The Forever Home by Sue Watson

Chapter Two

It was almost seven when Mark finally arrived home from work, just minutes before the first guests were due to arrive.

‘I know making television is life and death,’ I said, joking sarcastically as he ran into the hallway, taking off his shoes, ‘but this is our silver wedding. It only happens once.’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ He held his hands up in a surrendering gesture. ‘You know what it’s like, filming took ages!’ He kissed me.

‘Mmm, well, fortunately for you, superwoman was here to sort everything in your absence,’ I said. ‘As always.’

‘Yes, you are amazing, but don’t forget whose brilliant idea it was to get caterers to assist superwoman,’ he replied, smiling.

‘A brilliant, but expensive idea,’ I countered.

He stopped in the hallway, brushed a tendril of hair from my face and looked into my eyes. ‘But worth every penny?’

I felt a rush of something like love, and nodded reluctantly.

‘Sherrie swears by them – “None of the stress and all of the nibbles,”’ he said, standing in his socks at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Oh, and by the way, she’ll be along later,’ he added, an apologetic grimace on his face.

‘Great,’ I sighed, my heart dipping. That was all we needed, his new co-presenter sashaying around the place. Mark said she was a bit full of herself and apparently treated the runners like rubbish; the producer had had to have a word with her.

He looked at me, holding out his hands helplessly. ‘I know, I know, Sherrie can be a little… irritating, but I had to invite her. I’ve invited everyone on the team, it would be odd if I left her out.’

‘She doesn’t like me,’ I said. ‘She never even smiled at me when we saw her at the TV awards.’

‘That’s the botox. She doesn’t smile at anyone,’ he replied, with a shrug.

I laughed, feeling a bit mean, but she deserved it. At the very few social occasions I’d attended with the TV company, she usually managed to edge me out of a circle, pinning down Mark while putting her back to me. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and I guess, to people like Sherrie, I was just in the way.

‘Sorry, babe, I know she’s not exactly a laugh-a-minute, but I couldn’t leave her out, could I?’

‘No, of course not, it would be horrible and she’d be hurt, but I just feel…’

‘What?’ he asked gently, now standing halfway up the stairs as I looked up at him from the bottom.

‘I just feel like tonight isn’t quite what I’d thought it was going to be. You know I wanted an intimate gathering just for our friends and family, the people who know us and love us. But now it’s less like our silver wedding and more like a TV wrap party.’

‘But these are my friends,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know, and you’re very kind inviting everyone on the team, but it’s a huge team, and I thought we’d agreed it would be more of an intimate gathering.’

The crew and production team consisted of at least thirty guests, most of them strangers to me. To them, I was just Mark’s appendage; Sherrie certainly saw me like that and would probably continue her determined campaign to keep me away from my husband – at my own party. Mark always laughed and said I was being paranoid, but she was just one of many women who salivated over Mark, batting their eyelids and thrusting their breasts towards him, as I stood by like a bloody wallflower.

‘Go and get ready,’ I said, trying to push Sherrie’s breasts from my mind. ‘It would be weird if I had to greet everyone on my own at our anniversary party – we’re married, remember?’

‘My darling, how could I forget?’ He blew me a kiss and laughed as he wandered up the stairs.

‘Oh, and your groupies will be here early, as always,’ I called after him.

He stopped on the top step and turned around, with an exaggerated look of hope, his eyes darting everywhere. ‘Groupies? Where?’ He began to unbutton his white linen shirt. His face was brown from the sun, and a thick sweep of speckled silver hair fell across his brow. At fifty-one, he still had it, my husband.

‘You know who I mean,’ I teased. ‘Your groupies… the local mummies who think you’re God’s gift to decorating? You insisted we invite them tonight too, remember?’

The groupies, as I’d christened them, were six mums I’d met at the school gate when Jake was five – he was now eighteen, and I’d barely seen them in the intervening years. I thought they were my friends, but I’d heard some things I wasn’t sure of, and didn’t feel I could trust them, so had kept my distance. But thanks to Mark’s bonhomie when he’d met one of them by chance in a village shop the previous week, he’d reconnected us and we now had another group of virtual strangers at our celebration.

And tonight, some of those once-yummy mummies, would, fuelled by gin and absent husbands, be breathing fire into Mark’s face and insisting he dance with them.

‘Women adore him, and who can blame them?’ I’d told Charlotte, the reporter.

‘He is a very attractive older man.’ She’d nodded her head vigorously

He was old enough to be her father, but few women were immune to Mark’s charms.

‘Aren’t you scared of other women stealing him off you?’ she’d asked.

‘No, I’m not scared of other women stealing him,’ I lied. ‘It’s me he comes home to at the end of the day, and even if he’s tired, we still make time for each other… Do you know, after all these years, he still leaves me little love notes all over the house.’

‘Love notes?’ she sighed.

I nodded. ‘He’d kill me for telling you this, but just this morning, I opened the coffee jar to find a note inside saying he loved me. He’d drawn this little heart…’ I’d started, then rolled my eyes. I didn’t want to come over as some self-satisfied, middle-aged wife. I’d been surprised to find the note; he hadn’t done anything like that in years. I put it down to nostalgia. He was probably remembering us twenty-five years before.

‘He left a love note in the coffee jar?’ Charlotte had smiled, and sat back in her seat like she’d just completed a run.

With guests now due any moment, and Mark safely home and changing, I checked my hair in the hall mirror, glad I’d had my roots done; the grey was sprouting through the blonde more quickly these days. Wandering into the kitchen, I watched the chef scatter chia seeds onto dainty canapés, and gave a silent thank you to pert-breasted, botox-faced Sherrie. Mark’s co-presenter may not have been able to move her face since 1998, but that woman knew a good catering company when she saw one.

My mind returned, as minds often do at birthdays and anniversaries, to the past and where it all began. Mark’s TV programme, The Forever Home, started out in our back garden with me filming him working on the house, and little Phoebe playing in the background. To our amazement, the idea had, over the years, gone from strength to strength, and now Mark presented two series a year for the BBC, and was feted wherever he went.

What had been lost to history was that the idea was originally mine. The internet was still quite new, but as part of my art degree I’d done a module on video-making, so I’d downloaded the footage of my young, handsome husband single-handedly renovating our seaside home. Mum had given the house to me as a wedding present. My dad had died a couple of years before we married, and she felt the house needed a family. ‘It’s a home built for chaos and children,’ she’d said before moving into her small retirement apartment on the other side of the village. Just a few years later, she died, and unable to cope with my grief, Mark became almost obsessed with transforming the house. But this had been my mum’s home, all my memories of her were here, and I was still grieving for her. I always would.

Her death was devastating – she died of cancer, and I nursed her through those final months of her life until she couldn’t take any more pain. ‘I want to go,’ she’d begged me, ‘please let me say goodbye now.’

It was the lowest time in my life. I was a young mum, pregnant with my second child and too young to lose my own mother. I still needed her wisdom, her guidance, and her unconditional love; there’s nothing quite like a mother’s love for her children, I knew that too well. As an only child, I’d been incredibly close to Mum, and selfishly wanted her to hang onto life as long as she could, for me. It sounds terrible, but I resented her for wanting to die, wanting to be free of pain and the indignity of the final weeks, months. I just kept saying, ‘Mum, you can’t leave me.’ But she did.

In some ways, not all good, Mum’s death bonded Mark and I. But where losing her made me want to hide myself away and cry, it seemed to inspire Mark to start afresh, move forward. For him, her death was a watershed, and he wanted to change everything about the house, seeming to escape into the project, and leaving just the white shell, like a hollowed-out egg. I wasn’t ready for that, but being tired and pregnant with a toddler running around, I didn’t fight it, and agreed to the transformation. He told me it would be ‘an obituary to your mum’, and though we both knew it was less about Mum and more about Mark, I hoped perhaps the project would free me from the syrupy grief and guilt I was wading through in the aftermath. But, in reality, the sanding of walls and floors felt like my childhood was being erased, and each blow of the hammer seemed to take me further from who I was.

On a practical level, the whole venture was a worry; Mark was an architect, but hadn’t completed his training in London when we moved to Cornwall, so he had no job, and we had little money, just what Mum had left us. I was pregnant with Jake, our second child, and concerned about the future, but Mark was consumed with the idea of turning our home into an installation on the cliffs.

‘People will see it for miles, it’s going to transform this town,’ he’d said. ‘This will be my business card, and I’ll be offered lots of work.’

I had to admire his optimism, and in a desperate attempt to support him, and try and find a way to pay for all the raw materials, I downloaded the footage of Mark working and talking through what he was doing. I tagged all the DIY stores where we’d bought our stuff, hoping they’d appreciate the mention and perhaps offer to help for a mention on our social media. It was the very beginning of ‘influencers’, in fact people like us didn’t even have a label, but before long, companies responded, sending us paint, wallpaper, and all kinds of building equipment. It was early days, we were a novelty, but as our following grew, we could put a company’s product before a million people. We didn’t have a detailed plan for our home, we just worked with what we had and what we were given, and just shuffled along, doing one project after the next. But it seemed people watching us could relate, and think; If those two skinny twenty-somethings can work out how to build a brick wall, so can I.

Then local builder, Ted, had offered his services for free if we’d feature his company on our videos. By then we had one million followers, a huge following back then, and I dared to hope we might get some interest from TV. So I came up with a format and sent the idea and some footage to various TV companies, who showed a great deal of interest. There was quite a bidding war, which was when Mark got more involved and found an agent, Estelle. And she schmoozed her way around the different TV executives, and within about a week we had a deal, and The Forever Home went from a TV pilot to a series.

I’m sure in today’s busy reality TV marketplace, a man painting a wall while having a conversation with his wife isn’t exactly ‘warts and all’. But in pre-Love Island days, when sex with a stranger on TV would have been considered shocking, this fly-on-the-wall DIY seemed quite intimate. People loved the realness of it, the way this handsome, amusing young husband and father was, magician-like, turning a tired old cottage into something spectacular. The viewers loved to share our triumphs and tragedies, our minor victories over a load-bearing wall, and the devastation when what promised to be duck-egg blue paint was green when painted on the wall. One newspaper described it as, ‘making DIY drama out of a crisis,’ proclaiming Mark to be a charismatic TV personality, destined for great things. Viewers adored him, they also loved the family dynamic, and the idea that Mark’s blood, sweat and tears had gone into improving the house for us, his wife and kids.

My art degree was also utilised in murals, paint effects, patterns for soft furnishings. But there was no doubt Mark was the star. Branded as ‘the decorating woman’s crumpet’, the TV company paid him well to keep him. Back then, we laughed at his new sex symbol status, but, I have to confess, it made me feel slightly insecure in the early days. I spent a lot of time worrying – as Charlotte had suggested – that he might leave me for someone more beautiful, more successful. But Mark reassured me as much as he could and, when asked about the success of the programme, would point out how my contribution at home had enabled his success. ‘Carly carried all the weight,’ he’d say. ‘I owe my success wholly to her, because while I was messing about with renovations, she was doing the important stuff, as homemaker and mother to Phoebe and Jake.’

Looking back, I’m not sure that was strictly true. I did an awful lot behind the scenes in addition to looking after the house and kids. But I didn’t have Mark’s confidence on camera, so was happy to do stuff behind the scenes and always helped Mark with his words. He liked to do dramatic introductions, and describe things a certain way, but didn’t quite know how to put it. He always said I had a way of making poetry and insisted I write the opening script and make notes for filming. Even after the programme moved away from the house, and Mark and the TV production team travelled the country, I continued to write his words. Most of the time, I hadn’t even seen the place he was working on, but I’d look at the recce shots and write the programme opening and notes, then wave him off, sometimes for weeks on end. I missed him, but I had my children, my home and the gorgeous Cornish coast. Now, Mark had just received the offer from a big US streaming company, making all those lonely nights worth the sacrifice. The TV executives said they could turn him into the next Queer Eye, or, as he was eager to point out, ‘the straight, silver fox version’. And they’d offered three million dollars. We’d been comfortable for the last few years, but this was something else. Of course, it wasn’t just about the money, it would involve all kinds of change, and I was excited to start this new chapter in our lives. With the kids grown, I could go with Mark to America. I would hate to leave this house, even if it was for just a few months a year, but it was an opportunity I couldn’t miss.

I was suddenly shaken out of my thoughts by the sound of champagne corks popping.

‘I may need to taste that champagne to make sure it’s right?’ I joked, walking over to one of the young waitresses in the kitchen.

She smiled and handed me a fizzing flute just as the doorbell rang.

I thanked her and headed down the hall, opening the door with one hand and holding my glass with the other. Phoebe and Jake stood on the doorstep, and as soon as they were inside, they hugged and congratulated me. Then they did what all young people do when faced with the prospect of free drink: they marched towards the makeshift bar. Phoebe worked in London on a women’s magazine, while Jake was just completing his first year at Exeter University, and Jake had driven down earlier to collect Phoebe from the train station.

‘Mum, you look great,’ Jake said, as a waiter poured him and Phoebe a glass of fizz each.

‘Yeah, that white dress looks good on you, really sets off your tan,’ Phoebe added.

I put my arms around both their shoulders. ‘My babies,’ I sighed, kissing each one on the cheek.

‘Where’s Dad?’ Phoebe took a sip from her glass and looked around expectantly.

‘Oh, you know your dad, late home, still getting ready upstairs as guests arrive downstairs.’

‘Classic Dad.’ Phoebe shook her head, smiling indulgently at her dad’s complete inability to play by anyone’s rules.

The doorbell rang again. It was the first of the guests and, as I’d predicted, I was greeting them alone. I placed my champagne flute down carefully on the kitchen island, put on my brightest smile and headed for the door, fully expecting to open it and see the yummy mummies standing there. They’d always been first at all the school events, and I could only imagine how keen they’d be to party here, especially with Mark.

But I was surprised to see a young red-haired woman on the doorstep.

‘Hi Carly,’ she said, rather awkwardly.

It was Charlotte, the journalist who’d interviewed me and stayed for lunch the previous day.

Smiling, I gazed questioningly at her. I wondered if perhaps she’d left something behind – her pen, her notebook? Had she forgotten to ask me a question? She was wearing a long, strappy dress, her hair curled, full make-up on, as if she were going to… a party?

‘Mark… er, Mr Anderson invited me. He thought it might be good for me to see “the other side”, so it’s less about work, more about the family… in a relaxed environment… to add some background to the piece I’m writing?’

‘Oh.’ He really was too much sometimes. Inviting all his TV colleagues was one thing, but turning our wedding anniversary into a PR event was bloody irritating.

‘I’m sorry, Carly, I should have checked with you first,’ she sighed, clearly picking up on my surprise. ‘I won’t intrude, just wanted a bit of colour, but—’

I wished Mark had mentioned it to me, but it wasn’t the girl’s fault and I didn’t want to make her feel awkward, so I nodded vigorously. ‘No problem at all. Come and meet the children, they’re far more interesting than me and Mark,’ I said, smiling as I put my arm through hers and walked her into the kitchen, where Phoebe and Jake were starting on a second glass of bubbly.

I introduced her and the kids immediately made her welcome. As they chatted, I abandoned them, to answer the door again, while silently cursing my husband, who still hadn’t made an appearance.

I swear I could smell the perfume from down the hall before I’d even opened the door to the school gate yummy mummies. I painted on my smile as they stood expectantly on the doorstep, resplendent in glitzy designer dresses, their expensive platinum highlights suggesting they all had the same hairdresser.

‘Long time no see,’ I exclaimed, as TheReal Housewives of Cornwall moved as one into my hallway.

‘Carly!’ they all said in unison as they embraced me with firmly gym-honed arms.

‘You look gorgeous, lovely,’ one of them said, I’m not sure which one, they were interchangeable in their strappy dresses revealing deep, golden tans, telling of a summer spread across Cornwall and the Caribbean.

Gemma, the only one I could accurately distinguish, as she seemed to be the spokesperson, led the way down the hall like it was her home, arm around my waist, continuing with the theme of how ‘fabulous’ I looked, while glancing around for the real star of the show. But Mark was still nowhere in sight.

Over the next half-hour, more people arrived, a few I knew and some I didn’t, which made me even more angry that my husband wasn’t there to greet them and introduce me.

‘I’m so sorry, I, er…’ was my opening line to a gaggle of beautiful strangers who filled my hallway with the heady blend of French cologne and sun oil.

‘Carly!’ someone screeched and I turned around. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages, didn’t recognise you.’

‘Have I aged that much in just a few months, Sherrie?’ I asked Mark’s co-presenter, in mock alarm, as she swept me into a too-tight hug.

She giggled, and released me, so I made a quick move and guided her to the kitchen, where I hoped the kids might rescue me. ‘Thing is,’ she said, taking a glass from a passing waiter, ‘when I think of Carly Anderson, I always think of the young blonde with the long legs on the very first series all those years ago. God, how long ago was that?’

‘About a hundred years?’ I said, not wanting to dwell on how much time had passed.

She laughed. ‘No. More like twenty years. I was a child,’ she added, her head to one side, her face a study in pity. ‘You were gorgeous, running along that beach in shorts, making sandcastles with the little ones – I bet they’re unrecognisable now too?’

‘Yes, they’re all grown up – just like me,’ I said, forcing a smile, but wanting to slap her. ‘They’re just over there,’ I added, pointing over to Phoebe and Jake, chatting with Charlotte at the far end of the kitchen.

Sherrie smiled and raised her eyebrows just to humour me; she wasn’t interested in my kids, she was only interested in Sherrie. I wished she’d wander off and make someone else feel rubbish, but tonight it was my turn. I consoled myself that at least she’d acknowledged my presence.

‘Oh wow,’ she said slowly, and clutched both my upper arms, holding me at length, surveying me from a distance.

‘What?’ I tried to smile, I really did.

‘You look sonatural – I have to rely on Doctor Botox, but you don’t, do you?’

I shook my head uncertainly. Was she saying I looked natural, or naturally old? I hated this fake world of TV, where looks and youth were prized above everything else – even talent, where Sherrie was concerned.

‘If ever you decide to start fighting it, give me a call. I’ll give you the number of my doctor, he’s fabulous!’ She gestured towards my face with long pink nails.

I looked around for an escape. Phoebe had left the kitchen and Jake was in deep conversation with the gorgeous redhead Charlotte, so not a hope there. To my deep relief, I suddenly felt Mark’s presence, as he landed by my side, showered and smelling of fresh leaves and lemons. He kissed me on the cheek, then embraced Sherrie, who turned to face him, and started talking intensely. It was all just approval-seeking noise about their work, in-jokes about colleagues and ‘hilarious’ things that had happened on various shoots. As I never went on location, I couldn’t join in, and the more she talked, the more she shifted round until her back was facing me.

I was about to wander off when Phoebe came over and tapped her dad on the shoulder. That’s my girl, I thought, the cavalry has come to save me. She hugged him, then reached out to pull me in for a family hug, and poor old Sherrie was the one suddenly left out in the cold. It was deftly done, and Mark hadn’t even noticed – but Sherrie had, and flounced off into the other room, taking her fake breasts and plastic personality with her.

‘Carly, you shouldn’t be hiding in the kitchen,’ Mark said, ‘come and mingle.’

‘I would love to mingle, but I was talking to Sherrie – until you came along.’ I rolled my eyes at Phoebe, who was open-mouthed.

‘Dad, Mum has been greeting your friends for the past half-hour – she’s been mingling!’

‘Sorry, my darlings,’ he said, a middle-aged man caught in a pincer movement between wife and daughter. ‘I just meant—’

‘No, you’re the one who’s late, don’t you dare chastise Mum. You’ve been upstairs since we arrived,’ she laughed incredulously.

‘Come on then,’ I said, before a row erupted between them. ‘Perhaps you could introduce me to some of my guests?’ I added, grabbing his hand and leading him from the kitchen into the throng. ‘Don’t get too drunk, too early,’ I said under my breath.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, darling,’ he said, with a wink.

We wandered through the main sitting room, and into the garden, where guests had started to gather. It was around eight and the sun was beginning to melt, casting orange stains through the sky. The sea, glittering in the distance, never failed to take my breath away. Living here in this house, I owned that view; it was all mine, whenever I wanted.

‘You ready for a full-on performance?’ I asked Mark, smiling through gritted teeth.

‘If you are, darling.’ He smiled back, leaning towards me, and we kissed, pulling away only when someone shouted, ‘Get a room!’

‘I think we should dance the first dance, just like we did at our wedding,’ Mark whispered into my ear.

So I threw off my sandals, and we held each other and danced in the failing light, as our guests stopped talking and gathered around to watch us. I hated being on show. I only did it for Mark; he loved being the centre of attention, and people loved to watch him. He was a great dancer too, far better than me, and he slowly moved me around, his hips loose, his rhythm so in tune with the music. My bare feet felt the cool of the grass, and the sway of the music, and with Mark’s gentle guidance, I soon believed I could dance. Just like the first time all those years before.

When the music eventually stopped, we were brought crashing back to the present, and I had to take a moment before moving into the throng now gathering around us.

‘Darling?’ That voice, all full and throaty. It was Mark’s agent, Estelle – the way she went on, you’d think she was an actress with the RSC. ‘You two are totally GORGEOUS!’ she almost yelled in our faces.

I grimaced, and stood by as she swept Mark into her arms and then pushed him away, still holding him so she had his full attention.

‘I thought we were meeting today to go over paperwork for the next series?’ she said, in a faux sulky voice, her collagened lips pouting trout-like in my husband’s direction.

‘Sorry, kitten, I had a big meeting, couldn’t make it.’

Kitten?

‘Tomorrow?’ she demanded sulkily. I watched this performance like it was a game of tennis.

‘Sorry, bae, I have to…’

Bae? WTF?I almost laughed out loud – why was he talking like our kids?

‘Estelle,’ I said, ‘so glad you could make it.’ I reached to give her a hug.

She squealed. I’m not sure if it was in joy or horror; her reaction to everything was always inappropriately big. She then hugged me too tightly and told me how fabulous I looked while gazing in a different direction.

A few others gathered round to congratulate us, and we smiled and hugged and thanked them for their gifts, their compliments.

‘You are both so lucky – all this and twenty-five years of wedded bliss too,’ one of the yummy mummies oozed.

‘I’m the luckiest, because I have this one,’ Mark said, pulling me in with both arms and kissing me on my forehead.

‘You’re squashing my newly squashed hair, darling,’ I laughed.

‘So, what do you say to another twenty-five years, babe?’ he asked, and everyone murmured their approval.

‘Oh, go on then,’ I replied, with a smile, and he bent down and kissed me on the lips.

Everyone clapped. I felt ridiculous, but with one arm still around my shoulder, Mark squeezed me gently, a reassuring gesture.

We continued to chat for a while, but Mark was soon swept up in a bubble of TV friends, and with only the Yummies around, and no sign of Lara yet, I was sucked into their vortex.

‘So, what’s it really like to be married to the DIY Woman’s Crumpet?’ one of them asked; she was clearly a little tipsy already. ‘Go on, spill the beans, we’ve all been married as long, if not longer – and I don’t look at my hubby like you look at Mark.’ They all giggled.

I blushed. ‘Oh, I’m sure you do.’

‘The last time I looked at him like that, he’d bought me a new car,’ she said, laughing.

‘No, really though, what’s your secret?’ Gemma cut in. ‘Is he as perfect as he seems, or does he have a dark, naughty side, if you know what I mean?’ She giggled, and winked at me.

‘Honestly, girls, it’s like being interviewed by the press. What can I tell you? He isn’t a secret serial killer, he doesn’t eat babies for breakfast, he’s… lovely, he’s… Mark.’

‘I read somewhere that he still brings you breakfast in bed?’ Gemma panted.

I nodded. I swear I heard them all purr, and was reminded why I hadn’t kept in touch with them over the years. Why were people, especially women, fascinated by mine and Mark’s private life?

I’d had enough, so told them I had to check on something, and escaped to the garden; no one had ventured out there yet, so I took the opportunity for a few seconds of solace. As always, I was drawn to the sea, and wandered slowly to the bottom of the garden, just to check it was still there. The sun had melted to make way for a white chocolate moon lighting the way down through the white hydrangeas, becoming almost luminous, as if they’d soaked up all the sunshine of the day to light the path down to the cliff edge in the semi-darkness. I tramped through the plants and sticky grasses, right to the edge, looking out in the semi light at the calm, grey-blue sea, the treacherous rocks below.

Where had twenty-five years gone? Were they swallowed up somewhere in the ocean? How that time had shaped us all – my little ones weren’t little any more, and I wasn’t the twenty-two-year-old in white lace who’d returned here with my handsome groom. I was older, stronger. I had more lines from twenty-five years of laughter, tears and everything in between.

I turned, my back to the sea, and looked back at the house, almost glowing in the fading light, remembering only the happy times.

Everything was so quiet and calm, the lull before the storm. I could hear the gentle throb of music, clinking glasses and the murmurings of our first guests, which reminded me I had to go back. I would be swept up in the whirlwind of fizzy wine and chatty friends, and it would be fun, and I was glad I’d had the chance for a few moments to gather myself together. But just as I turned to walk up the garden, I became aware of a rustle in the trees. Was it Miss Anderson, our white Persian cat? She was usually easy to spot in the dim light, but I wondered if she’d smelled strangers. Miss A, as she was sometimes known for short, didn’t like strangers.

I bent down to look for her, and was about to call her, when I heard whispering coming from behind the trees. I couldn’t make out words at first, just quick, rasping sounds. But it wasn’t a cat, it was a voice. An angry voice.

‘How could you?’ a woman’s voice hissed. ‘You’re a bloody idiot…’

I couldn’t hear the rest, but waited in the stillness. Then I heard a lower, rumbling man’s voice, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. A couple bickering. I wondered which of our friends it was. He’d probably said something rude or insensitive, and embarrassed her in front of everyone – we’d all been there. A look, a remark, a compliment to another woman in the wife or partner’s presence. ‘You’re making a big drama out of nothing,’ was the clarion cry. Men could be so infuriating, and their blindness to what they’d done usually made things worse. ‘What have I done now?’ Mark would ask, hands out, totally unaware of the emotional and social carnage he’d put me through in front of others.

Now someone else was approaching; I could hear heavy footsteps marching through the garden. It was probably Mark coming to find me to ask me to mingle.

‘Mrs Anderson?’

I turned to see Ryan Jarvis in the semi darkness.

‘Oh, hi,’ I answered quietly, not wanting to alert the arguing couple that I was nearby.

‘Sorry, did I surprise you?’

The whispering stopped. Damn, they must have heard.

‘It’s okay, not your fault. I shouldn’t really be here, I’m the hostess,’ I sighed, glancing over to where the whispers had come from. Still silence.

‘Can I get you another?’ Ryan gestured towards my empty glass. I hadn’t realised I was still clutching it.

‘That’s very kind. But I should get back,’ I said, beginning to walk away, back up the garden. I was aware that the arguing couple had probably realised I’d overheard them, and might have thought I was listening. How awkward. I felt a bit guilty, but it had been too tempting not to linger, and try and work out who it was.

I wandered back into the main part of the garden with Ryan, making small talk about the number of guests and the way the weather had played in our favour.

‘Thanks for all your help today,’ I said. ‘I bet your brother is glad to have you back from your travels?’

‘Yeah, Max loves having me back to boss around. I’m starting some building work next week, think Max is going to carry on doing some work with Mark.’

‘Yes, he’s great on location, takes after your dad,’ I said. ‘When did you get back… it was Thailand, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Beautiful place. I only got back last week, and I’m missing it already,’ he added wistfully.

‘I can imagine. Itchy feet, eh? Jake thought about going to Thailand and doing a gap year, but decided he couldn’t bear to be so far away from home,’ I said.

I’d always worried about my youngest; he wasn’t academic, and he’d found school difficult, unlike his bright, confident sister. I felt that Jake sometimes struggled with having a successful father. When he was younger, he worshipped his dad, but the teenage years had put paid to any of that, and he seemed more embarrassed about Mark’s fame. Mark had assumed Jake would do architecture as he had, after all Jake seemed interested, but he’d unexpectedly chose to do psychology. I’d been as surprised as Mark, but this was about Jake taking his own journey and not following in his father’s footsteps – but they were big boots to fill. I remember Jake once saying to me, ‘I’ll never be Dad, I don’t want to work late and leave my kids at home, and I’m not interested in people fawning over me at awards ceremonies. I’d rather stay home with a book.’

‘Jake’s such a homebird,’ I continued, ‘but I think university’s given him some confidence, something to focus on.’

‘Well, there’s a pretty redhead who seems to be giving him something to focus on at the moment,’ Ryan said, nodding in the direction of a small group standing in the garden, where Jake was chatting quite animatedly to Charlotte.

I was, as always, cautiously hopeful that this might lead to something more for my son. He had so much to give, but often fell for unattainable women – and always got his heart broken.

‘So, Ryan, you’re helping out, with the family firm,’ I said, trying not to think about poor Jake being eaten alive by the gorgeous red-haired journalist who was probably less interested in him, and more in probing him about the Anderson family’s secrets. I hoped she didn’t probe too much.

‘Yeah, I’m sticking around for the winter, want to spend more time with Mum. It’s not been easy for her since Dad died.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Poor Ted – he was a lovely man, your dad.’

We continued to chat as we re-entered the party area. I was finding Ryan easier to talk to than some of the guests.

‘As a kid, I always wished I lived here, it felt… I don’t know, like the sun was always shining, and everything was perfect,’ Ryan sighed.

‘Viewers love a happy family who live by the sea,’ I said, with a smile.

‘Yep, I bought it,’ he laughed.

‘So did everyone else, and that’s how we can still afford to live here. It pays the bills, as they say.’

‘Nice work if you can get it.’

‘It has its downsides, Ryan,’ I said, as I lifted a glass from a passing tray and took a large sip. ‘People think it’s all wonderful, but it isn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ He grabbed a glass off the same tray and took a quick sip, eager to get back to the conversation.

‘Oh nothing, just the price of fame, I guess,’ I said, and lifted my glass to his. ‘Here’s to anniversaries and homecomings.’ We clinked glasses.

We continued to talk, slightly removed from everyone. I was always more comfortable talking one on one.

‘It must have been quite tough being so famous. Are you glad you’re not involved now, in the programme?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘Mark needed new projects, he couldn’t work on this house forever and we couldn’t all traipse up and down the UK, so I opted – happily – to stay home with the children. But even though Mark was away, some of his fans hung around on the off-chance he’d turn up. They were obsessed. One night, someone broke into the house while we slept. We woke the next morning to find fake rose petals and a “love note” for Mark. But the creepiest thing was that the rose petals were scattered at the bottom of our bed.’

‘No. Someone had left them there while you were sleeping?’ His brow creased, as he looked at me in disbelief.

‘Yeah.’ I shuddered.

‘Christ, like you say, the price of fame,’ he said, shaking his head.

I suddenly saw Mark’s sister eyeing me across the garden then, and realised I had a job to do. ‘It’s been lovely chatting to you, Ryan, but I’d better play hostess and chat to our guests,’ I said, moving away.

‘Of course, see you later,’ he replied, while I wandered away, steeling myself as I approached Mark’s sister, Amanda, and her husband.

We embraced and made polite conversation, both recalling the wedding day twenty-five years before. ‘Oh Carly, you were a mess – you cried during the reception,’ she said, like I needed reminding of the mascara running down my just made-up face. I could see it now, the expressions of horror on the faces of my family and friends as I walked down the aisle. I was about to point out I was very young, pregnant, and it had all been so quick, but I didn’t need to respond, she’d already moved on to how bad my wedding breakfast had been. ‘Ham. Salad. Enough said.’ She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose.

‘It was my mother’s choice,’ I replied, hurt on her behalf.

Amanda raised her eyebrows in a ‘so’ gesture. And I realised it may have sounded like I’d apologised, and I wasn’t going to apologise for my mum. ‘As she was paying, she helped me choose the menu, and it was nice ham,’ I added, like that would change her mind.

‘Yeah,’ she said, humouring me, and I felt rather foolish trying to defend the quality of ham served at my wedding more than two decades earlier. But, of course, it wasn’t about the ham, it was about the way Mark’s family had viewed me and my family. I think they considered us to be rather straight, and despite me being an art graduate, Mark once told me they didn’t see me as being ‘spontaneous’ enough for him. If by spontaneous, they meant living like them, spending all the money they had when they got it, borrowing from the bank and maxing out the credit cards until they died, then no, I wasn’t ‘spontaneous’.

I knew the Andersons took delight in pitying my mum because she lived in a little cottage in Cornwall, whereas Mark’s family had a big house in London. The irony was, when his parents died, it turned out that the house was rented; they had nothing – but what they did have was delusions of grandeur. Meanwhile, Mark’s sister still behaved like a bloody countess – something I teased Mark about, because he too could be a snob when he wanted to be.

To my deep relief, in the middle of Amanda’s usual listing of her children’s stratospheric achievements, I saw Lara, like a beacon in the darkness. She’d finally arrived! She was tramping across the garden, clutching her cotton maxi dress high so as not to tread on the hem with her high wedge sandals. I had to smile. I could only imagine her screams if she fell; we’d end up laughing all night about her entrance. Meandering through the hydrangeas towards the house, she shook out her long, dark curly hair, and it suddenly dawned on me that she was coming up from the bottom of the garden. Where I’d been standing a few minutes earlier. Where I’d heard the argument. Had it been Lara arguing with someone, but who? It couldn’t have been her she’d only just arrived – hadn’t she?

I managed to break free from Amanda’s monologue and excused myself. I marched across the grass towards Lara, arms outstretched, so pleased to see my friend, I didn’t register the fact that my husband was following just a few feet behind.