Rumours. Freya North

assumed that, because of the family thing, he was genetically programmed to grow up and turn out like the Twins, teenagers Pauly and Tom, in much the same way as the Stickies would grow up to be just like him. And they’d all, one day in about a million years, turn into grown-ups like Alistair and Robbie. Apart, of course, from Sticky Ruby who’d turn out like her mum and Will’s mum and the Twins’ mum.

      Much as Will felt his mother was the best, he secretly acknowledged that Aunty Juliet was the better cook, possibly the best cook in the world and, as he took his place between the Twins at the laden table he happily blocked out the boring chatter of the grown-ups, and the revolting mess of the Stickies sitting opposite him, to focus wholeheartedly on the spectacular offerings on his plate.

      Stella sat by Juliet, whom she adored. Her brothers flanked their mother and Sara, Robbie’s wife, sat between her toddlers and managed in her inimitably competent way to feed herself and her children, yet be utterly present in the conversation. Stella looked around the table. It was like sitting in the best seats at the theatre waiting for the play to begin. With a surge of joy she thought this was to be her afternoon. It would linger into early evening and she was happy. She’d leave, hours later, replete in body and soul. Thank God for family. Thank God for hers. The decibel level was high yet not discordant and topics bounded between them all like the ball in a bagatelle. The tangents they veered off to, all part of the colourful ricochet of joyful banter.

      ‘It just goes back to what Gordon Brown said – but didn’t do,’ said Alistair.

      ‘That goes without saying,’ said Sandie, about something else entirely.

      Sara chewed thoughtfully, picking up on an earlier thread. ‘I love the idea of supporting local businesses, shopping at the corner shop, buying books from a little independent bookshop. But when there’s Amazon and Ocado, and special offers which I can order online at silly o’clock, then it’s no contest.’

      ‘It was the debilitating flaw in New Labour,’ said Robbie to Alistair.

      ‘I think you’re probably right,’ said Sandie to any of them.

      ‘I have to agree,’ Juliet said, a little forlornly. She looked thoughtfully at a roast potato. ‘I bought these spuds from the farmers’ market. Ridiculously expensive, weighed a ton. I’m not entirely sure they taste any different from Waitrose. Oh, and Stella – I think I’ve found you a man.’

      ‘Whatsit’s brother?’ Alistair asked.

      ‘Miliband?’ said Robbie.

      ‘No – who Juliet’s talking about. For Stella.’

      ‘Oh! I forgot about him,’ said Juliet. ‘Two men, then,’ she told the table.

      ‘I have one for you too,’ said Sara.

      ‘Three,’ Robbie whistled.

      ‘Who’s who?’ asked Sandie.

      ‘The chap that takes Sing-a-Song,’ said Sara. ‘The Stickies love him. He’s so – smiley.’ She paused. ‘And he only wears the spotty trousers and silly hat when he’s working. I saw him strolling through the Maltings last week. Almost didn’t recognize him – really nice and normal. We had a little chat and I managed to deduce he’s not attached, not gay and likes dogs.’

      ‘I don’t have a dog,’ said Stella.

      ‘I know,’ said Sara, ‘but it’s a type, isn’t it – if he likes dogs he must have that caring side to his nature. Plus, of course, he’s great with kids.’

      ‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.

      ‘Talking of great with kids,’ Juliet said, ‘option number one is the brother of my friend Mel. He’s older—’

      ‘How old?’ Robbie interjected.

      ‘Fifty-odd,’ said Juliet.

      ‘I don’t like the “odd”,’ said Sandie.

      ‘I don’t like the fifty,’ said Robbie.

      ‘All right,’ said Juliet, ‘option number two is late thirties, never been married, split up with his girlfriend over a year ago. Has his own hair, his own teeth. He’s handsome, chatty, caring and he lives in Hadley Wood, apparently.’

      ‘He sounds promising,’ said Sara.

      ‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.

      ‘Hadley Wood is no longer a purely middle-aged enclave,’ said Alistair. ‘You should know that, Stella – from the property market.’

      ‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.

      ‘Who is he?’ asked Robbie.

      ‘My gynae,’ said Juliet.

      ‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.

      ‘Stella,’ Juliet said, ‘don’t be put off by his day job.’

      ‘The last thing I want to do after a day at the computer screen is to come home and log on,’ said Robbie darkly.

      ‘Don’t be awkward,’ said Sandie.

      ‘It’s not his job,’ said Stella.

      ‘What’s his name?’ asked Sara.

      ‘Bryanaston.’

      ‘What sort of a name is Bryanaston?’ asked Sandie.

      ‘That’s his surname,’ said Juliet. ‘His first name is Henry.’

      ‘No, thanks,’ said Stella.

      They looked at her with For Heaven’s Sake, Why Not? written across their faces.

      She shrugged.

      ‘Not ready?’ Juliet said softly.

      ‘Not interested,’ said Stella. ‘I’m fine as I am.’

      ‘For the time being?’ Sandie asked her daughter, a gentle pleading edging her question like garnish.

      ‘For the time being,’ Stella said. ‘Did any of you watch that new serial on the Beeb on Friday?’

      ‘About Rembrandt?’

      ‘With Kevin Branagh?’ said Sandie.

      ‘Kenneth,’ said everyone else.

      ‘Yes,’ said Stella.

      ‘We did.’

      ‘Us too.’

      ‘Wasn’t it brilliant?’

      ‘You and your Rembrandt,’ Sandie said. ‘She wrote her thesis on Rembrandt, you know. She got a first.’

      They all knew that, and they all knew Sandie should be allowed to proclaim the fact as often as she liked.

      * * *

      Stella found Alistair, later on, out in the garage with all the children – including the teenage Twins – looking on in awe as he set his Hornby model railway into action. She watched alongside them for a while, transfixed by the little trees she’d made for him when she was a kid, remembering again the smell of the particular green paint she’d dipped the tiny torn pieces of sponge into. Remembering how they’d dried them on an old cake rack before painstakingly securing them onto matchstick trunks – her first use of Super Glue, her eldest brother coaching her, encouraging her, trusting her.

      ‘Alistair?’ Reluctantly, he looked up from controlling the points. ‘Here.’ She passed him a brown envelope.

      ‘What’s this?’

      ‘My rent, silly,’ she said.

      ‘Oh.’ He looked at the envelope as if he dreaded the contents.

      ‘This month and last.’

      ‘Stella – it’s fine, you know. Juliet and I both say – it’s fine.’