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sighed again, her face temporarily sad. ‘We were still chattels, something to look good on their arm – second best in terms of opportunity, despite Germaine Greer.’

      Della nodded. ‘I was glad I married early. But although motherhood is a blessing, my boys wore me out. Young women nowadays have it much better than we did. They have cleaners, childminders, house-husbands.’

      ‘And wonderful careers.’ Tess leaned forward. ‘They can own their own cars, houses. They keep their own names when they are married, they do as they please. We got it all wrong. Did you see those women in the restaurant at Felipiano’s? Short skirts, lashings of lipstick – in touch with their own sexuality. Flaunting it. I’d love to be like that. They were loud, proud, enjoying themselves.’

      Jen grinned. ‘We gave them a run for their money that night, though.’

      ‘We did.’ Tess laughed. ‘There’s life in us all yet…’

      ‘Right.’ Rose put her elbows on the table. ‘That’s it. We can do what they did – better, even. We need to organise a hen party for Jen.’

      ‘Just like theirs – what a great idea.’ Tess scooped up the last of her apple cake.

      ‘We could do cocktails again,’ Jen agreed. ‘At the Havana Bar and Felipiano’s. It was a lovely night.’

      ‘I’d go there again. I really enjoyed it. We could have L-plates, angel wings.’ Tess licked her lips. ’What about a stripper? You know, a fireman… with a hosepipe and a thong?’

      ‘Maybe…’ Pam shrugged. ‘But perhaps cocktails and an Italian meal don’t make a real hen party.’

      Jen raised her eyebrows. ‘The women at the other table seemed to be having a great time. I’d be happy with us going there, all together, having fun.’

      ‘Yes.’ Pam glanced at Rose, who had closed her eyes and was thinking. ‘But it’s hardly the same as Las Vegas. Eddie will be away having a special time, bonding, seeing shows, gambling – not doing something anyone could do any weekend. We should come up with something else – something a bit more fun.’

      ‘Something a bit wilder?’ Della put her hands to her face. ‘Like a nightclub? There are some good ones in Exeter.’

      ‘Or what about a hen party in London?’ Tess sat upright. ‘Goodness me – we could do an overnight in London.’

      ‘Good idea.’ Pam smiled. ’A whole weekend. That would be a real chance to let our hair down.’

      ‘Rubbish.’ Rose opened her eyes wide. Her face was set, determined. ‘A night in London? We can do better than that.’ She looked from one face to the other. ‘We’re going to the City of Love itself, Paris. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll have the best hen party possible. We’ll make our own plans and it’ll be tailor-made by us for the most fun we can have. Let’s grab this opportunity. Say yes – let’s do it.’

      The women looked at each other, their eyes wide. Then Pam raised her wine glass. ‘All right. Let’s all go to Paris. What do you think, Jen?’

      Jen’s face shone as she lifted her tumbler of water. ‘Why not? Paris it is.’

      The five of them held their glasses aloft and chimed them together. ‘To Paris,’ they chorused.

      8

      ‘I said I’d go to Paris, but I’ll have to tell them I can’t go now.’ Della’s face was sad as she pushed the trolley down the frozen-food aisle. She reached for a bag of peas.

      Sylvester took over trolley duties. ‘I don’t see why. You’ve never been to Paris before. You should go.’

      Della threw the peas in the trolley, as if she was throwing away the idea of a holiday with the girls. ‘It’s not right.’

      ‘How so?’

      ‘You work every day in that shabby old van on the seafront. You deserve the holiday. If anyone should go it should be you.’

      Sylvester chuckled. ‘You’re sending me on a hen holiday with four women?’ He flapped his arms like a chicken’s wings. ‘Sounds fine to me.’

      ‘We should go, you and me, just the two of us. It’s the city of romance.’

      He paused in front of the battered fish and put his arm around her. ’I have romance every day with you, Della. I have enough put by, a few pounds, but it’s enough for you to go to Paris with your girlfriends. I’ll be just fine. I might even enjoy the freedom.’

      ‘You mean you’ll be drinking every night while I’m gone?’

      ‘I could go to London to see Aston and Cassandra, maybe meet up with Linval. It’s tough for him since he split with Sariah and she took the kids. We could go to the Carpenter’s Arms together. I could take a long weekend to catch up.’

      Della sighed. ‘OK, but I’ll miss you when I’m in Paris.’

      He kissed her on the lips. ‘And I’ll miss you. So, it’s decided, my sweetheart. You go, have the time of your life. Just stay away from all those French Casanovas, or they’ll have me to deal with.’

      ‘Are you sure it’s all right, Sylvester?’

      He adjusted his glasses and studied a bag of oven chips before throwing them in the trolley. ‘You deserve the break. Of course, you must go.’ He winked at her. ‘And if you enjoy it, then maybe we can save up some more and the two of us can go together next time. A sort of second honeymoon.’

      ‘Second honeymoon? We never had the first one.’

      He glanced round to check if anyone was watching, then he patted her bottom. ‘The first honeymoon isn’t over yet, woman. You wait till I get you home.’

      Rose searched through her list of long-playing records. She hadn’t played an LP in the house since Bernard had been alive, but she knew what she was looking for. She leafed through the stacks of old records organised alphabetically; she flipped past Abba, Bach and Bizet, The Beatles, Beach Boys, Beethoven, Berlioz, Brahms, Buchner, John Coltrane, Chopin, Dire Straits, and there it was – next to Dylan. Debussy’s ‘Danse bohémienne’. Rose reached up to the record deck, lifted the arm and placed the needle at the edge. Immediately she heard the rhythmic sound of the throbbing grooves through the speakers, then music filled the room. She flopped into an armchair and closed her eyes. Piano keys bubbled with sounds light as feet stepping on air, an energetic tripping dance that transported her to Paris at the end of the nineteenth century. Rose imagined cafés, painters in berets, women in long robes and coquettish hats, a crowded room, people drinking wine and absinthe and sharing laughter. She saw dark streets, a couple in love, spilling from the busy café, the woman’s voice a soft gurgle in French; the man, his words low, strangled by desire, wrapping his arm around her as they walked down towards the Seine. The dark river swirled and they were alone and in love. Amoureux. It sounded wonderful.

      Rose sighed. Paris would be a rich experience, a heady mix of new tastes and scents and stimulating sights and sounds. She would see the Eiffel Tower, the galleries, the churches. She had been to Paris before but that was forty years ago, a weekend break with Bernard, and they had argued about whether to have dinner at the hotel or in a little bistro that Rose would have preferred. She imagined a tapestry of new sensual delights that would transform her life for ever. She breathed deeply, imagining herself as the bohemian woman in the dance, her eyes dark and flashing as she swirled and seduced in a crimson dress. Her movements were confident, provocative, and powerful – she was in touch with her true self. Rose smiled. She would make herself a special meal tonight. She had found a recipe book and it was full of all sorts of delicious options – duck à l’orange, Brie en croute, coq au vin, tarte Tatin. She had bought a bottle of Beaujolais. She had no idea what it was going

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