The Men in her Life

said, impatiently, ‘you start off with someone and it’s gorgeous and you can’t eat because you’re so happy and then after a few months it splits up and you think what did I do? We were so perfect at the beginning. And then you work out that you only got along so well because you didn’t know each other...’
    ‘I’m the One!’ Tom shouted from his buggy, reminding them that he was there.
    ‘So who wins?’ Clare asked.
    ‘In Anji’s script? You’ll have to wait and see...’
    ‘Oh, tell me,’ Clare said.
    ‘OK, well, I won’t tell you which, but it’s the guy who most improves her life by putting a coat hook up on the back of her front door... there’s been this kind of running gag...’
    ‘So the moral of the story is that love is about honesty, simple things...?’
    ‘The moral of the story is the way to a woman’s heart is through your screwdriver... what would your tests be?’
    ‘I’ve never had three men vying for my attentions.’
    ‘I bet you have,’ Holly said, looking at her. Clare’s skin was like a child’s creamy complexion with no open pores, blemishes or other give-away signs of adulthood, and her eyes were really dark blue. She was genuinely beautiful.
    ‘I used to think that the most romantic thing was to have poetry written for you.’
    ‘And now?’
    ‘And now... I don’t even think about it. D’you fancy a coffee at Amelia’s?’
    ‘Treacle tart,’ added Tom, eagerly.

    At lunch-time, Tom insisted that Holly sit next to him. He was so excited by all the extra attention he refused to eat, so Holly went to the toybox and found a battered old glove puppet lion who took Tom’s spoon in his paws and helped him.
    ‘What that lion called?’ Tom asked her.
    ‘I don’t know. It’s your lion,’ Holly told him, exchanging raised eyebrows with Clare.
    ‘What he called?’ Tom asked again.
    ‘Perhaps you’d like to give him a name, Holly,’ Clare suggested.
    Holly thought about it.
    ‘Well, when I was a little girl there was a programme on television called The Herbs and the lion was called Parsley. So perhaps he’s called Parsley too. Do you remember that, Clare?’
    ‘Yes. I loved it.’ Clare smiled at her, delighted to see Holly and Tom becoming such good friends. Holly was natural with children. She didn’t shout, like so many childless people did in a loud voice they reserved for old people and infants, nor did she talk in baby language.
    ‘Prap he called Parsley too,’ Tom said, uncertainly.
    ‘He knows parsley from the garden,’ Clare explained.
    ‘Well, I’m called Holly and that’s a tree, so this lion can be called Parsley even though it’s a plant.’
    ‘Holly a tree, Mummy!’ Tom said, as if that suddenly explained her great height.
    When Clare came down from putting him in his cot for a nap, they ate the rest of their lunch together. It was a lasagne made with roasted vegetables and feta cheese.
    ‘How did you leam to cook like this?’ Holly asked, helping herself to seconds.
    ‘It’s very easy to cook well. All you need are good, fresh ingredients, God, now I sound like Delia Smith! Force of habit, I suppose. And I always took a certain pride in being good at cookery at school because it annoyed Philippa so much...’
    ‘Have you been in touch with her since... since the funeral?’ Holly asked.
    ‘I got this from Spain . She’s in Seville . I didn’t even know she was going away.’ Clare removed a postcard from under a magnet on the fridge.
    On the flip side of a view of the Giralda, Philippa had written,
    ‘Jack never wanted to come to Spain because of Franco, but it is beautiful, and better to be somewhere we never were together. The orange season is over. Apparently they ship them all to England and cannot understand us wanting such bitter fruit. I am sorry we parted as we did. Big kiss to Ella and Tom. P.’
    Holly handed it back without saying anything.
    ‘Not exactly overwhelming,’ Clare said.
    ‘Do you care?’
    ‘Not really.’ Clare got up and put the kettle on, turning her face away so Holly could not see she was fighting tears. ‘Actually yes, I do seem to,’ she admitted, as they dribbled down her cheek. ‘I don’t know why she has to be like that,’ she sighed, wiping her face with her sleeve. ‘I expect she’s embarrassed.’
    It was as if she had spent her life making up excuses for other people’s behaviour. At times, Clare had a defeated quality that made Holly want to shake her.
    ‘Why are