LITMIR.BIZ

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glanced at her. ‘You and Dan have a brilliant time together.’

      ‘Oh yes, we have fun,’ Dee replied vaguely. ‘But still …’ She turned her attention to Dan, who was holding court on the patio wearing torn Bermuda shorts and a navy T-shirt. ‘Look at him. He’s a bloody caveman.’

      I studied Dan. He was wielding a beer and a ridiculously large pair of tongs as he told a joke to a group of men in matching short and T-shirt combos.

      I smiled. ‘He’s definitely “Man in Charge of Fire.”’

      ‘Ug, ug. When Luke gets here, there’ll be lots of references to “man tools.”’

      ‘And about his gigantic barbecue being compensation for a tiny nob.’

      Dee’s mouth twitched. ‘Men,’ she said indulgently.

      ‘Men,’ I agreed. We laughed.

      Luke and Dan were proper mates. Although their friendship had been brought about by the closeness of their wives, it was a union in its own right nonetheless; games of pool, putting the world to rights over beers, jokey texts at all hours that caused them to snigger like schoolboys. Standard stuff, but there was genuine respect and affection there too … Maybe even a teeny bit of ‘hetero man love,’ as Dee called it.

      Dee flapped her face once more. ‘Right. More people. I need to air kiss and host. I might even proper kiss a few of them, if they’re dishy.’

      I watched her as she set off down the lawn, her hot-pink prom dress flouncing around her knees. I sighed a breath of relief; Dan’s sangria was legendary – laced heavily with booze, vodka-spiked fruit bobbing in it – and I couldn’t possibly drink it. Dee was practically a member of the booze police and I knew she would be the most challenging person to keep my pregnancy-dictated avoidance of alcohol from, because drinking was a thing we did together, but, luckily, she was too busy circulating and introducing people as though they were on speed dates to notice.

      My friendship with Dee – or Delilah, as she was known back then – began eight years ago, the summer I’d begun working at a book shop. We met in the deli next door, bonding over deliciously pungent houmous, and we cemented our friendship on a night out, working our way through the cocktail menu in a local bar. This, I learnt, was a normal night out for Dee, but it wasn’t for me. I rarely drank in those days, nor was I much of a girl’s girl. I wanted to be, but I struggled, and Dee was the extrovert required to bring me out of my shell. She introduced me to grown-up drinking: Porn Star Martinis (‘because they come with a champagne chaser – it’s the future, darling’) and Salt ‘n’ Peppa Vodkas (neat vodka, with three olives providing the salt element, and a sprinkle of black pepper). Better still, she introduced me to her gaggle of loud friends and, after a few months spent in their company, I found I had gained confidence, although I’d never be Dee.

      I glanced around Dee’s sprawling garden. It was reasonably well looked after and, like their house, it was very much a family space. Dominated by climbing frames, swings and, the pièce de résistance, a vast treehouse, erected with much ugging and hammering by Dan in another macho moment.

      I waved at Patricia and Nell as they strolled into the garden, glad to see people I recognised. Dee charmed men and women effortlessly and, being the total opposite myself, I envied Dee her enigmatic allure.

      I was one of life’s ‘growers,’ a person others tended to need to get to know, rather than instantly warmed to. Dee had a number of opinionated theories about why this was the case, most of them blaming my ‘kooky’ parents and lack of siblings. She probably made a good point, but, whatever the reason, I was still really shy, despite the boost knowing Dee had given me. This, I’m told, translates to ‘stand-offish’ on initial contact. This fact distresses me – it’s not the way I want to be seen – and I have tried to work on it, but it feels forced. And I admit: it’s sometimes easy to forget to make the effort when Luke has enough charisma for the both of us.

      Dee joined me again, raising an eyebrow at my still-full glass. Damn. I should have tossed it in the bushes.

      ‘Drink up, Luce. You’re lagging behind.’

      ‘Sorry.’ I made to sip it, close to blurting out my baby news. But we had agreed not to talk about the baby until the twenty-week scan this time. Our secret weighed heavily on my shoulders; Dee was my best friend and it didn’t feel natural to keep this from her.

      I glanced around for a suitable conversation point to distract Dee. I spotted a woman in a low-cut dress that showed off a plethora of daring tattoos and knew I was safe for the moment.

      ‘Who’s that? I haven’t seen her at one of your shindigs before.’

      Dee obliged with a peppy observation. ‘That is the wife of one of the artists at Dan’s gallery. She’s about to feature in her husband’s explicit nude collection, would you believe?’ Dee flipped her sunglasses down on to her nose. ‘I must’ve been drinking champagne at one of Dan’s events because I don’t even remember inviting her … don’t say it, Luce; I know I can’t handle the bubbles. But honestly. We can see her bum cleavage from here, so I’m not sure the nude paintings will show us anything new. Apart from her fairy parts, perhaps – do you think she has those tattooed as well?’

      I snorted. Fairy parts? For such an extrovert, Dee could be surprisingly prudish when it came to sex talk. I felt a sticky hand on my arm.

      ‘What’s bum cleavage?’ Frankie’s brow wrinkled. She wore a tiara at a rakish angle, giving her the air of an off-duty princess. ‘And fairy parts?’

      Dee looked vexed. ‘Franks, you do have the most incredible timing. Can’t you ever appear when I’m talking about school schedules?’

      ‘You don’t talk about school sched … whatever you said,’ Frankie responded with the brutal honesty of a three-year-old.

      ‘Are you wearing sun cream?’ Dee fretted, expertly checking Frankie’s shoulders for redness. ‘And where’s your hat?’

      ‘It’s gone.’ Frankie’s expression darkened. ‘Not talking about it.’ Ignoring her mother’s look of agitation, she turned to me. ‘Where’s Uncle Luke?’

      Where indeed? I checked my watch. ‘He’s working, sweetheart, but he promised me he’d be here for your Swingball championship.’

      Frankie looked unimpressed. ‘When I grow up, I’m not going to work at all. I’m going to be just like mummy.’

      ‘Charming.’ Dee took a long, exasperated sip of sangria.

      I hid a smile. ‘Mummy does work, Franks. She works hard bringing up the three of you.’

      I frowned. What was that? I had felt an odd sensation in my stomach. This pregnancy was scaring the hell out of me. I’d had a few strange twinges in my groin over the past few days, and was concentrating hard on not worrying about them.

      ‘We’re not work, Auntie Lucy.’ Frankie shot her mother a withering look. ‘We’re just children.’ Catching sight of her brother and sister terrorising a neighbour’s child, she tore after them.

      ‘Just children,’ Dee echoed faintly. ‘If only. I’d be amused if I thought she was joking.’

      I watched Dee’s three children charging down the garden, bellowing and galloping like wild animals. Somehow, Dee and Dan had managed to divide their gene pool equally, giving Jack, their only son, Dee’s height, blonde curls and clear blue eyes. Tilly, their second child, had Dan’s expressive features, his unruly dark hair and the heavy-set jaw more suited to a man than a young girl. And Frankie, the child they hadn’t planned, had inherited a rather exotic blend of them both, giving her dirty-blonde curls and heavy brows that Dee was already itching to wax.

      Was our baby a boy? Would he be like Jack, boisterously confident, destroying everything in his path? Or perhaps a girl like Tilly – thoughtful and creative, but still prone to bouts of excitable shrieking and yodelling? Maybe we’d

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