Out of the Blue. Isabel Wolff

no, they’re on holiday again. I think they’re scuba diving in St Lucia,’ I said vaguely. ‘Or maybe they’re heli-skiing in Alaska. Or are they bungee-jumping in Botswana … ’ Mum and Dad are pensioners, or rather what you might call Silver Foxes or Glamorous Greys. They seem to stagger from cruise to safari to adventure holiday in a variety of increasingly exotic locations. Well, why not? After all, they’ve worked hard all their lives and so now’s the time to have some fun.

      ‘No, Sarah,’ I said, ‘I really can’t remember where they are, they go away so much.’

      ‘That’s because they have classic avoidant personalities,’ announced Katie with mild contempt. ‘The incessant holidays are the means by which they avoid spending any time with us. I mean, the second Grandpa retired from Abbey National, that was it – they were off!’

      ‘Oh, I know darling, but they send us lots of lovely postcards,’ I said. ‘And they phone up from time to time. And Granny loves chatting to you, doesn’t she, Matt?’

      ‘Er … yes,’ he said slightly nervously as he looked up from his menu. ‘Yes, I suppose she does.’ Lately I’ve noticed that my mother often asks to speak to Matt on the phone. She loves chewing the fat with him, even ringing him at school, and I think it’s great that they’re developing such a nice bond.

      ‘I do envy your parents,’ said Sarah ruefully. ‘I’d love to go away, but it’s impossible because I’m tied to the shop.’ Sarah owns a second-hand book shop in Dulwich. She bought it twenty years ago with her alimony after her husband, John, left her for an American woman and moved to the States. ‘Oh, I’ve a small anniversary gift,’ Sarah added as she handed me a beribboned parcel, inside which – Peter helped me open it – were two beautiful crystal glasses.

      ‘What lovely tumblers, Sarah – thank you!’

      ‘Yes, thanks Mum,’ Peter said.

      ‘Well, you see the fifteenth anniversary is the crystal one,’ she explained as I noticed the red sticker on the box marked ‘Fragile’. ‘Anyway, are we all present and correct, now?’ she added pleasantly.

      ‘All except for Lily,’ I replied. ‘She says she’s going to be a bit late.’ At this I noticed Peter roll his eyes.

      ‘Lily Jago?’ said Mimi. ‘Wow! I remember her at your wedding, she was your bridesmaid – she’s famous now.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said proudly, ‘she is. But she deserves every bit of it,’ I added, ‘because she’s worked so incredibly hard.’

      ‘What’s she like?’ asked Mimi.

      ‘Like Lady Macbeth,’ said Peter with a hollow laugh. ‘But not as nice.’

      ‘Darling!’ I said reprovingly. ‘Please don’t say that – she’s my best and oldest friend.’

      ‘She treats staff like disposable knickers,’ he added, ‘and treads on heads as though they’re stepping stones.’

      ‘Peter, that’s not fair,’ I said. ‘And you know it. She’s very dedicated and she’s brilliant, she deserves her tremendous success.’ It used to grieve me that Peter didn’t like Lily, but I got used to it years ago. He can’t understand why I keep up with her and I’ve given up trying to explain. The fact is, Lily matters to me. I’ve known her for twenty-five years – since our convent days – so we have an unbreakable bond. But I mean, I’m not blind – I know that Lily’s no angel. For example, she’s a little bit touchy, and she’s got a wicked tongue. She’s also a ‘bit of a one’ with the boys – but then why shouldn’t she be? She’s single, and she’s beautiful. Why shouldn’t she play the field? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman, in her prime, have lots of lovers and lots of fun? Why shouldn’t a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old woman be made to feel desirable and loved? Why shouldn’t a thirty-five-year-old woman have romantic weekends in country house hotels with jacuzzis and fluffy towels? Why shouldn’t any thirty-five-year-old woman have flowers and champagne and little presents? I mean, once you’re married, that’s that; romance flies out the window, and you’re with the same old body every night. So I don’t blame Lily at all, though I don’t think her choice of boyfriends is great. Every week, it seems, we see her staring at us out of the pages of Hello! or OK! with this footballer, or that rock star, or some actor from that new soap on Channel 4. And I think, mmm. Mmmm. Lily could do better, I think. So, no, she hasn’t got brilliant taste in men, although at least these days – praise the Lord! – she’s stopped going for the married ones. Yes, I’m afraid to say she used to be a little bit naughty like that. And I did once remind her that adultery is forbidden by the seventh commandment.

      ‘I didn’t commit adultery,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m single, so it was only fornication.’ Lily’s not interested in marriage herself, by the way; she’s totally dedicated to her career. ‘I’m footloose and fiancé free!’ she always likes to exclaim. I must say, she’d be a bit of a challenge to any man. For a start, she’s very opinionated, and she bears interminable grudges. Peter thinks she’s dangerous, but she’s not. She’s simply tribal; by which I mean she’s loyal to her friends but ruthless to her foes, and I know exactly which category I’m in.

      ‘Lily had twelve other invitations tonight,’ I said. ‘She knows so many people!’

      ‘Yes, Mum,’ said Katie matter-of-factly. ‘But you’re her only friend.’

      ‘Well, maybe that’s true, darling,’ I said with a tiny stab of pride, ‘but I still think it’s sweet of her to come.’

      ‘Very gracious,’ said Peter wryly. He’d had a couple of drinks by then. ‘I can’t wait for the dramatic entrance,’ he added sarcastically.

      ‘Darling,’ I said patiently, ‘Lily can’t help making an entrance. I mean, it’s not her fault she’s so stunning.’ She is. In fact she’s jaw-dropping. Everybody stares. She’s terribly tall for a start, and whippety thin, and she’s always exquisitely dressed. Unlike me. I get a small allowance from work for the things I wear on TV and I tend to spend it in Principles – I’ve always liked their stuff. Just recently I’ve started to get quite interested in Next, and Episode. But Lily gets a huge clothing allowance, and the designers send her things too, so she always looks amazing – in fact, she’s amazing full stop. And even Peter will admit that she has huge talent, and guts and drive. You see, she had a very tough start in life. I remember the day she arrived at St Bede’s. I have this vivid picture in my mind of Reverend Mother standing on stage in the main hall one morning after Mass; and next to her was this new girl – we were all agog to know who she was.

      ‘Girls,’ said Reverend Mother as a hush descended. ‘This is Lily. Lily Jago. Now, we must all be kind to Lily,’ she went on benignly, ‘because Lily is very poor.’ I will never forget, to my dying day, the look of fury on Lily’s face. And of course the girls weren’t kind to her at all. Far from it. They teased her about her accent and they laughed at her lack of finesse; they disparaged her evident poverty and they made terrible fun of her folks. They called her ‘Lily White’, which she loathed. Then, when they realised how clever she was, they hated her for that as well. But I didn’t hate her. I liked her and I felt drawn to her, perhaps because I was an outsider too. I got laughed at a lot at school. My nickname was ‘Faith Value’, because they all said I was very naive. I was impossible to tease, apparently, because I could never get the joke. I thought it was obvious that the chicken’s reason for crossing the road was to reach the other side. I couldn’t see why that was funny, really. I mean, why else would the chicken cross the road? And of course a bell is necessary on a bicycle – otherwise you could have a very nasty accident. It’s obvious. So why’s that funny? Do you see what I mean? The other girls all said I was a credulous sap. Ridiculous! I’m not. But I am trusting. Oh yes. I want to have faith in people and I do. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and I tend to believe what they say. Because that’s how I want to be. I decided, a long time ago, that I didn’t