“That’s good. Have you forgotten it’s your birthday in a few days’ time?”

“No,” I said. “I just haven’t really thought about it.”

“It would be nice to have a little drinks party for you.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“At your house. You don’t have to do anything but be there. I’ll do everything else. I’ll even clear up for you.”

“You’re making it sound as though you’ve already organized it.”

“Not exactly. But I’ve made sure that people like Mary can come.”

“What do you mean, ‘people like Mary’? Who else?”

“Just a few. Me, Mary and Eric, Fergus and Jemma, of course, Joe and Alison, Josh and Di. That’s about it. And anyone you want to ask.”

“I don’t know, Gwen.”

“I’ll do little eats and Joe said he’d provide the wine.”

“When’s this supposed to be happening?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

I gave up protesting. “I’ll check my diary,” I said ironically, “but I’m pretty sure I’m not busy then.”

“Good. That’s settled. I’ll come around at five, straight from school, and we’ll get everything ready.”

Chapter Fourteen

When I arrived at the office, Frances was on the phone. She waved me in frantically. It sounded as if she was on the receiving end of a lecture. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, I can see that . . . Is that really true? . . . Didn’t we? . . . Is it serious? . . . So what do we do?”

I tiptoed across the room, made two mugs of coffee and handed one to Frances. She pulled faces at me like a silent-movie actress, signaling thanks for the coffee and, at the same time, frustration and exasperation. “Yes,” she said. “But things have been a bit difficult, you know, with what’s happened . . . Yes, but couldn’t you explain it to them? Would that make things better? . . . Oh, I see . . . Yes, all right.”

Finally she put the phone down. I thought she was going to cry.

“I never wanted to be a businesswoman,” she said, her voice almost a wail. “Did I tell you I went to art school?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I was going to be a painter. That was the plan. I was good at it, but in the end there’s only room for about four painters in England at any one time and it was clear I wasn’t going to be one of them.”

“Who was it on the phone?” I said.

“That was our horrible accountant,” she said. “He’s meant to be working for us—we certainly pay him enough—but all he does is shout at me. He’s like a disappointed parent. Apparently we’re late with our VAT and apparently that’s bad. I thought the point of accountants was that they were meant to deal with that sort of thing. Oh, God, Gwen, I hate this—I’m out of my depth.”