When she was ready, she sprung up from the sofa and headed out. Angela was unshakable.

In Taunton, Connie sat at her dining table with a gin in one hand and her mobile in the other.

“Breathe,” she repeatedly whispered to herself. By the time she’d dialed Julia’s number, she was half pissed.

Julia sounded breezy.

“Thursday’s fine,” she said. “Love you.”

She hung up before Connie could start on all the things that could go wrong, and dialed another number.

“Darling,” Ester sang. “Still gorgeous? Who’s seeing to you these days? Boys or girls?”

Angela had put together the call chain. Connie was in the middle, so Angela and Julia could each do their bit to keep her calm and focused. And calling Ester was Julia’s job, because she knew best how to handle the cantankerous old witch. She ignored Ester’s questions.

“Can you come to Angela’s on Thursday?”

“Are we leaving?”

“I doubt we’re leaving yet, but we’ll be planning our next move and—”

“I’m not coming all the way to London to do more talking, Julia. Call me back when we’re leaving. And if our self-appointed glorious leader wants to discuss that further, she can call me her fucking self.”

“When will you ever learn, Ester?” Julia wasn’t angry; she spoke like a disappointed mother faced with her perpetually aggravating child. “You need people in life, you know. You need friends.”

“I have Geoffrey.” Ester was defiant. “He’s in a dominant mood this week, so we haven’t left the house since Friday. He’s gone all Gladiator on me.” Her tone shifted and she became nasty. “So, you call me when we’re leaving! I’ve done my bit, Julia. I’m old. You do the donkey work and I’ll pop up toward the end, take my share and fuck off into the sunset. I will not be told what to do by Angela bleedin’ Dunn.”

And that was the real reason for Ester’s frustrations.

Angela’s leadership had happened organically. Connie and Julia had never objected, but Ester hated it. In Ester’s egotistical, narcissistic, petty little mind, she was the natural successor to Dolly Rawlins. Angela was nothing more than a stupid girl who, back in the 1980s when The Grange was a brothel, hadn’t even been good enough to be a prostitute.

“That child can think she’s in charge, Julia,” Ester spat. “I don’t give a shit—but you lot can’t make a move without my say-so. And you, my darling, know me well enough to know that, if you try, I’ll see you all inside. So, run along, there’s a good little tart. And, as I think I’ve mentioned already, call me when we’re leaving.”

She hung up.

Julia sighed. Just then, Sam wandered into the room with blood down his shirt from a split lip.

“Darren called me a pussy and nicked my bike, so I smacked him. Do you think I’m a pussy?”

As Julia stepped toward him, Sam instinctively stepped back. He looked confused.

“Have I ever hit you?” she went on.