Sunday lunch again. How life rolls on. Roast beef again. Today served with Mediterranean vegetables, carrots and asparagus. Aiden is here as usual. Eyes resting too long, and too often on Saffron. She looks as quirky as ever, in a denim miniskirt, a tie-dye T-shirt and her Doc Martens. You are sitting opposite me, making my heart beat faster. I am trying not to look at you.

Saffron leans across the table and offers a plate of gluten-free Yorkshire puddings to Caprice. Caprice takes one and pours gravy all over it.

‘Could I try one, please?’ I ask.

‘I want one, Mummy,’ Ben demands.

‘Me, too,’ Harry insists.

Saffron frowns at us all. ‘There aren’t enough. I made them specially for Caprice.’

‘Come on,’ Miles interrupts. ‘There are plenty. Mum will never eat four more puddings.’

Caprice looks up from her meal. ‘Of course I won’t. Everyone help yourself.’ Saffron moves the plate towards me, but her hand slips. The Yorkshires slide onto the carpet.

‘Oh goodness, I’m sorry,’ she mutters.

She gathers them up and disappears into the kitchen. She returns a few minutes later.

‘I’ve put them down the waste disposal. I’ll make some more next week.’

138

Caprice

The heavy lunch has made me feel sick. Overcooked beef with Bovril gravy. Yorkshire puddings with a touch of cement powder. You have never been a good cook, Saffron. Everything you create for your family is too stodgy. I notice you don’t eat it yourself. Everything you cook for yourself is even worse, and looks and tastes like vomit. That’s how you stay so slim. No wonder you have a bird-like appetite. But Miles is here, so I have to pretend I admire your culinary talent.

‘Thank you for cooking lunch, Saffron, my dear,’ I manage.

‘It’s a pleasure.’ You beam, flicking your tangled hair from your eyes.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll just go to bed and rest.’

‘That’s fine,’ you reply, voice and lips tight.

‘Are you all right, Caprice?’ Hayley asks. I sometimes think she’s the only one who cares about me.

‘Don’t you worry about me, I’m just a bit past my sell-by date.’