macbeth, it was just that sometimes it felt like it.

The photograph of Carol and Macbeth seemed as if had been taken a very long time ago. It was like looking at another life, someone else’s life, maybe a good friend’s daughter who had grown up and moved away.

It was years since Carol had re ally studied the picture, rather than just passed over it in a photographic stock-take of what was hanging on the walls. It was an arty black-and-white eight-by-ten; not that it showed the actual deflowering, obviously, but a kind of giddy post-coital group hug on the last day of the Belvedere High School drama tour.

They had just finished the final matinée performance; Carol peered at Macbeth and smiled. Gareth Howard, for ever eighteen, with broad shoulders, big blue eyes and dark floppy hair, all dressed up in his tinfoil crown and cloak. He stood behind Carol, one large hand resting on her shoulder in a very patriarchal gesture for someone whose voice had barely broken, apparently the master of all he surveyed.

Her smile broadened into a grin; it wasn’t that many years ago since her stomach fluttered whenever she thought about him. Skulking behind the fly-blown glass, Gareth still looked smug and self-satisfied.

Carol sighed and straightened up. Her trip down memory lane, taken while sitting on the downstairs toilet, had been prompted by a Sunday morning email:

Hi Carol, how are you? I saw that you’d got your profile posted on Oldschooltie.com and wonder if you remembered me? Once upon a time a long time ago in a land far far away I used to be Diana Brown. And if you have forgotten then all those things they said about the chemicals in the drinking water at school were most probably true. I still think about the good old days from time to time, especially now that my own kids are at high school…although I don’t think in terms of old…obviously. Here’s my mobile number: Use it some time!

Diana Brown—the girl who had taken on Carol’s wart and triumphed.

In the photograph, Diana was hunched over a cauldron along with her fellow witches, Netty Davies and Jan Smith. While Carol, a.k.a. Lady Macbeth, was centre stage, wearing way too much eyeliner and a big grin totally at odds with the whole crazed suicidal psycho-bitch from hell that had been popular with their director that year. Carol was dressed in a purple wool caftan and old velvet door-curtain ensemble, cunningly crafted with silver braid, half a packet of fruit gums and a bottle of Copydex into the robes of a queen. She smiled; like she knew what a man-hating power-crazed psychopath-bitch from hell was back in those days.

Carol re ally had set her heart on being one of the hags, working on the premise that a bad hair day and acne could be a real advantage on Shakespeare’s blasted heath. She’d even tried the wart on to get a feel for the part of Witch One at the lunchtime read-through. But Miss Haze and Mr Bearman—who organised the group tour—briskly agreed she was more than capable of doing Lady Macbeth justice and that false modesty was an unattractive trait.

There was a subtext, barely concealed: if Carol didn’t take the part then Fiona Templeton, whose father was chairman of the school governors and whose mother helped out with needlework, would get it, and everyone knew what that meant. Fiona had snatched the part of Juliet from a very evenly matched field the previous summer.

It had been hell. The pressure, the strain, the responsibility, what with Fiona’s nerves and her hayfever and her eczema and allergies and her delicate constitution, she had needed a little liedown before, after and sometimes during every performance. Fiona’s mother had had to come on tour with them, obviously, to keep an eye on their fragile starlet, cramping everyone’s style. Mrs Templeton prowled the wings like some terrible floral wraith, clutching a damp hanky, various inhalers and smelling salts, whispering words of encouragement, making sure that everyone knew what a brave little kitten Fiona truly was, even as she was elbowing her way to the front for another curtain call.

There was no contest. ‘OK, I’ll do it,’ said Carol weakly, falling on the sword on behalf of the rest of the troupe, while shuffling the pages of photocopied script back into a heap.

There had been a muted cheer from the less regal of hoi polloi at the back of the hall, which just about drowned out Fiona’s frantic disappointed wheezing and sobbing.

Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them. Miss Haze wrapped the rubber wart in a hankie and handed Carol a plastic dagger.

The reviews had been kind; Carol had still got them in a drawer somewhere. ‘Carol Hastings as Macbeth’s ill-fated queen reached fearlessly for the dramatic high notes’—the Herald. ‘With a maturity far beyond her years Carol Hastings’ Lady Macbeth made a gallant effort to sustain the darker phrases of the Scottish play without lapsing into untrammelled melodrama.’ Praise indeed from a man who, when not the drama critic, covered cattle auctions and the stock car racing.

Nostalgia is not what it used to be. Carol hung the photo back on the wall and got to her feet.

It did seem impossible, though, that she had lost touch with Diana. God, they used to be joined at the hip. Last time they’d spoken, Diana had just finished college and was off doing VSO in Africa or—something. Carol felt a horrible twinge of guilt. Where had the time gone?

‘Mum, are you OK in there?’

The toilet door was ajar; Carol had been sitting fully clothed on the lavatory in the middle of the day staring blankly at a wall for the best part of fifteen minutes. She could see it might make Jake think maybe something wasn’t quite right.

‘I’m fine, honey. I was just thinking.’

‘Right,’ he said. He didn’t sound wholly convinced. ‘Raf said do you want him to open the wine?’ Carol could hear the anxiety in her son’s voice. After all, she was heading for forty. Anything might have happened. ‘And he said are you going to do the salad, and will you marry him?’

Carol turned slowly; there was re ally no point having those great big blue-green eyes-like-a-cat-on-a-moonlit-night unless you knew how to use them. ‘He knows the answer to all of those questions.’

Jake, coming up for fourteen and just beginning to get a grip on the complicated wiring of adulthood, nodded. ‘Yes, yes, and no, not over the flayed bodies of myself, my infant children and the family pets?’

Carol nodded proudly. ‘Well done.’

‘In which case, Raf said, would you consider giving in gracefully and living in sin instead?’

Carol turned the stare up to stun. ‘When it comes to sin, Jake, I can think of so many better ways to do it than washing underpants and picking up other people’s dirty socks.’

‘And if you do want to do that kind of thing, you’ve always got me and Ollie, haven’t you?’

She nodded. ‘Exactly.’

‘Do you want him to start cooking?’

‘Did he happen to mention what time he was going home?’

Rafael O’Connell leaned in around the door to the utility room and handed her a glass of wine. It was German, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up. He was goodlooking in a lived-in way, forty-two, and wearing a wipe-down apron with a black bra, stockings and suspenders printed on the front of it, which the boys had given him for his last birthday. He was Irish, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up.

‘I was hoping you’d ask me to stay the night,’ he said, attempting to sound hurt and much put upon while pushing a mop of dark brown wavy hair back off his forehead.

Carol smiled, resisting the effects that his brogue had on her even after three years. ‘It’s Sunday, Raf. You know the rules; on Sundays you go home.’

‘I could make an exception.’

‘Well, I can’t. You’re a weekend thing. You should know that by now. Friday to Sunday and then—’ still smiling, she made a dismissive sweeping gesture with her hand—‘home.’

‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone,’ he grumbled, backing off into the kitchen, mugging deep and bitter rejection.

Jake looked at Carol and shook his head. ‘You’re re ally cruel to him. What sort of example are you setting? I’m at a very impressionable age.’

‘So’s Raf. He knows I don’t mean it. And besides, he is the kind of man who enjoys a challenge.’

Jake pulled a face. He had started dating and Carol suspected he was using her and Raf as an instructional video.

‘You should go and talk to him about it,’ Carol said, waving the wineglass in the general direction of the kitchen.

‘I already have. He said he’d give me twenty quid if I could get you to let him stay tonight.’

Carol sighed. ‘That is not what real grownups are supposed to do, Jake—it’s probably illegal, and definitely immoral. Pass me that big blue glass bowl, will you?’

Jake did as he was asked.

She pulled a large bag of mixed salad out of the bottom of the fridge. It was a bit of a devil’s deal re ally. Long summer Sundays, Mr O’Connell and the boys knocked themselves out building the world’s most bizarre kebabs, stuffing chicken breasts with God alone knows what, and baking bananas and apple slices in tinfoil with brown sugar and brandy while she opened a big tub of potato salad, threw a bag of mixed baby leaves into a bowl and chucked half a bottle of shop-bought dressing over it.

Setting the bowl down for a moment, Carol stepped back into the loo and brought the photo of the drama group out into the sunlight. A younger, altogether-less-cynical Carol stared back up at her, all open-faced enthusiasm and too much makeup. What would she have done if she’d known all the things that were coming her way? Even though she was smiling, Carol felt her eyes prickling with tears. The time had gone so quickly. It didn’t seem fair.

She picked up the phone and tapped in Diana’s mobile number. Half a dozen rings later a bright breezy voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is that Diana Brown?’

There was a split-second pause and then a raucous laugh. ‘Carol? Is that you?’

‘Certainly is. It was great to get your email. I was just looking at a photo of us when we did Macbeth and thought that if someone doesn’t ring soon we’ll all be dead.’

Diana groaned. ‘The way I feel today that would be a blessing. It’s so nice to hear your voice. I’m re ally glad you rang. I daren’t think about how long it’s been since we last spoke. Was it at someone’s wedding?’ Diana sounded genuinely pleased. ‘You sound re ally grown up.’

Carol laughed. ‘You too, but don’t be fooled—it’s a very thin disguise.’

Through the kitchen window she watched Raf laying out various offerings to the fire gods while the boys unfolded the garden chairs and opened up the parasol.

‘I thought I’d give you a quick ring to make contact, re ally. How are you?’ asked Carol, a little self-consciously; what did they talk about now? How long was it since they had spoken?

‘I’m fine, happy, busy. We’re living in the Midlands—I don’t know if you knew but I married a vicar.’

Carol felt her heart sinking. It was worse than she thought. ‘re ally?’ she said. ‘You married him? God, bloody hell—oh damn, bugger—I’m so sorry. Er…’

At which point Diana giggled furiously. Carol would have recognised the sound anywhere and felt the tension in her stomach ease.

‘It’s not that bad, re ally,’ Diana replied. ‘As long as you don’t mind working Christmas and Easter and every weekend. How have you been, anyway? I’ve often thought about you.’

‘How long have you got?’ Carol said wryly.

‘Well, unfortunately at the moment about two minutes—which is a real shame because I’d re ally like the chance to catch up. I’m helping out at the parish luncheon club today and we’re in the eye of the storm between the roast beef and apple crumble. Would you mind if I rang you back later?’

‘Not at all; I’m in all day.’

‘It’s so good to hear you. One thing, just quickly—my son is coming down your way to scout camp at half term and, well, maybe we could get together?’

Carol smiled. ‘Sure. I was just thinking how awful it was that we’d lost touch. So yes, of course. Do you know when it is?’

Out in the garden the first of the kebabs committed ritual suicide, dropping through the grill in a wild flurry of wood ash and much swearing.

‘Hang on, I’ve got to go. The dessert stampede just started,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll ring you back.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Diana rang around nine, when Raf had left and the day was slowing down. Carol took the phone and a glass of wine out into the garden.

‘I can’t imagine you married to a vicar, Di. Are you happy?’

‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ Diana said, sounding deeply amused. ‘Of course I’m not happy. I’ve been married donkeys years—I’ve forgotten what happy means.’

‘You don’t seem the type, or at least you didn’t used to be. What happened? Wouldn’t you be better off with a nice chartered accountant, or a plumber? What about the sex, drugs and rock and roll?’

There was a moment’s pause and then Diana said, ‘Hedley and I try not to let them interfere with evensong.’

‘Oh, clever,’ laughed Carol. ‘I always thought you’d end up with Chris Morrison.’

She heard Diana catch her breath. ‘My goodness. You know I’d forgotten all about Chris. Chris Morrison? I wonder what he’s doing now. How on earth could I forget Chris?’

‘He’s on Oldschooltie—there’s a photo,’ said Carol, taking another sip of wine. ‘He’s done re ally well for himself, and he looks like George Clooney.’

‘No?’ Diana said incredulously.

Carol giggled. ‘No, actually he looks more like George Formby but he sounds re ally nice on his profile. He lives in Yorkshire now, I think—I’m amazed you didn’t look him up.’

‘I only joined a couple of weeks ago. I see the names and it brings back all sorts of memories. I keep wondering what they’re all doing now, what do they look like, who they ended up with.’

‘Well, you ended up with a vicar called Hedley.’

‘You make it sound terrible; he’s a lovely guy. I met him when we were at university. I told you about him. It’s not like I don’t know all about his dirty linen. He may be a living saint to our flower ladies but to me he is still the guy who climbed the fire escape into my bedroom in the early hours, hellbent on a legover, and threw up all over my bed instead.’

‘Whoever said romance was dead?’

‘It helps me keep him in perspective. So, how do you feel about a flying visit?’

‘It would be great, but does it have to be flying? You could come for lunch, the whole day—stay over if you like. That way we can have a drink and it’ll give us plenty of time to catch up. I’m sure the boys wouldn’t mind your son bunking down with them.’

Diana made a hesitant little noise. ‘It’s very kind but—’ she began

Carol smiled. ‘If you’re being polite, don’t be—if you don’t want to stay that’s fine but if you do, it would be lovely. You haven’t got to make your mind up now. Think about it.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘You won’t be, there’s a spare room, and if we haven’t got anything to say, or we hate the sight of each other, you can always go home early.’

‘OK, great. Have you got a diary handy?’

Carol took a quick look round the kitchen. It was tidy, there was food in the oven, salad in the fridge, dessert defrosting on the draining board and Raf had said he’d come round for supper. So far so good. Carol looked in the mirror. Some days it still struck her as odd, seeing a grown-up looking back. She tugged her hair into shape, before taking another look at the clock. Diana had said they would arrive around twelve. It was almost that now. Just how many ways were there to worry?

What had been the state of play when they last met? What if Diana had changed—come out, gone in, gone weird, gone mad, gone sensible. Grown up? Carol was surprised to realise just how nervous she felt. What it boiled down to was, what if their friendship had been a passing thing? What if now they were all grown up they had nothing in common except memories and polite conversation? And how much would that colour their notion of the past?

From outside came the sound of wheels over gravel. Taking a deep breath, Carol opened the back door and headed towards the battered Volvo estate now parked under the lilacs.

‘Diana?’

As soon as she saw her, Diana practically leaped out of the car.

Carol would have known her anywhere. ‘My God, you look amazing,’ Carol said, holding her at arm’s length. ‘How come you haven’t got any wrinkles?’

‘What can I tell you? Healthy living and a clean conscience,’ Diana said, doing a little mock twirl.

‘That’ll be the day. Did you manage to find us OK?’

‘Uh-huh. Your directions were re ally good—so some things have changed for the better. It’s re ally great to see you.’ Diana, grinning, pulled her close and hugged her tight, all the while watched over by her son, who was sitting in the back of the car, surrounded by great piles of camping gear.

He looked about twelve, and as he clambered out of the car he appeared to be made entirely of elbows, knees and teeth. Carol guessed he was probably the spitting image of his father, all wild, wiry, hamster-coloured hair and pale creamy skin. Unfortunately she couldn’t remember his name.

‘This is Dylan,’ said Diana, waving him closer and digging Carol out of a hole.

The boy solemnly held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a high-pitched voice totally at odds with the fact that he had to be at least six foot tall.

‘Nice to meet you too. My boys are upstairs. Come on in and I’ll introduce you. I hope you’re hungry,’ Carol said. ‘We’ve got loads to eat. Do you want to bring your stuff in?’

Dylan considered for a few moments and then said, ‘Probably not. We got soaked; everything smells disgusting.’

Carol nodded. ‘OK—well, we can find you some things if you’re stuck.’ Although probably not trousers, she thought ruefully.

‘So come on then,’ said Diana, grabbing a huge canvas bag and locking the car. ‘Let’s hear it all. All the goss, all the history, every last bit of juicy scandal…’

Carol laughed. ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’

Diana shook her head. ‘You’d better believe it,’ she said, following Carol inside.

‘I thought you’d be all sweetness and light.’

‘You’ve got a very naïve view of life as a vicar’s wife. I thought I was bad enough.’

‘I wouldn’t say you’ve been anywhere near bad enough, by the looks of you,’ Carol said cheerfully. ‘I bought champagne—or would you rather have tea?’

Diana lifted an eyebrow. ‘Both. Oh, while we’re on the subject of re ally bad, I’ve brought all the old school photos with me. I think my mum bought every single one they ever took.’ She put the canvas bag down on the table and started ferreting around in it. ‘Some of them are truly dire—’

‘If I see one New Romantics haircut or anything involving spray-on glitter or shoulder pads, you’re out of here.’

‘See, I told you I’m not all good—appearances can be deceptive,’ said Diana, producing the albums with a triumphant grin, and then she paused and looked around the cosy kitchen. ‘Gosh, it’s lovely in here. I’m so hungry, and that smells wonderful.’

Carol looked at her. ‘Gosh?’

Diana waved the word away. ‘Sorry, too many years helping with Brownies. Took me God knows how long to wean myself of the f-word—and various b-words once Hedley was ordained—which leaves me with things like, oh gosh and, well goodness me. I only use oh God when I’m out.’

‘Bloody hell, not much of a choice, is it?’

Diana shrugged as Carol took the champagne out of the fridge. ‘You have to be philosophical about it. It could be worse—we could be staunch tee-total Methodists.’

It felt as if they had never been apart. Carol took Dylan upstairs to meet the mob, and then thumbed the cork out of the bottle of champagne and poured it while Diana sat at the table. Dressed in a cream blouse, smart navyblue skirt and jacket ensemble, sensible shoes and a haircut that made her look like a cross between a social worker and—well—a vicar’s wife, re ally, Diana looked to Carol as if she was dressing up in her mum’s clothes, or maybe an adult version of their old school uniform.

She topped up Diana’s glass with champagne and lifted it in a toast. ‘Here’s to old friends.’

Diana tapped the side of the glass with her own. ‘Less of the old,’ she growled.

‘I hadn’t realised how much I’ve missed you.’

‘I was just thinking the same on the way here. Tell me about you and what you’ve been up to.’

‘No, first of all tell me what it’s like being married to a vicar—every year I’ve seen it on the Christmas cards and thought who in God’s name called your husband Hedley.’

‘I was hoping we were going to talk about you first,’ Diana protested.

‘re ally?’ Carol feigned innocence until Diana shrugged and conceded defeat.

‘OK, but it is your turn next. Hedley’s a family name—his great-great-granddad or someone started it. It’s been passed down from generation to generation to the first-born, which has been a boy since the dawn of time the way Hedley tells it—but fortunately, thank God, our first baby turned out to be a girl.’

‘Oh, I remember,’ said Carol, sliding the plates onto the table. ‘You sent me a card. Pink patchwork flopsy bunnies in a basket.’

Diana nodded. ‘That’s right. By the time we got to number four I couldn’t afford the bloody stamps, let alone find time to write the cards. Anyway, we called our eldest Abigail and then after that we had Lucy and Harriet. So when Dylan came along, as we had circumnavigated the whole first-born son thing, we agreed to give him Hedley as a second name. Although I think Hedley’s dad was a little disappointed.’

‘Who came up with Dylan, then?’

Diana raised her eyebrows, but before she could reply Carol jumped in, ‘It had to be Hedley—don’t tell me he was a Magic Roundabout fan?’ almost choking with laughter on her drink.

Diana’s expression confirmed what Carol already knew. ‘Dylan Thomas?—Not Bob Dylan?’

‘You are still a complete and utter cow, aren’t you?’ Diana said after a few seconds. ‘Yes, of course it was Hedley.’ She lowered her voice although the boys were upstairs playing on the computer and well out of earshot. ‘You get used to it after a while—and it could have been worse: his first choice was Ethelred.’

‘No?’ Carol stared at her open-mouthed. ‘You’ve got to be joking?’

Diana waved Carol’s expression away. ‘Do I look like the kind of woman who would joke about something like Ethelred? What would you have done?’

‘Left him,’ hissed Carol.

Diana grinned and shook her head.

‘Grabbed “Dylan” with both hands?’

Two hours, a re ally good lunch and a bottle of champagne later they were still at the table, sitting amongst the debris. The boys had gone back upstairs and Carol had broken out a bottle of Baileys.

‘…And the other thing is I’ve always wanted to ask a vicar—and you’re as close as I’m likely to get—did God call him? You know, like the whole voices in the head, road to Damascus thing.’

Diana shrugged as she opened the first of the stack of photo albums. ‘Oh, bloody hell I don’t know.’

‘I see your swearing is coming on nicely. So, go on then—was Hedley called?’

Diana looked her over. ‘You know, you haven’t changed at all, have you?’ she said, helping herself to a handful of After Eight mints. ‘I’ve genuinely got no idea. You can ask Hedley, if you like. He’s very keen to meet you and the boys.’

‘If I were married to him I would have had to have asked him by now.’

Diana shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I re ally want to know. Hedley is so rational about everything else. How would you feel if the man in your life was doing something because the voices in his head had told him to do it?’

Carol considered the idea and then nodded. ‘Fair point.’ She turned the conversation. ‘I can’t get over how little you’ve changed.’

‘You still look the same too. OK maybe a bit wrinklier, but not much—the good thing about getting older is that your eyesight goes too.’

‘I don’t feel any different,’ said Carol, topping up their glasses. ‘We just know more. Did you go into teaching? I feel kind of embarrassed that I don’t remember any of this stuff—how did we drift so far apart?’

Diana sighed. ‘I know exactly what you mean. The time goes so quickly. Other things come and fill the gap. I taught till I had the kids and then I went back part time when Dylan started school. I don’t think I could handle full time—now, how about you?’

‘How long have you got?’ said Carol, taking a pull on her drink—a gesture that would have looked altogether tougher and more hard bitten and worldly if the glass didn’t have a cocktail umbrella in it and she wasn’t sipping it through an extra thick milkshake straw.

‘Well, we’ve got half a bottle of Baileys left—do you think that is going to be enough?’

Carol, still sucking, shrugged. ‘Once that’s done all I’ve got left is a bottle of advocaat until Raf shows up. I suppose I could always try and make us a Snowball. Do you remember when Netty Davies made those ones with vodka as well as brandy? God, I don’t think I’ve ever been so drunk in my life. Maybe I should try and make a couple for old times’ sake?’

‘I told Hedley that you were a bad influence.’

‘For God’s sake, a bottle of champagne and two glasses of Baileys is hardly bad. Now come on, let me have a look at the photos,’ she said, settling herself down so that they were side by side.

Diana held the album closed, tight to her chest. ‘No, not yet. I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing and who you’ve been doing it with.’ She gazed around, as if she might be able to encompass the whole of Carol’s life with a look. ‘So tell me what you’ve been up to? And who’s Raf?’

‘I haven’t been up to anything wildly exciting,’ said Carol dismissively, trying to make a grab for the album, but Diana was way too quick for her.

‘OK, so you’re still nosy but defensive. How about we start with the easy questions? What do you do? Do you work?’

‘Good God, yes, I’ve got my own company. We design, build and maintain gardens. They did a double-page spread on us in the Mail on Sunday last year.’

‘See, that didn’t hurt, now did it? Garden design? Very trendy,’ said Diana appreciatively, her speech very slightly slurred now.

‘Not when I first started doing it, it wasn’t, and we’re not re ally at the trendy end of the market. I’ve got commercial greenhouses and a team of gardeners who do maintenance for the council now that the work is all out to tender. We do some private gardens, but mostly it’s lots of corporate stuff. It’s—er…’

‘Trendy?’

Carol laughed. ‘I was going to say bloody hard work but I suppose trendy will cover some of it, if you insist. And I love it.’

‘You’re not telling me you do the digging with those fingernails?’

Carol looked at her hands. ‘I did once upon a time and I still can. I just wear gloves. The practical side isn’t exactly rocket science, just good old-fashioned hard work but it’s great and I love the creative side of it—seeing the projects come together and get more beautiful over time. I’ll show you the garden later—it’s my other baby. It wasn’t quite where I saw myself ending up, but then again how many of us do do what we planned? I wanted to do something creative but I didn’t re ally know what.’ Carol held up her hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Life has a way of taking you out on your blind side.’

‘Married, are you?

‘I’ll give you your due, Diana, straight to the heart of the matter, no messing,’ said Carol, miming an arrow flight.

‘Years of practice, a class of twenty-nine under-fives demands nerves of steel and a single-mindedness you can only dream of. So, are you married? You were married, weren’t you?’

‘Once upon a time, in a universe far far away.’

Diana’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘So you’re not married to Raf? You know, this is so bad. At one time we used to know what the other one was thinking; can you remember we used to end up buying the same things?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Carol laughed. ‘Even when we didn’t go shopping together.’

‘Remember when we turned up at the fifth-form school disco—’

‘Oh God, yes—in those dresses. The blue ones with ribbons?’

‘The same dresses.’

‘And those awful sandals—the dress I could understand but the shoes…Bloody hell.’

They laughed and then there was a moment’s pause, a second of reflection when Carol sensed how much had happened since the blue dresses with ribbons and how much they had missed of each other’s life.

‘Weren’t you married to—what was his name? I can’t remember why I didn’t come to your wedding,’ said Diana.

‘Probably because I didn’t invite you—or anyone else, come to that. We got the cleaner and a woman working in the office to be witnesses. I was very pregnant and—’

‘I kept thinking that I re ally ought to ring when whats-his-name didn’t feature on the Christmas cards any more,’ Diana interrupted, her face folded into a concertina of concentration; but then Diana had always been a world famous face puller. It was nice to see that marrying a vicar hadn’t got in the way of her gurning. ‘Oh, come on, you’re enjoying this,’ she said crossly. ‘What the hell was his name? I’m trying hard over here; help me out.’

‘What, when it’s so much fun seeing you struggle? Let me have a look at the photos while you’re thinking about it.’

Diana snatched the album back. ‘Jack,’ she said with glee. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Yes. Very good. Now give them here, like a good girl.’

Diana held the photos away from her. She always had had bloody long arms. It was very tempting to jump on her, at which point Carol had to remind herself that they weren’t thirteen any more.

‘Jack French. I remember now—and he was a gardener too? Right?’ said Diana with delight.

Carol slumped back onto the chair, admitting defeat, and nodded. ‘Occasionally, when he wasn’t trying to drink himself to death, screw the YTS girls or lie about how much money we owed. Fortunately, I’m divorced now. By contrast, life since Jack is wonderful, peaceful—pure bliss.’ Her voice lifted to emphasise the sheer joy of it.

Diana was watching her face. ‘And did God call you—you know, like the whole voices in the head, road to Damascus thing?’

Carol grinned; Diana was still sharp as glass.

‘You still got the wart?’

Diana nodded vigorously. ‘Of course I’ve got the wart, it goes without saying. Actually I was thinking about bringing it with me. It’s in my earring box, preserved for posterity in cling film and talc.’

‘Maybe we ought to get something a little more salubrious for it. A reliquary; you should be up on that kind of stuff: an ornate ebony casket for the toenail of St Kevin the Just.’

‘Wrong mob; we’re Low Church, less incense and stained glass, more jumble sales and cheery gatherings around the kitchen table, and besides, my jewellery box is salubrious. Hedley gave it to me as a wedding present. It’s rosewood, I think. Belonged to his mother.’ There was a long slow silence and then Diana said, her expression softening, ‘You know, it’s so good to see you again. I thought you might have gone and grown up. It’s been hard maintaining the whole born-to-boogie ethos all on your own.’

Carol snorted. ‘Born to boogie? When were either of us ever born to boogie, Di? You’re a vicar’s wife, for God’s sake.’

Diana laughed and finally handed Carol the photo album. ‘But I wasn’t always a vicar’s wife, was I?’

‘No, I suppose not. Do you still play cards?’

Diana reddened. ‘Not for money. Hedley asked me to stop after I cleaned up at his preordination party.’

Carol giggled. ‘Nine-card brag, poker. It was like going around with the Maverick. I remember you used to cut a deck with one hand.’

‘Oh, I can still do that,’ Diana said casually. ‘I’ve won enough matches at our annual Christmas whist drive to burn down half Europe.’

Carol smiled. ‘OK, well maybe things aren’t as bad as they look.’ She opened the first album.

The photograph was a long shot of the entire school taken the first year that she and Diana had gone up from primary school, when they had first found each other and Netty and Jan—three witches and Lady Macbeth in waiting. The picture was taken on the neatly manicured lawn outside the main school entrance, by the pond. Unexpectedly Carol found a lump in her throat. Bloody hell, was this what happened when you got old? Neat nostalgia.

She swallowed down hard as Diana said, ‘I got them out of the loft when I joined Oldschooltie—just for old times’ sake. I wonder how everyone is now.’

‘Look at these,’ said Carol, peering at the rows of faces. ‘God, I haven’t thought about her—oh, look, Mrs Devine, the PE teacher—and Mr Bailey.’

‘I was thinking on the drive over here—it would be great to see everyone again. What about if we tried to organise a reunion? I mean how hard can it be? People do it all the time. It would be great.’

Carol, halfway through a mouthful of Baileys, spluttered. ‘Are you sure great’s the word you’re looking for, Diana? I can understand what you mean but it would be loads of work and not everyone grew up to be a vicar, you know. What about Sandy Lewis? You remember?’

‘Who could forget?’

‘Potential axe-murdering psychopath if ever I met one. Do you remember when he burned the cricket pavilion down? Caught red-handed, petrol can, matches, swore blind he hadn’t done it.’

‘He probably won’t come. I doubt they can get Oldschooltie.com in Broadmoor; and besides, he’s an extreme example and you know it.’

‘How about Harry Longman? Put away for fraud? Kate Lynwood, shoplifting and passing dud cheques…’ She pointed out the faces in the picture.

‘All right—don’t be so negative, so not everyone turned out a saint,’ said Diana, ‘but they’re not all nutters and conmen either. I was thinking school reunion here, not Britain’s most wanted. Once I started seeing all those names on the register at Oldschooltie curiosity got the better of me. And then I fished out the photos—and since then I keep wondering what they’re all up to, what they look like, how they’re all doing.’

‘You always were so nosy,’ Carol said. ‘Don’t mind me. Actually, it does sound like a nice idea. What had you got in mind? Invite people from our year?’

Diana pulled a thinking face. ‘I don’t know. I’ve only re ally just thought about it. We could start there. Would you pitch in?’

‘Pitch in?’ said Carol. ‘I smell an ambush. And what is this “pitch in”, Di, Enid Blyton’s Famous Five?’

‘It is going to be a lot of work and I don’t re ally fancy doing it on my own. We could both contact people and stuff.’

Carol nodded. ‘OK.’

‘What about if we tried to get the drama group back together?’

‘The drama group?’ said Carol in amazement.

‘Uh-huh, why not? It’s a great idea. The last tour was so good. How about one last time with feeling, do something, maybe a read through and invite the rest of the class, too. It’ll be twenty years ago this July.’

‘A read-through of what?’ Carol asked incredulously.

‘Well, Macbeth would seem the natural choice.’

‘You can’t be serious. A reunion is going to be tough enough. I was thinking more about where we’d hold it.’

Diana looked affronted. ‘We wouldn’t have to learn it or anything, just do a read-through of the highlights. You know, witches, murder, madness, suicide, trees moving, ghost, Macduff, the end—it’d be great. We could invite everyone else who was interested from school to come along and watch us.’ Diana paused, waiting until Carol looked up. ‘I’m sure Gareth will be there.’

‘Sorry?’ Carol felt a little rush of heat and then cursed herself for being so silly.

‘Gareth.’

‘What do you mean, Gareth?’

‘Oh, come on. Don’t play the innocent with me. Gareth Howard, boy wonder. The Gareth Howard. He’s on the website, which re ally took me by surprise. He always used to be so cool, I couldn’t imagine him being on there at all, to be honest. But anyway, I emailed him and he mailed back and he suggested we chat, so I sent him my number and he rang me back more or less straight away.’ Diana paused for effect. ‘And the first thing he wanted to know was how you were.’

‘Oh right,’ Carol snorted, but even so she felt her jaw drop and her stomach do that odd little flipping thing that stomachs do; twenty years on and the first question on Gareth Howard’s lips was, how was Carol? ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘I’m telling you the truth; I’m a vicar’s wife, for God’s sake. He sounded re ally disappointed when I said we hadn’t seen each other for years.’

Carol stared at her. ‘You’re making this up.’

Slowly Diana shook her head. ‘Cross my heart,’ she mimed.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ Carol said, blushing furiously and then she flicked quickly on to the next page of the album, barely registering the pictures as the heat rushed through her, driven by a pulse set to boil. Gareth Howard, of all people. How many times had she and Diana run and rerun and replayed things he’d said, picking over the bones to try to work out what every syllable, every last nuance and gesture had meant. She had spent more time trying to translate Gareth Howard than she spent on the whole of her French O level.

Wasn’t it true that Carol had fancied him for years before the tour, that she had fantasised about him long after she got married? Hadn’t she loved him just a little; what if he had loved her a lot? Carol shivered and tried very hard to regain her composure.

‘A reunion sounds like a great idea but how the hell are we going to get everyone together? How would we find them all, for a start?’ Carol said as evenly as she could manage, also realising that she had just said ‘we’.

‘Oldschooltie—I’m sure that everyone on there is probably still in touch with one or two others, and maybe the School will help if I contact them. I think we should try for the drama group first and then if that doesn’t work just go for a straight reunion. I don’t know if you’ve looked lately but there are an awful lot of our old class on there.’

‘It sounds like a brilliant if slightly crazed idea,’ Carol said cautiously.

‘But?’ said Diana

‘But nothing. I was just wondering how many people would actually want to come. Chances are that they’re all spread halfway round the globe by now. Have you thought about where we could hold it? A restaurant or a hotel?’

Diana hesitated for a few moments and then said gleefully, ‘Actually I’ve got a brilliant idea. I don’t know if it’ll come off—’

‘I’m so glad you clung to your natural modesty.’

Diana pulled another of her famous faces. ‘What about if we tried for a weekend—as you said, people could have miles to drive.’

‘And?’

‘And there is this fantastic old country house I know in Oxfordshire. It’s used as a Christian retreat normally, but I’m sure they could find us some space if we asked nicely and it would be peanuts to hire for a couple of days. They’ve got loads of room and this re ally nice hall with a stage and everything.’

Carol refilled their glasses and then said with a wry smile, ‘So, Svengali, what else have you got in mind? World domination? Spit it out; there is just bound to be more.’

Diana had the bit between her teeth now. ‘How about—and this is in an ideal world, if we can get the hall—the drama group arrives Friday, everyone rehearses Saturday and then we put the performance on, on Sunday afternoon followed by—I don’t—maybe a traditional English tea for everyone. They could bring their families. This place is in its own grounds; the garden is big enough to lose half Wembley in, and it is a lovely house.’

‘Bloody hell. We’ve come a long way from a few school photos and Oldschooltie.’

‘Oh, come on. If we don’t try it we’ll never know, will we?’ Diana said briskly.

‘God, I bet you run a mean jumble sale.’

Diana refilled her glass. ‘You better believe it.’

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