To My Best Friends. Sam Baker

round from the front and in through south-facing windows to throw a strip of gold across the oak table Nicci and David had lovingly sanded and varnished. The Chinese slate floor beneath the table reflected a rainbow of bronzes and gilts. The kitchen was warm from the Aga, the scent of coffee lingered, and the Archers squabbled amongst themselves in the background. Everything was as it should be.

      Almost.

      When Nicci became too tired to cook Sunday roast for ten, back in the autumn, the others had taken over, with Nicci presiding over the proceedings, passing judgement on the consistency of their stuffing or the sweetness of the apple sauce. And they smiled and gritted their teeth and let her. It was better to go on pretending nothing had changed. All of them – friends, partners and children – had lunched there every Sunday without fail, unless Jo and Si had his kids for the weekend; then they’d appear in the late afternoon after dropping the boys back at their mother’s. Usually just in time for pudding and to help with the third or fourth bottle of wine.

      Jo shook the image from her head. ‘Got it!’ she said, emerging from under the sink, roasting tin aloft. ‘Suspect kitchen ghost’s offspring put it there.’

      ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Mona said, shouldering her way through the back door and kicking it shut with her heel. ‘No reason,’ she added, pre-empting the question. ‘Just late.’

      She had once been a year late for Lizzie’s thirtieth birthday party, since when anything less was considered minor.

      ‘Good to see you.’ Tossing the roasting tin on the side with a clatter, Jo threw her arms around Mona, coat, bags and all; ignoring the look of surprise that flickered across Mona’s face. ‘It’s been too long.’

      It had only been a couple of weeks, but that was long by their standards. Lately they weren’t sure which of them was meant to be holding it together. Jo was trying, but it didn’t come naturally. She preferred to watch from the periphery: not so much outside looking in as standing on the edge, with both choices open to her. She wasn’t Nicci; didn’t have that magnetism, the sort that made others gravitate to her.

      ‘Where’s Dan?’ Lizzie asked. ‘I bought him a tub of Celebrations. He is coming, isn’t he?’

      He’s there.’ Mona jerked her head towards the back garden, where her son was already kicking a football. ‘I got organic crumble, real custard, profiteroles and crème fraîche. And organic hot cross buns, just in case.’

      ‘In case of what,’ Jo laughed. ‘Famine? Apocalypse? Terrorist attack? We’ve got enough food here to feed the entire street.’

      Mona’s inedible cooking was the stuff of myth. Since no one could remember ever tasting it, Jo suspected the myth was urban, created by Mona to avoid having to do any. Like Jo’s brother’s famously crap washing-up.

      Dumping her coat on the back of a chair, to reveal an embroidered smock over narrow dark jeans and ankle boots, Mona began emptying the contents of her carrier bags into the fridge.

      ‘What needs doing? More coffee?’ The others shook their heads but Mona filled the kettle anyway. ‘Peel spuds then?’ she offered, and took up position at the sink overlooking the back garden.

      For a few minutes the three women worked in companionable silence, Lizzie salting the pork for crackling and slicing apples for apple sauce, Jo chopping nuts for nut roast and Mona peeling a mountain of King Edwards. Bags of carrots, parsnips and broccoli were lined up beside her.

      ‘Is it me,’ Mona said suddenly, ‘or is this weird?’

      ‘Is what weird?’ Lizzie said. Her tone made it clear she wished Mona hadn’t put the thought into words.

      ‘This . . . the three of us preparing Sunday lunch in Nicci’s kitchen, as if nothing’s changed. David and Si and Dan in the garden, Gerry . . .’ Mona frowned. ‘Where’s Gerry?’

      ‘Rugby. Be here later.’ Lizzie didn’t look up from slicing apples, but Jo noticed her back tense in preparation for the Gerry-related onslaught. Nicci might be gone but clearly Lizzie didn’t think that was about to change.

      Jo loved Lizzie. She just wished Lizzie had married someone different. Someone who deserved her.

      Mona opened her mouth to say something – probably exactly what Jo was thinking. Jo shot her a warning glance. Back off, she mouthed.

      ‘It’s you,’ Lizzie said testily. Mona looked at Jo and raised her eyebrows so they vanished into her hair. It was her party trick. Jo stifled a giggle.

      ‘It’s me what?’

      ‘You said, is it me or is this weird? It’s you.’

      ‘You reckon?’

      ‘Reckon,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘We’re old friends having Sunday lunch together. What’s wrong with that?’

      ‘You know what Mona means,’ Jo said gently. Where was this coming from? Lizzie was normally resident peacemaker, the one smoothing the sheets and making the tea, not the one lobbing rocks. Maybe Nicci’s spirit was lurking around, hiding roasting tins and making trouble.

      ‘Come on, Lizzie, you have to admit, it is a bit weird,’ Jo said. ‘Especially the Mona-David thing.’ She glanced around, double-checking little ears – and big ears – were safely outside. ‘I mean, what are we supposed to do about the letters?’

      ‘Ignore them, that’s what I plan to do,’ Mona banged the potato peeler on the worktop. ‘It’s just another of Nicci’s mad schemes.’ She raised her eyes to heaven, and Jo could have sworn that if Mona had been Catholic she’d have crossed herself.

      ‘We don’t have to do it.’

      ‘I don’t know . . .’ Lizzie sounded thoughtful. ‘I feel like we do.’

      ‘Lizzie!’ Mona said. ‘All you’ve got is a bit of gardening! If Nicci has her way, I have to, well, you know . . . with David!’

      ‘Mo . . .’ said Jo, but Mona was in full swing.

      ‘C’mon, Lizzie. Admit it, you got away light.’

      ‘It might be just a bit of gardening to you,’ Lizzie said tightly, ‘but Nicci knew I can’t even grow a weed! And have you looked out there? It’s a wilderness. How can I get it looking right for David, for Harrie and Charlie?’

      Jo and Mona followed Lizzie’s gaze.

      It wasn’t strictly true. Although Jo had to admit she’d seen Nicci’s garden in better shape. Not that she could remember even noticing the garden since last September, when Nicci had sat her down in this kitchen, put a large glass of red wine in front of her and told Jo she had cancer.

      Since then, the leaves shed in autumn had been swept aside, but not cleared, and were mouldering on the flower-beds. Occasional spring bulbs had fought their way through, but their leaves were straggly as if, with no one to appreciate their efforts, they’d given up trying. Even Nicci’s beloved vegetable patch beyond the apple tree was little more than mud and blown-over runner bean tepees.

      Jo was horribly afraid Lizzie was right. The garden looked as desolate as they felt. Somebody had to do something.

      ‘And even if it wasn’t a wilderness,’ Lizzie’s tone, now verging on hysterical, took Jo by surprise. She looked as panic-stricken as she sounded, ‘I’m not Nicci. I’ll never be Nicci. I don’t know a bromeliad from a perennial.’

      The others looked at her in astonishment.

      ‘What’s a bromeliad?’ Mona asked. ‘Just out of interest.’

      ‘I don’t know!’ Lizzie wailed. ‘That’s the point. I got a book from the library, and then I got three more. And now I wish I hadn’t. It might as well be Chemistry A level, for all the sense it makes. I mean, it has charts, diagrams, tables.’ Lizzie looked at Jo – the mathsy one – as if she could make it all