“I’m so tempted to add a shot of whisky,” Isla says as I hand over her cup.
“It’s your house. You’re over twenty-one. I’m pretty sure you can do what you want.”
“Best not,” she replies, not before appearing to consider it. “I’d better keep my wits about me for tonight.”
“Do you have a big crowd?”
“Eight people from the film,” she says, counting the attendants by tapping her finger against her wrist. “The star and his wife, a co-star and his partner, the director, and a couple of the money people. Then there’s Sandy, of course. Along with a couple of his friends, I believe. And Portia.” She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly before listing off more names that don’t mean anything to me. I’ve heard of Dylan Duffy and his co-star too, but celebrities don’t impress me much. Though I get how stressful this must be for Isla. It’s one thing hosting a party for friends and another to keep strangers entertained for a whole weekend. And for her brother to dump this on her plate and not be here seems like an asshole move. If Kennedy dumped this on me, her guests would be lucky to be served McDonald’s.
“Those who arrived earlier are currently out clay pigeon shooting. Nothing says, a weekend in the country like shooting clay discs propelled into the air.” Her gaze slips to the clock on the wall-mounted oven. “I suppose McCain will serve them afternoon tea soon. I should make an effort to join them.”
“I’ll watch Hugh and Archie. I can take them into the village, or maybe drive them into town to see a movie?” Except, I’m supposed to be going out this evening myself.
“Thank you, but no. They should probably come to tea. Besides, they’re both in the doghouse.”
“Oh.” I sit back in my chair, not wanting to pry.
“It’s nothing terrible. More ridiculous and a case of bad timing.” She looks up from the contents of her cup. “Archie has developed kleptomania, apparently.”
“School supplies?” This is an educated guess. In my experience, lots of little kids borrow from the classroom, whether they want for things materially or not in their lives. I guess if it was going to happen at any time, that time would be now. They know their mom is upset, even if they don’t know exactly why. But they’re smart enough to know their dad is the cause of it. That’s got to be unsettling for any kid.
“Yes. He’s not in trouble or anything. His teacher just happened to mention it. She seemed to think it was funny. I suppose it is, in a way. Archie is clearly no criminal mastermind.” But consternation still flickers over her brow. “He’d apparently stolen a sheet of stickers from his teacher’s desk drawer. Stickers she keeps to reward good work. Actually, I believe she said the stickers say good work.” She slides her hair behind her ears. “Archie has been applying them liberally to his own books, ironically where his work has been less than good.”
“Enterprising.” I try to hide my chuckle behind my coffee cup. “I wouldn’t worry about it. What kid can resist stickers? Let me tell you, the stationery supplies I lost from my classroom back when I was teaching is nobody’s business. Archie’s no thief. I bet the stickers weren’t even in her drawer, and she left them on her desk. He probably couldn’t resist helping himself.”
“Like a little magpie,” Isla replies. “That does seem more plausible. Though I’m not sure what his plans were for the litre of glue he tried to smuggle out under his school shirt.
“Glue?” I feel my eyebrows bounce to the top of my head.
“Yes. PVA.”
“Well, he’s too little to have developed a habit. N-Not glue sniffing,” I say quickly. “I don’t mean that. I just mean he . . .” Probably wanted to help glue a statue’s head back to its body before we were all found out. “Probably wasn’t paying attention. Maybe he confused it for his water bottle or something.”
“Possibly,” she replies unconvinced. “If only Hugh’s teacher was so easy to deal with. Apparently, today he told one of his friends his new haircut made him look like a lesbian. In earshot of his art teacher, who is, in fact, lesbian.”
“Oh, dear.” This time, I use my coffee cup as a shield for the argh! face I pull.
“It’s probably not as bad as it seems. Not as offensive, at least because he didn’t mean lesbian. He meant feminine. He’s only eight. For goodness’ sake, he didn’t even know what the term lesbian meant! He knows that love comes in many forms, but we hadn’t yet gotten to the point where we’d discussed defined terms. His teacher didn’t believe that, of course. She saw it only as a slur. Not one eight-year-old boy teasing another because of a haircut.” She shakes her head in disgust. “You can imagine what he asked as we left the classroom.”
“Mom, what’s a lesbian?”
“Exactly.”
“That would’ve made for an interesting drive home.”
“One where I wish I’d had whisky in my water bottle, especially when the topic turned to their father and whether we’re getting a divorce. Today of all days,” she adds in a tone that I think is supposed to be bright but sounds more fragile. The topic is quickly dropped when Archie appears in the kitchen, apparently starving. A very reticent Hugh isn’t far behind. Both boys changed from their uniforms into shirts and pants, though neither look like their heads have seen the business end of a hairbrush. Not that I’m going to mention that today of all days.
“Chrissy said that Dougal would make sausage rolls and Battenberg cake for afternoon tea,” Archie says, pulling on his mom’s hand. “I think we should go and make sure he remembers that he said so.”
“We’ve got guests, remember?” She cups her son’s chin. “Perhaps Dougal meant some other time. We can’t very well serve Hollywood’s highest-grossing superstar nursery food,” she says, directing her words my way.
“I’m always down for sausage rolls,” I answer with an apologetic shrug. Who doesn’t love herby sausage meat wrapped in a buttery, flaky pastry? Apart from vegetarians, maybe.
“But Chrissy said,” Archie whines. “She said he’d make them just for Hugh and me.”
“Then I suppose we’d better go and make sure Gertie hasn’t eaten them all.”
Because there are sausage rolls, I tag along. It’s been a while since lunch, and this trip to a pub might not include much more to eat than a packet of chips. Or crisps, as they call them here. I’ve driven past the two pubs in the village (each situated at opposite ends), but it’s hard to tell if they serve food or nothing more than packets of the dubious sounding pork scratchings. I’ve yet to ask about the provenance of those but I guess they’re a little like pork rinds.
“Is there something missing from there?” Isla pauses as she reaches the bottom of the very grand staircase. With a pensive finger on her chin, she glances left and right along the long hallway. “How odd.”
I feel Hugh’s attention swing my way as I reach the bottom stair. “What was that?
“It just feels like there’s something not quite right about this space.”
My response is to affect a noncommittal shrug, and thankfully, Isla quickly concludes I’m not the right person to ask. Yay for being a newbie here.