The Mad Dog Café

French!

Contents

Chapter 1, 1 February 2010

Chapter 2, 3 April 2010 Chemin des Mimosas

Chapter 3, 8 April 2010 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 4, 2 June 2010 Sitges Spain

Chapter 5, September 2010 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 6, January 2011 Kentish Town, London

Chapter 7, April 2011 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 8, July 2011 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 9

Chapter 10, 7 August 2011 Chemin des Mimosas/London

Chapter 11, 8 August 2011 Chemin des Mimosas

Chapter 12, 9 August 2011 Perpignan Hospital

Chapter 13, 14 August 2011

Chapter 14, 16 August 2011

Chapter 15, 10 September 2011

Chapter 16, 6 October 2011

Chapter 17, 2 November 2011 Cabanon Aspro

Chapter 18, 10 November 2011 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 19, 4 a.m. 20 December 2011 Cabanon Aspro

Chapter 20, Christmas Day 2011

Chapter 21, 2 January 2012

Chapter 22, 2 January 2012

Chapter 23, February 2012 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 24, 3 April 2012 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 25, July 2012

Chapter 26, 23 July 2012

Chapter 27, 24 July 2012 Mad dog Café

Chapter 28, August 2012 London

Chapter 29, 21 November 2012 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 30, 19 December 2012 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 31, 21 December 2012 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 32, 3 January 2013 On a plane to London

Chapter 33, March 2013 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 34, Late July 2013 Mon Rêve

Chapter 35, September 2013 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 36, Mid-October 2013 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 37, New Year’s Eve 2013 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 38, 3 March 2014 Chemin des Mimosas

Chapter 39, May 2014 The Old Butcher’s Shop, Castallen

Chapter 40, August 2014 Cadaquès, Spain

Chapter 41, October 2014 Mad Dog cave

Chapter 42, March 2015 Kirkcaldy, Scotland

Chapter 43, October 2015 Chemin des Mimosas

Chapter 44, October 2015 Sea front, Castallen

Chapter 45, 15 March 2016 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 46, 17 March 2016 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 47, 18 March 2016 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 48, 18 March 2016 Heathrow Airport

Chapter 49, 22 March 2016 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 50, 18 July 2016 The white chapel on the hill

Chapter 51, August 2016 Sea Front, Castallen

Chapter 52, 17 September 2016 The Old Butcher’s Shop

Chapter 53, October 2016 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 54, December 2016 Chemin des Mimosas

Chapter 55, 24 December 2016 Las Vegas

Chapter 56, 24 December 2016 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 57, 24 December 2016 Las Vegas

Chapter 58, Christmas Day 2016 Las Vegas

Chapter 59, 26 December 2016 Los Angeles

Chapter 60, New Year’s Day 2017 Mad Dog Café

Chapter 61, New Year’s Day 2017 Madrid airport

Epilogue, April 2017 Castallen Cemetery

I think we got lost somewhere - reached the point and moved beyond it.

You mean it’s all downhill from now?

Yes, I think so.

So when was the point we should have slowed down?

I often think about that. Probably before computers really took hold . . . perhaps in the mid seventies.

We’d still be stuck with shag-pile carpets and terrible fashion.

It’s not a joke, our governments can’t even unite to stop the production of plastic bags let alone nuclear warheads.

To Rosemary

THE MAD DOG CAFÉ

CHAPTER 1

1 February 2010

Mad Dog Café: February 1st 2010, wind from the west, very cold. Yesterday’s soup, new bread, apple crumble.

Slamming the car door against the wind, Holly ran over to the door of the Mad Dog Café and fumbled for the key with icy fingers.

The interior was a welcoming contrast: warm, with a smell of toast and wood smoke on the air. Cameron sat hunched by the fire staring at the flames, his fair hair glinting in the warm light. He turned as she came in.

Sorry, I meant to unlock the door. What’s that huge book?

It’s an old ledger, I think. Jasper’s mum found it in a brocante. I’m going to use it as the Mad Dog diary, starting today . . . when I’ve had some coffee.

I’ll make it, said Cameron stretching. What a night.

Something happened?

No, just that my charming daughter was awake for most of it. That west wind — the cypress trees creaked madly. Mind you I was awake anyway. He walked into the kitchen looking miserable. Holly decided interrogation was called for.

She took off her coat, placed the book on the table and examined it further.

M.P. she murmured, looking at the faded gold script. Michel Puso? Marchandise Payé? Or perhaps Mas Picard? The original name of the Mad Dog. How strange and how fitting.

She opened it, smoothing down the pages of cream paper, darker at the edges with age, thin red lines marking the columns. There were only two lines of writing in slanting script.

1 février 1898, vent ouest, froid. Trente litres vin rouge, chez Sieur Dracard: quinze francs. Huit sacs de pommes de terre.

Then what had happened? Why one line? The date was eerily exact. Cameron came back in and looked over her shoulder: That was quite a find — I wonder what it was for. It doesn’t look like an ordinary accounts book.

I don’t know, but it has a special resonance with this place. Have you got a decent pen?

Just the thing . . . my grandfather’s that I use occasionally. He looked in the drawer of the table; the pen was there under some papers. He shook it and the ink flowed. Still works.

Holly took it and wrote in careful script: Mad Dog Café: February 1st 2010, wind from the west, very cold. Yesterday’s soup, new bread, apple crumble. There, that’s what Jasper said we were going to have today — there’s a load of apples from that tree at the back to use up.

I like that, said Cameron, looking at the drying ink. Do you think we should keep a general record of everything concerning the Café each day?

Yes — whatever any of us want to say. I might say, for example — black clouds on the horizon, Cameron looking unusually depressed, Irish stew, raspberry Pavlova.

Cameron smiled sadly: Oh . . . that obvious is it?

Out with it.

Cameron went back to the fire and sat down.

Sandra’s mother phoned yesterday. We had a very long conversation about Sandra’s death. Of course it’s incredibly difficult for her as they only really got to know each other in the last few years.

Should you go back and see her?

No need. They’re going to visit us. She wants to start having more contact with Kitty . . . I mean she is her grandmother.

That’s good, isn’t it?

Yes, of course it is. It’s just rather stirred up the past for me. It’s true that I found it difficult with her after Sandra’s death and I know I was always second choice to Roberto in her mind . . . however, life goes on, and they really help financially with Kitty. We just need to talk through everything — get it all clear. In fact I think they’re going to try and come for the opening in April. He paused and sighed. Actually, I really like them too . . .

"So what’s the real problem then?" Holly persisted.

Cameron caved in: It’s Jo, she’s been offered a job in Australia.

Ah, I see.

She should take it of course. It’s a year’s contract, and nothing has actually happened between us, well, nothing to suggest we’re a couple or anything.

Nothing except you both seemed insanely happy and couldn’t keep out of the bedroom.

Cameron smiled sleepily: It was an unreal two weeks, but she had to go back to London — things to sort, life to continue.

Did you think it would turn into more than . . .

Sex? Yes . . . Holly, I really love her. There I said it. You had better write it in the book. Once again Cameron heads off into the ocean of love, ill-equipped in a small boat with one oar.

Did you tell her?

No.

Why not?

I was scared . . .it seemed too perfect.

I think you should tell her. You’ve nothing to lose — ring today.

Cameron went upstairs slowly and looked in at his young daughter. She was still asleep, her blonde hair fanned out across the pillow. He went into the office and sat in the armchair, remembering New Year’s Eve and what had happened with Jo in the same chair. He was aroused in an instant and moaned her name. How could she do this to him? Holly was right, he should have phoned earlier.

He sat on the desk, picked up the phone and dialled hesitatingly, trying to imagine her unknown flat: full of books? tidy or disarranged? How little he knew of her daily existence. Last year they had just walked for miles, discussed nature, and fallen to the ground to ravish each other at any opportunity. He hadn’t said it — too early, but when was too early?

The phone was still ringing; perhaps she had gone already. There was a click as she picked up, breathless: Yes, who is it?

Breathless? Inopportune moment? No, please . . .

She spoke again, her voice calmer: Hello?

Hello, Jo, it’s me . . . Cameron.

Cameron she breathed the name slowly. I ran all the way back up the stairs. I was just going.

Going?

To Australia.

Really? You took the job then.

I had no choice — too well paid to refuse at the moment, and there seemed no reason to stay . . . or was there?

Jo, I don’t know how to say this, well I do . . . but, I love you. He wanted to say more: please don’t go, come back to Castallen, I’m aching for you, HELP!

There was a silence for several bleak years, then: Why didn’t you tell me?

It seemed too early. I was scared — stupid at my age. Have you come across the word limerance?

No.

I was looking in the dictionary for the definition of love. I was trying to write to you . . . anyway, this word, it means that state of all consuming infatuation at the beginning of a relationship. I was afraid you might have thought that’s all it was.

Oh, Cameron . . . look I’ve got to go and there’s so much to say. Shit, my cab’s here. I’ll call you when I get there. Bye . . .

That was it, silence: she hadn’t said it back. He needed her to. Stop. Work to be done, calm, practical, stoical Cameron. He went back downstairs and wrote a list.

Finish floor in library.

Order more cement.

Ask André if I can borrow his brother’s digger for a day.

Finish window frames in second bedroom.

The pen stopped. He stood up and pulled on his coat. Holly? he called.

She came in, hands splashed with blue from one of her paintings. Yes?

I’m going out for a walk, just half an hour, can you check Kitty?

Of course. Holly saw the red eyes and didn’t ask. The door shut with its familiar creak.

CHAPTER 2

3 April 2010    Chemin des Mimosas

18 degrees at 10 o’clock. Calm, sea fog. Merguez stew, mashed turnip. Goat cheese and honey.

Well, what d’you think? asked Holly, showing Peter a poster.

Peter read it out loud: Mad Dog Café, overture des portes, 8 avril. Musique avec le trio Rio Novo. Menus 16 euros et 26 euros . . . I’d go. Love the artwork and the map.

It’s a bit scary isn’t it?

You mean, fly or bomb?

We have to make a lasting impression with the opening or . . .

It’s going to work. Think positive!

It does look fantastic up there. Cameron’s done such a great job.

Is he alright? Did she ring?

No, and I think he’s suffering serious withdrawal symptoms.

Like I did when you went to Florida on that photo shoot . . . ooh, I had aches in the most sensitive places.

Holly smiled, remembering their reunion all those years ago.

Yes, but you knew there was an end to your torment. He’s had a huge injection of excitement and that might be it.

True, poor guy. Peter pulled on a jumper. You going up there now?

No, I’ll go round town with the posters first.

Actually, I think I’ll cycle up there, see how long it takes.

Rather you than me!

Did you hear about Malcolm’s idea?

The horse and carriage shuttle . . . brilliant, that needs working on for sure. Right — posters, Sellotape, beaming smile. See you later, hope the rehearsal goes well.

They kissed fondly. Peter stood at their kitchen door for a few moments watching her walk down the winding road under the mimosa blossom. Then, closing the door, he went upstairs to the studio, looked out some bossa nova tunes for the planned rehearsal and stashed them in his backpack.

The ride was challenging, but not as long as he had thought. He turned onto the terrace, heart pounding and legs shaking. Jasper saw him and ran out from the kitchen in his chef’s whites: Are you mad? Here have some water.

Thanks — are the rest of the group here yet?

No, Sammy phoned to say they’ll be a bit late.

Good, time to cool off a bit. Peter went over to the black book and added to the day’s notes: Castallen to M.Dog by bike, thirty minutes. Still sweating, he stripped to boxer shorts and wandered around.

The dining room was ready: polished wooden floor, stone walls, and an eclectic mix of chairs, painted and varnished. Holly had found pieces of fabric from many decades and made tablecloths and lampshades. The effect was welcoming and unusual. He imagined walking through the door on a chilly evening, appreciating the open fireplace and the smells wafting in from the kitchen.

Peter climbed the creaky stairs. Cameron was scrabbling around on the floor in the office, trying to locate a problem with the computer cables.

D’you need a hand? said Peter.

Oh, hi, no I think it’s sorted. Why are you walking about in your underwear?

I just cycled up here and I’m not quite as fit as I thought.

I’ve walked it a few times, there’s several short cuts . . . He tailed off, looking mournful.

Short cuts, you might have taken with a certain person?

Yes. Cameron stood up and looked at his friend, Peter?

Mm?

Did you just know straight away with Holly?

Love-eternal-soul mate? Yes, It was totally unlike any other encounter.

I think it’s happened to me. I was infatuated with Susan — with Sandra it was love, but more of a slow build-up. This time it’s torture. I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t know what she’s done to me.

Have you talked to Darren, checked out the previous history, so to speak? He is her brother after all.

Yes, He says she’s always been quite . . . er . . .

Driven?

Yes, you know, next please. But it was so good — not just the sex, we seemed to be really well matched, our backgrounds, our interests, sense of humour, everything.

You think you’re just one of the ‘next please’?

I’m beginning to wonder. Anyway, maybe it’s my own fault — lusting after someone else so soon after Sandra’s death.

Peter put an arm round his shoulders.

Hey, you didn’t go looking for it — resisted even, if I remember correctly. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. Cameron smiled sadly. He was about to reply when the lunch gong sounded downstairs.

Allez, said Peter gesturing to the door, let’s not incur the wrath of the master chefs.

CHAPTER 3

8 April 2010    Mad Dog Café

Restaurant opening: rain, wind from the South, car park now bog. Duck terrine, sea bream with spring vegetable stir-fry. Mad Dog chocolate fondants with double cream.

It was six in the evening and Holly stood looking out at the rain.

Should we cancel?

How? said Jasper, It’s too late now. Anyway it’ll be good practise. He went back to the kitchen to check something, Holly could hear him and Darren laughing; at least they seemed unconcerned.

Peter’s trio were running through their jazz set on the small stage area. He pointed to her collection of just-hung paintings and smiled approval. Everything was perfect — now they just needed some customers. The phone had decided to give up two days before and France Telecom hadn’t made it up the hill — so, no bookings that they knew of.

The door opened and Jasper’s mother came in, her hair newly cropped. She slipped off her coat revealing waitressing black and white: Will I do?

Very much so — elegant, it suits you, said Holly, reminded of Shirley Maclean in ‘The Apartment.’

It’s about thirty years since I did this, but I can still remember my silver service.

I hope we’re going to need it, remarked Holly. Where’s your other half?

He’s outside trying to spread some more gravel into the pot holes, the rain’s really made a mess of the parking area.

He’ll get soaked, said Holly pulling on a coat. We should have done it earlier. She ran out into the sheeting rain: Malcom, stop!

There was no sign of him, and Holly realised he must have gone back in through the kitchen.

She was about to return when she heard moaning coming from somewhere near the pine trees. She approached slowly, listening to the mysterious noise as it blended eerily with the rustle of the trees: what the hell? Someone was sheltering under the stone table.

The moaning became words: I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry . . . ohhhh, why did you come back, you stupid bitch . . . what have I done?

Holly suddenly realised she was listening to a familiar voice.

Freddy? The person came out from under the table, stood up and pushed the raincoat hood from his face. Holly was indeed staring at her brother.

Sorry, I didn’t know where else to go, he said, his voice flat, without a trace of its usual theatrical tones.

What? I mean why? stuttered Holly. Look, we’d better get you inside — you’ll catch pneumonia.

Might be the best thing for everyone, he said, morosely.

They squelched over the terrace and Holly held the door open.

Take your coat and shoes off, go up the stairs over there, bathroom on the left.

They passed Cameron coming down the stairs. He stared in surprise at the sight of the unexpected visitor: Freddy?

Holly nodded grimly and went over to the kitchen where she could hear everyone else. Peter was showing off a tap dancing move for some reason, unaware of their first visitor. He stopped as he saw her expression.

What?

Holly was about to tell him about Freddy when the sound of cars pulling up became audible against the rain and wind.

Oops, here we go, he said. Let’s get playing.

Holly went towards the stairs, furious with her brother for making her miss out on this crucial moment of their opening night. The music had started; Cameron was taking coats, chatting about the weather and she should have been there too.

Holly opened the bathroom door. Freddy was in the bath, his wet clothes dripping onto the wooden floor. She picked them up, put them in the sink and sat on the bath ready for the explanation. She had an odd flashback to them as kids, both seated in a similar roll top bath, it must have been on a holiday or at a friend of their parent’s house. Freddy had covered his hair with bath foam and was speaking in an exaggerated aristocratic voice. He must have only been about eight, already an actor. She smiled despite the present situation.

He noticed the smile: Aren’t you absolutely fucking livid with me?

Yes, but I just had a fleeting memory, of a similar bath.

Me and you in a bath?

Yes, I don’t know where it was though.

Probably at Aunty Marjorie’s house — that freezing cold parsonage near Salisbury.

Oh yes, God, it was cold there. Anyway, yes I am bloody furious — tell me everything quickly. I need to get downstairs again.

Sorry, I hadn’t realised it was your opening night. I was going to call at the house, but then saw the poster. I thought I was in control, but had a sort of breakdown in your garden . . . and here I am.

So, why are you here?

You just want the compact version of events I suppose?

Yes.

You couldn’t make me a cup of tea I suppose?

For fuck’s sake Freddy, just tell me.

He hesitated for a moment, his fingers tapping on the bath: I . . . think I might have killed someone . . . two people actually.

The world downstairs shrivelled suddenly. Holly pushed a pile of towels off a chair and sat down heavily.

Sorry, I don’t think I heard you, did I?

He began to sob: I didn’t mean to . . . well I got carried away.

Start from the beginning and tell me it all.

You remember that TV adaptation of Malice Aforethought?

Yes, said Holly, recalling how Freddy had admired Hywel Bennett when they were kids. A sort of dread was creeping through her limbs, she suddenly felt very cold: Botulism, potted meat — you weren’t Doctor Bickely?

Freddy slid down into the water and disappeared for a moment, his dark hair floating on the surface. There was a knock at the bathroom door and Cameron opened it a little. Are you alright? he said, handing her two large glasses of red wine.

Probably not, she said, taking the glasses gratefully. How is it downstairs?

Not bad. Hans and Angèle are here, a handful of curious French locals, and an American couple who like your work — don’t worry, I’ll get their details. Also a spy from that restaurant in Touparan . . .

I’ll be down as soon as I can, said Holly, shutting the door again. Freddy had re-emerged and she handed him a glass. So, carry on . . .

It was Alicia . . . she came back. Not for me though. She had phoned when I was feeling unbelievably low. I hadn’t got the part at the Young Vic, my career seemed to be slipping away, the agent had done a flit with money owed to me, and I was getting in trouble with the mortage.

Oh, not good . . . said Holly, hazarding a guess that their spare room was about to become occupied.

She suggested a drink at a pub in Covent Garden. I was thrilled, stupid with it, went along dressed in my finest, and there she was . . . with another man. The bitch had only invited me to taunt me with a new bloke, and according to her, the love of her life. He took a large swig of wine and ran some more hot water. I was run through with hatred. This guy was a successful art dealer, had found her work, and was obviously loaded. At some point he just happened to mention that he had to check the car, but he didn’t say car, he said Jaguar. Anyway to précis — I used my talents to the full, not a jot of resentment and asked them to my flat for a meal the following week.

So you recreated a scene from a 1920s crime novel?

Yes, updated it from potted meat sandwiches to botulism canapés and champagne. I knew which ones were which of course. I served it all to a candlelit background of Tosca and they loved it, those luscious lips of hers taking in poison-loaded delicacies . . . the way they looked at each other in front of me, kissing every now and then, eyes deep with meaning about what they were going to do to each other that night.

Comfort each other over the toilet bowl, I would imagine, said Holly. Do you know what actually happened? Did you really know what you were doing?

I did a lot of research, worked out how much it would take to make them just . . . very ill, but in the end, I’m not sure. I’m not a biologist.

So, you don’t actually know what happened?

Not as such. Actually, I ran. Left my flat and my life, bought a ticket to Perpignan — cut to present time in this bath.

Holly remembered a time in their childhood when Freddy had beguiled her into thinking it would be fun to break into the house two doors along where grouchy Mr Heathcroft lived, and scrawl obscene things on his walls. They had done it and Holly had lived the next few hours in sweating fear, knowing they would be found out. The feeling was just the same; even though it was his mess, she was going to be involved.

Does anyone know where you are? She asked tentatively.

No, I think I managed to screw up most of my friendships over the last year. I haven’t spoken to Mum and Dad for ages.

How did you manage to get into such a state? Everything seemed to be going so well a couple of years back.

It was her. I suppose it was my comeuppance for all those flippant relationships I ended. My light just went out when she left me. I stopped functioning.

You seemed alright when you were over in October.

Meet the greatest actor in the world, as Gene Kelly once said. No really, she just . . . removed my soul.

And that’s what made you consider doing something so devastating.

Freddy stared at her blankly then covered his face and howled.

Oh, Christ, Holly, what am I going to do?

First of all you’re going to get out of the bath, and then get some sleep. There’s a bed made up in the room opposite. I must go back to the others. We’ll work out what to do tomorrow.

I’m sorry, Holly, really. I don’t know what else to say.

It’s all going to be alright, she said, giving him a towel, knowing everything was far from alright.

She went downstairs and was pleased to find serenity. Eight of the tables were full, people chatting, Cameron and Jasper’s mum hovering, checking everything. The music was perfect, Sammy crooning a bossa, along to guitars and shaker; as they ended appreciative clapping followed and calls for more. Holly went into the kitchen. The chefs were going like clockwork, snapping paper orders from the magnetic board, Jasper calling main dishes to Malcolm.

How’s it going? she asked Darren.

Brilliant so far . . . everything alright out there?

Mostly brilliant too . . . I’ll explain later.

The clock struck midnight. Holly sat despondently on a chair surveying the scene. In the dim light the soft lumps of the cloth napkins reminded her of dead pigeons, knocked carelessly to the side of the road under the orange streetlights of London.

She hadn’t thought about London for ages. It was Freddy of course, his tales of Covent Garden, Kings Cross and Kentish Town where he lived in that wretched flat. Had lived . . . now what.

Peter came out from the kitchen: Hey, that was an amazing evening, well not at all bad considering it was like Niagara out there. Holly, are you alright?

Didn’t Cameron tell you what happened?

I haven’t really seen him, we’ve all been so busy. I thought you must have gone back to see Gabriel.

No he’s fine. He decided to stay with the neighbours. She looked at Peter wondering how he would react to the news that Freddy was almost certainly going to become a lodger, even if temporarily. Freddy is upstairs.

"The Freddy — famous actor Freddy?"

Yes. She recounted the evening sitting in the bathroom. The worst thing is that I feel I missed out on our first night.

Peter hugged her: Everyone seemed delighted. They loved the decor, the music, and praised the cooking . . . and the American couple want to meet you at their house in Cadaquès!

She smiled: Will you be able to cope with Freddy, for a while. I’ve no idea how we’re going to help him, or what on earth might happen if they are . . . dead. Could it be possible?

Hopefully he’s exaggerating — a theatrical escape perhaps.

Jasper and Darren came waltzing out of the kitchen, followed by the others. Cameron slapped a large wad of cash and some cheques on the table: There, that looks pretty healthy.

Holly counted through: Over a thousand euros!

We’ve got a lot of work to do still on tax issues and a million other things, said Cameron, but it’s a great start.

Without being pessimistic, said Malcolm, it might partly be curiosity — we may find it difficult to keep numbers up after a while.

And we have to take off all the expenses, food costs, etc, said Jasper’s mum.

Jasper had gone back to the kitchen. He returned bearing a bottle of champagne.

A present from Hans and Angèle, he said. What better time. He eased out the cork and it flew with a crack into one of the beams causing a splash on the plasterwork: Oops sorry, Cameron.

Let’s leave it, said Cameron. A reminder of this evening and hopefully many more as good as this one.

There was a creak from upstairs and a ghostly shape appeared, wrapped in a sheet.

Was that champagne I heard? called Freddy. Sorry, I can’t sleep.

Here, join us, said Peter holding out a glass.

What could I possibly be celebrating? said Freddy as he came downstairs.

Er . . . a clean start? said Peter.

In Wormwood Scrubs?

Jasper and Darren exchanged glances and the story was told again.

I think, said Darren, they probably just spent a vile few hours glued to the bog . . . possibly the end of a beautiful relationship too.

How do you know?

I had to study vast tracts on food poisoning at catering college. Sounds like you’ll have made them never want to look at a canapé again — hopefully just that.

How can I find out? What would any of you do?

Start with phoning her up . . . pretend to be a double glazing salesman, suggested Jasper. Or mutual friends? Someone who could go round, check if she’s alright.

Yes, there is one, hesitated Freddy. I’ve got some bridges to build there, but I think she might help.

Do it first thing tomorrow, said Holly. Stay here, there’s room and we’ll figure it out.

Thanks, all of you, and sorry to have . . .

Caused a suitably in-character entrance? said Holly. Cheers Freddy.

CHAPTER 4

2 June 2010    Sitges Spain

Tapas for fifty, on a beach, weather perfect.

Jasper smiled at the crowd of familiar faces. This was it: the minister was saying those words reserved for straight couples, Darren was looking at him misty-eyed, and all the previous mess-ups and heartaches were flying off into the cloudless sky, blown away by the soft breeze.

You may kiss, smiled the woman.

Oh, Jasper, all those years I’ve waited chastely for this moment, announced Darren. Then he dispensed with the Jane Austen niceties and caused a raucous cheer to fill the small cove.

The photos were taken: Jasper and Darren, Jasper and Darren with family, with friends, then everyone against the blue of the sky and sea. All the invitees had come except, as expected, Darren’s parents and sister. They had jointly sent a vast bouquet of white roses however, which formed the centre of the buffet table.

Darren read out the cards:

Darren and Jasper. We are sorry not to be with you on your special day. All our love and very best wishes, we are thinking of you. Please send cake, if you are making