Lizzie collect up the plates.
‘Er, has anyone actually met anyone they like?’ Sally asked.
We all looked blankly at each other. ‘Nope,’ said Frances. Emma shook her head, and said nothing, though I could see that she was still blushing.
‘What about you, Sally?’ I said.
‘No luck,’ she said with a happy shrug. ‘Perhaps I’ll meet someone on holiday next week. Some heavenly Maharajah. Or maybe the Taj Mahal will work its magic for me.’
‘Like it did for Princess Diana, you mean,’ said Frances with a grim little laugh.
‘I’m interested in someone,’ announced Catherine.
‘Yes?’ we all said.
‘Well, I met him at Alison and Angus’s dinner party in June. Tiffany was there. He’s an acc—’
‘Oh God, not that dreary accountant?’ I said incredulously. ‘Not that boring-looking bloke in the bad suit who lives in Barnet and probably plays golf ?’
Catherine gave me a withering look. I didn’t know why. ‘He’s very nice, actually,’ she said coldly. ‘And he’s interesting, too. And he’s particularly interesting on the subject of art. He’s got quite a collection of –’
‘Etchings?’ I said.
‘Augustus Johns, actually.’ Gosh. ‘I mean, Tiffany, why do you assume he’s boring just because he’s an accountant? You’re quite wrong.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, aware of the familiar taste of shoe leather.
‘And nor does it follow that men with interesting jobs are interesting people,’ Catherine added. ‘I mean Phillip had an interesting job, didn’t he?’ she continued. ‘And though I would never have told you this at the time, because I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt your feelings,’ she added pointedly, ‘I thought he was one of the most boring and conversationless men I have ever met.’ This could not be denied. ‘And I don’t think Alex set the world on fire either,’ she added. This was also true. ‘But my friend Hugh, who’s an accountant, is actually rather interesting,’ she concluded sniffily. ‘So please don’t sneer, Tiffany.’
‘God I feel such a heel,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the Pimms. Can I have some more?’
‘Anyway, Augustus John was incredibly prolific and he lived a long time, so there’s a lot of his work out there. Loads of it, in fact. And Hugh’s been quietly collecting small paintings and sketches for years. And after that dinner party he asked me to clean a small portrait that John did of his wife Dorelia, and when he came to collect it yesterday he asked me if I’d like to have dinner with him next week.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ I said, feeling guilty and also stupid. ‘Try and find out if he has any nice colleagues. Single ones, of course.’
Suddenly Amy appeared, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, party sandals, pink sun-glasses and clutching a small leather vanity case. She looked as if she was about to set off on some cheap Iberian package. ‘What are you all TALKING about?’ she shouted. Amy has a very loud voice.
‘We’re talking about boyfriends,’ said Lizzie.
Amy opened her case and took out one of her eleven Barbie dolls. ‘BARBIE’S got a BOYFRIEND,’ she yelled. ‘He’s called KEN. She’s going to MARRY HIM. I’ve got her a BRIDE’S DRESS.’
‘Amy darling,’ said Lizzie. ‘I keep telling you, Barbie is never going to marry Ken.’ Bewilderment and disappointment spread across Amy’s face. ‘Barbie has been going out with Ken for almost forty years without tying the knot,’ Lizzie explained patiently as she passed round the honey-glazed poussins. ‘I’m afraid Barbie is a commitophobe.’
‘What’s a COMMITOPHOBE, Mummy?’
‘Someone who doesn’t want to get married, darling. And I don’t want you to be one when you grow up.’
‘What are you all talking about?’ said Alice, whose blonde pigtails were spattered with black paint.
‘Boyfriends,’ said Frances.
‘ALICE has got a BOYFRIEND,’ Amy yelled. ‘He’s called TOM. He’s in her CLASS. But I HAVEN’T got one.’
‘That’s because you’re too young,’ said Alice wisely. ‘You still watch the Teletubbies. You’re a baby.’ Amy didn’t appear to resent this slur.
‘How old’s your boyfriend, Alice?’ Catherine enquired with a smile.
‘He’s eight and a quarter,’ she replied. ‘And Tom’s mummy, Mrs Hamilton, she’s got a boyfriend too.’
‘Good God!’ said Lizzie. ‘Has she?’
‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘Tom told me. He’s called Peter. He works with her. In the bank. But Tom’s daddy doesn’t know. Should I tell him?’ she added.
‘No,’ said Lizzie. ‘No. Don’t. Social death, darling.’
‘Tiffany, have you got a boyfriend yet?’ asked Alice.
‘Er, no,’ I said. ‘I haven’t.’ She went off and sat on the swing with a vaguely disappointed air.
‘You know, it’s horrible being single in the summer,’ I said vehemently. ‘All those happy couples snogging in the park, or playing tennis or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf … ’
‘Personally I think it’s much worse in the winter,’ said Emma, ‘having no-one to snuggle up to in front of an open fire on some romantic weekend break.’
‘No, I think it’s worse being single in the spring,’ said Catherine. ‘When everything’s growing and thrusting and the sun’s shining, and it’s all so horribly happy. April really is the cruellest month, in my view.’
‘Being single in autumn is the worst,’ said Sally ruefully, ‘because there’s no-one to kick through the leaves with in the park or hold hands with at fireworks displays.’
‘Well, I often envy you single girls,’ said Lizzie darkly. ‘I’d love to be single again.’
‘Well, we’d love to be you,’ said Catherine, ‘with such a nice husband.’
Lizzie gave a hollow little laugh. I thought that was mean. I glanced at Martin, quietly painting away.
‘Love is a gilded cage,’ said Emma drunkenly.
‘No – “Love conquers all,”’ said Catherine.
‘“Love means never having to say you’re sorry,”’ said Frances, with a smirk. ‘I’m glad that’s true – otherwise I’d be unemployed!’
‘“Love’s the noblest frailty of the mind,”’ said Lizzie. ‘Dryden.’
‘“Love’s not Time’s fool,”’ said Sally. ‘Shakespeare.’
‘“The course of true love never did run smooth,”’ said Emma. ‘Ditto.’ And for some reason, that cheered me up – I didn’t know why.
‘Come on, Tiffany – your turn!’ they all chorused.
‘Er – “Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all,”’ I said. ‘Tennyson.’
‘However,’ said Lizzie, ‘according to George Bernard Shaw “there is no love sincerer than the love of food.” So eat up, everyone!’
On Saturday the first of August I opened The Times,