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before her life took on the tacky quality of a ‘reader’s own story’ magazine confession – maybe she could sell her story some time, and make three hundred quid?
    But, just now, she was working.
     
    ‘Bloody Sunday. Fine day of rest.’ Face burning from the oven, Tess turned the joint, basted the potatoes and slammed the oven door. Her parents, judging from the piddling about she could hear going on in the drive with coats, bags and car keys, had just arrived for their first visit to Honeybun Cottage since she’d moved in. Like having a tooth out, it had to be done, but she wasn’t looking forward to it.
    She suddenly realised she hadn’t given the red wine time to breathe and snatched it up, flinging open the back door at the same time.
    Her father patted her shoulder. ‘Well, Tess!’
    ‘Hul-l o !’ Her mother, smelling of face powder and her brown hair blow-dried back from her face, kissed her cheek, glancing around. ‘The table looks nice! Are those Grannie’s glasses? Aren’t the chrysanths going on a long time, this year?’
    Her father tried to take the wine bottle from her hands. ‘Shall I do that?’ His hair, too, silvering now, was also combed straight back. The pair of them looked as if they’d been in a wind tunnel.
    Tess pushed down the twin levers of the corkscrew. ‘There, done it! Let me take your coats so you can sit down. Dinner will be about half an hour. Go through to the sitting room.’
    The sitting room looked lovely. She’d polished, and vacuumed –
    even the lampshade, even the cobwebs from between the beams. The fire burned behind the guard and more chrysanthemums glowed from the low table. She managed to settle her parents into the turquoise moquette chairs with sherry and coffee and more or less keep them there whilst she whizzed around in the kitchen. She hated it when Mari hovered, saying, ‘Should you be turning the meat?’ two seconds before she was going to turn it anyway.
    So she made the gravy, poking her head around the door to keep up her end of the conversation then rushing back to catch the gravy before it clamped into jellified lumps, until she could call, ‘Come through! Dad, can you pour the wine?’
    And the meat was tender and the potatoes crisp and everything was under control, except when Tess knocked over her wine. ‘ Shit !’
    James blotted his shirt with kitchen roll. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
    Biting her lip, she picked up her glass. ‘Sorry, Dad, it has to be red wine, too!’
    ‘Don’t worry.’ He patted her shoulder and went on with his meal as if he always wore a maroon patch over his heart on his honey-coloured golf shirt. And she knew that her parents really did want the best for her, even if they irritated her like toast crumbs in bed.
    Mari cut into her pork and said, ‘Red meat?’
    Tess gulped her wine. ‘If it is, it needs to go back in the oven.’ Then she laughed, to show she was joking. And suddenly remembered that James was supposed to be eating mainly white meat and fish because of his cholesterol.
    Over dessert, crumble made from apples from Lucasta’s garden, it was Mari who asked, in a suitably solemn, measured voice. ‘And have you heard from Olly?’
    ‘No. Would you like more custard?’
    James took up the baton. ‘Ever consider getting in touch?’
    ‘No. I’ll make more coffee in a minute. Or tea.’
    Mari laid down her spoon, having cleared her plate in a way that was ladylike but deadly efficient. ‘We were thinking – you mustn’t blame Oliver for everything.’
    Tess felt her throat dry. ‘I didn’t ask him to jilt me and run away.’
    James reached across the table and covered her hand. ‘We do appreciate how you feel over that, but don’t blame him for … everything . Everything else. He didn’t make you lose the baby. Nor make you ill.’
    Mari looked anxious. ‘What we mean, Tess, is we’d be happier if you’d talk with him and get rid of some of your bitterness. Then you might not feel this