The Men in her Life

afterwards with my half-sister...’ Holly watched her mother’s face. Mo’s blush proved beyond doubt what Holly had already suspected. She had known.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she demanded.
    ‘Don’t keep going on at me like I did everything wrong,’ Mo sighed, ‘I only tried to do what I thought was best...’
    ‘I didn’t mean... it was just a shock, that’s all...’
    ‘I suppose if it hadn’t been for your half-sister, Jack and I would probably never have seen each other again…’
    For the first time Mo related the incident with the ice-blue satin dress to Holly.
    ‘I never understood why you didn’t want me to know he was my father,’ Holly said, a few minutes after Mo had finished.
    ‘D’you know what it’s like to be nineteen, unmarried and pregnant, living in a city where you don’t know anyone, and you can’t go back to the city you do know because you left in disgrace and went to live in sin down south?’ Mo asked her, suddenly eloquent in her exasperation.
    Holly shook her head, ashamed. Just because Mo never made a big deal about it didn’t mean it wasn’t a big deal.
    ‘Well, think about it,’ Mo said, ‘you manage somehow. You get through, then just as you’re breathing a sigh of relief because your daughter’s almost grown up, you’ve got a decent job, you’re even starting to think you might have a bit of a life again, the man who abandoned you turns up out of the blue and expects you to fall in with his plans. How was I to know he wouldn’t just be off again?’
    ‘But you never told him you were pregnant when he left,’ Holly protested, ‘you never gave him a chance to look after you...’
    ‘Jack Palmer did not look after anyone except himself, whatever he told you later,’ Mo said wearily. ‘If you’re so keen to have the truth, let me tell you something. He loved that Philippa Harper-Smythe getting pregnant because it made leaving me so much easier. He had his proper excuse then. He could tell himself, and whoever else wanted to know, that he was doing the decent thing. If you think that he would have chosen us, given a choice, you’re stupider than you look...’
    It was the nearest Mo had ever come to anger with her daughter. She was shaking as she said it.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Holly said, enfolding Mo in her arms.
    ‘No need to be sorry,’ Mo sniffed, ‘I got the best bargain. I got you...’

    There were a few goat’s cheeses still sitting on the layers of dark green vine leaves that covered the wicker platter. Somebody had dropped a wedge of potato and aubergine tortilla on the rug and there were omelette footprints leading through the French doors into the garden. A waiter with a white jacket and black hair parted in the centre was collecting plates and cutlery on a huge butler’s tray, and a girl with a tea towel tied round her waist which was almost the same length as her black micro skirt had her arms in bubbles washing up glasses.
    ‘What time did it all finish?’ Clare asked the waiter.
    ‘Most people had gone by three.’
    She had no idea what the time was. She asked him, and he told her it was nearly five o’clock.
    The air was still warm outside. The recent hot weather had brought out all the blooms on the pale apricot rambling rose that covered the right-hand wall. It looked like the backdrop for a wedding, not a funeral.
    ‘Oh, there you are.’ Philippa was lying on a sunlounger, looking over the pool. Her skirt had ridden up leaving an undignified expanse of stockinged leg on display. The sombre black of her outfit looked strange against the flowery chintz covering of the plump cushions. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
    The question issued in an even voice fooled Clare long enough for her to reply, ‘Yes, thank you.’
    Philippa looked round, her body suddenly transforming from a sleek and house-trained Burmese into a feral cat.
    ‘How dare you?’ she spat. ‘How dare you come back here drunk?’
    ‘I’m not drunk,’ Clare said calmly.
    ‘How dare you be so rude to our guests?’
    ‘Philippa, they were not our guests, they were your guests. I didn’t know any of them and I’m sure nobody even noticed I wasn’t here...’
    ‘How dare you...’
    Clare looked at the jug on the paving beside the sun-lounger. It could have been water, but she suspected it was dry martini.
    ‘How dare you...?’ Philippa asked, following Clare’s gaze.
    ‘Oh do stop saying that,’ Clare said, turning away, ‘it was bad