A family gathering entry without boundaries
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Oh, for goodness sake Susan carefully picked up a shard of blue-and-white Wedgwood vase and, unable to bring herself to throw it away, placed it on the windowsill. Aunt Linda, Im sorry, she whispered into the silence.
The house was filled with the scent of shampoo, Prosecco, and, for some odd reason, oranges, though she was certain no one had peeled any last night. Glittery plastic wreaths were strewn on the carpet behind the sofa. In the drawer beneath the coffee table she found a silk sash reading Hen Do of Dreams.
Underneath the radiator lay a single, bashful pink rubber glove with a frayed bow. It looked as though it had tried to escape the previous nights chaosand got stuck on the way out.
Susan, wearing a crumpled dressing gown with a worn-out tassel, circled the room with a bin bag in her hand. Every step crunched on sweet wrappers.
On the windowsill, a wine glass stood with a ruby-red puddle dried at the bottom. The vase, instead of flowers, sported three sparkly plastic straws poking out at odd angles. A garland of paper hearts ran along the wallone of them very clearly nibbled.
The kitchen awaited her like a battleground.
On the table, half of a towering cake stood alone. Frosting sagged like a snowman melting in spring, with crooked candles stuck in the sides that read 3 and 8, though yesterday hadnt been a birthday, just a girls catch-up.
The sink was cluttered with wine glasses smeared with lipstick. Damp plates bore dried-out traces of houmous. A deck of fortune-telling cards sprawled across a chairhalf face up, half face down, as though their futures had collapsed midway through prophecy
***
Susan picked up a card on instinctthe King of Diamonds stared back at her with world-weary superiority. Last night, the girls had predicted their weddings, fresh starts and mysterious foreigners, each turn of the card whispered, only to be drowned out by raucous laughter and bubbly Prosecco.
She bent down to sweep up a sequin, and instead tugged something soft from under the sofaa strangers lacy stocking with the elastic snapped, a memento from their impromptu dancing on the furniture. Susan shook her head and made for her bedroom, seeking a little peace at last.
Order almost ruled here, save for three pillows on the floor and her duvet bundled into the shape of a great snail. She straightened her own pillow, and found beneath it a folded sheet of pink paper.
A brief, unpleasant pinch gripped her heart.
Was it yet another forgotten note from Alex at the bar to one of Alisons friends? But the handwriting was familiarAlisons, bold, slightly sloping, each o scrupulously rounded into a little bubble.
Youre the worlds best hostess! Love, Ally.
Susans gaze lingered on the exclamation point. It seemed to tremble. She allowed herself a wry, crooked smile. Best hostess with Aunt Lindas vase ruined and enough glitter in the shower to turn every morning wash into a fireworks display.
How many times have I swornnever again she muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bed.
***
Something squelched underfoot.
Startled, Susan slid off her slipper to find, tucked neatly inside, a perfect orange. Its glossy skin gleamed, a slip of paper attached by a rubber band and a toothpick: May life be sweet.
Last night, she and the girls had snorted over that toast. Now, it felt like mockery.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table. The screen flashed: Alison (our whirlwind).
Of course, Susan said to the empty room, clearing her throat before she picked up. Hello?
Susieeee! The background was noisy, as if the party had simply moved venues. You goddess, you! The girls are still raving about it! Even Sophie-the-nail-lady wont leave; were laughing about the time you spooked the ghost in the wardrobe!
Someone cackled in the background, shrieking, Tell Susan shes the only one Ill ever want as my birthing partner!followed by a chorus of howls.
Thank you, Susan, Alisons tone suddenly softened. Youre well you know. Feels like home with you.
Susan stared at the orange peering out from her slipper.
Mm, she said. Feels like home
Ill leave you to it! Rest up, queen of soirees! The line clicked, silence blooming once more.
***
Susan slipped off her glasses, placing them beside Alisons note. In the wardrobe mirror, she caught sight of a weary woman in her fifties, unexpectedly young green eyes, and a scruffy hair bun skewered withyesa single, stubborn sequin, sparkling in her hair.
The phone hummed againa different ringtone, a video call. Tanyaher daughter.
Sighing, Susan ran her palm through her hair; the sparkle remained, defiant.
Yes, my darling? She answered, and Tanyas face appeared onscreen, fringe wild, clutching a steaming mug.
Mum! Tanya peered at the screen. Ha. I thought as much. Youve got glitter on the cat again?
On me, Susan corrected. The cats been hiding since the great fortune-telling dance-a-thon. Probably wedged herself into the linen drawer again
She recounted the highlights.
Mum, Tanya grinned, then sobered. Do you hear yourself? The cats in hiding, your precious Wedgwood is in pieces, and there are oranges in your slippers Cant you just say no to Alison?
Susan felt tenderness and irritation clash in Tanyas voice, two swinging pendulums.
Shes well, shes had a rough time, you know, Susan replied automatically.
But what about you, Mum? Tanya interrupted gently. When did you last rest, not play hostess?
Susan glanced at the lonely rubber glove under the radiator, the note in her hand, the emptiness filled only with last nights laughter.
I dont know, she replied honestly. I think Ive crawled somewhere under the wardrobe myself. Alongside the cat.
Tanya chuckled quietly.
I love you, Mum. But do give it a thought. Maybe next time, its just tea, just you and me. No fortune-telling, no glitter.
The screen flickered, the connection froze and returned. A pause lingered.
Well see, Susan said.
But this well see rang with a note of something new, not just the habitual of course, Alison.
***
The first time Alison ever popped in just because was early spring, when grimy frost still clung to the pavements, but Susans windowsill already bore brave green shoots.
Susie, open up, I’m friendly! Alisons voice burst through before the bell. And Ive brought pie!
Susan opened the door and took a step back as Alison breezed in, trailing vanilla perfume and crisp outdoor air, holding a massive steaming pie.
Homemade cabbage pie, just like Grandmas, remember? In a flurry, she was halfway to the kitchen, shoes barely off. My word, look at this hall! Not a hallway, but a magazine spread!
Susan grinned, a little flustered, straightening her neat scarf on the hook. Her two-bed flat in a tired council block was her small pride and joy: wallpaper matched to the curtains, mums old knitted throw on the sofa, a kitchen gleaming white with wooden worktops, windowsills lined with plants.
Utterly cosythats what everyone said. And to Susan, they werent just words, but an achievement.
Go on, shoes off, she repeated, hefting Alisons pie. Heavens, its heavy.
Like my life, Alison quipped, eyes sparkling. Listen, Sue, I was thinking My place, she waved towards her decrepit terrace flat, is boxed in, with barely any kitchen. The neighbour upstairs shouts; the one below drills day and night. But yours
She twirled in the middle of Susans kitchen-diner, where a round table sat beside a wide window.
Youve got air, you know? Space! Its almost criminal to be alone here. How about a get-together? Just the two of usplus two of my girls. Youll love them, I promise!
The words a crime to be alone caught in Susans chest like an accidental pinprick.
She remembered the long evenings alone, TV humming in the background as she knitted scarf after scarf while Tanya was at hers. Relatives dropping by only on holidays.
A get-together? she echoed. Well why not. I already have a pie, she winked, trying to sound breezy.
Alisons eyebrows shot up.
You really mean it? Sue, I brought the pie as a bribethought I’d have to beg! She laughed. So, Saturday? No real occasion, just lets call it a hen party rehearsal.
Susan put the pie in the oven to warm it through. Saturday felt an age away, like something that might happen, but only in theory.
Fine, she said. Saturday. Ill cook something up.
Susie, youre a star! Alison hugged her so tightly her ribs cracked. Were like sisters, arent we?
The word like rang oddly, but Susan swallowed it along with a bite of pie she hadnt yet tasted.
***
They decided to hold Easter at Susans, too. Alisons idea, naturally.
Susans is a real home! shed tell anyone. Her hot cross buns are picture-perfect, her eggs fit for a glossy mag, and her cat acts as judge and jury.
In reality, Susans tabby, Whiskers, was more a weary bouncer than a dignified judgebut, judge sounded grander.
Alison turned up with three friends.
Used to tranquil family dinners, Susan was thrown by the chaos that hit her hallway: a loud redhead in a yellow raincoat, a tall brunette in a biker jacket, and a tiny brunette with a contagious laugh.
Thats Lizzy, thats Phoebe, thats Molly, Alison waved. Ladies, meet the one and only Susan, mistress of all things cosy and delicious.
Flustered, Susan began offering slippers, taking coats, checking there were enough seats, two hot cross buns, eleven eggs, and a couple of salads for respectability.
It wasnt enough. An hour in, as frosting technique debates raged, Alison whipped out her phone.
Oh! Nearly forgot, Kate and Julia are nearby! Ill messageSusan, do you mind? Theyll bring their own eggs!
Susan opened her mouth to object, but the oven pinged. She dashed in to check the buns. By the time she returned, Alisons phone was down, her friend grinning.
Sorted, theyll be here soon!
***
The party devolved into a vibrant fairground.
The girls bickered about whose dough rose best and whod experienced the proper country Aga life. In proof, Lizzy, army-style, brandished a spoon and whipped a bowl of chocolate icing, which arced through the air, splattering the crisp white tablecloth.
Oh! Lizzy froze, mortified. Er good luck?
Alison roaredeveryone followed suit. Susan, by instinct, dabbed at the stain with a napkintoo late.
Doesnt matter, she said. Itll wash.
At that moment, she caught Alisons glancea warm, grateful look. As though Susan wasnt saving just the tablecloth, but the world entire.
By evening, eggs of every colour filled the sill, the wall adorned with a garland theyd crafted together, forgotten sandals under the table. Alison raised her glass of sherry and declared:
Ladies! OfficiallySusans is always the real party!
Cheers. And Susan, blushing, felt that real party resonating beneath her ribs. Her quiet home and tidy sofa really had become a stage for something bigger than herself.
***
But in childhood, it was the opposite; the real party had always been at Alisons.
Alisonthe ringleader, bold, loud and irresistible. On their shared street, children gathered below her window, for fashion shows in her mums dressing gown or secret clubs under the stairs. Even the old ladies called her our little performer.
Susan was the neat, unnoticed one. She was always home on time, returned library books uncreased, shoes gleaming from her mat.
Susan, youre the clever one, Aunt Linda, her mums sisterAlisons mumused to say. Watch over Alison, let her learn from you.
As teens, their paths diverged. Alison returned home with tales of wild parties, while Susan went to technical college, then studied part-time and moved into accountancy. They barely metexcept, perhaps, at family dos when the whole clan crammed around one table.
Then Aunt Linda died. The funeral, the wake, tired faces and old wounds. For the first time in years, the cousins sat together at the kitchen table until three, washing down bitterness with sweet tea.
It feels like the house died with mum, Alison said quietly. No idea how youre meant to carry on.
Susan, who had by then lived four years without her own mum, gently answered:
You keep going, though its never the same. Not worse, not better. Just different.
They started calling each other moreat first to sort out the estate, then increasingly just to check in, share the little things.
And gradually, Alisons energy sucked Susan into her orbit like a gentle whirlpool.
Are we really family if were living parallel lives? Alison would protest. No! Im coming round to yours, and you to mine.
But Susan rarely went round Alisons. Work, Tanya, fatiguesomething was always in the way. Yet Alison came to Susans more and more.
***
Soon, at Susans became universal.
Come on, the obvious answer is Susans, Alison would say on the phone, flicking through her diary. My kitchens a broom cupboard; Susans got a bloggers paradise!
New Years, where? someone would ask.
Susans! Shes got fairy lights and a cheeseboard to rival any birthday cake.
Easter? Susans.
Mollys birthday? Susans! The cakell look lovely there.
A low-key wine evening? Where else, girls, Susans is perfect and she spoils us.
At first, Susan felt flattered.
Her tidy house, suddenly the heart of someones social life, became a hub of warmth. She loved finding new napkins, inventing snacks, testing recipes. Guests would gasp at her white crockery:
Susan, youre like something out of a magazine!
But gradually, it all became heavier. Guests arrived not just via Alisons invitation.
Susan, hi! Its LizzyAlison and I were over last night, remember? We fancied popping in, Phoebes got news, and Alisons at the salon. Are you in?
One day, after the bell rang for the third time in a week, Susan opened the door to a face she instantly recognised.
Nataliean old friend of Alisons. Years ago, Natalie had accused Susan of gossiping and made a scene; since then, theyd kept their distance.
Oh, hi, Natalie said awkwardly, smoothing her hair. Alison said the partys at yours, can I come early and help?
Susan stood at the door, the old embarrassment climbing up from her feet to her throat. She almost said, Alison made a mistake, Im not expecting anyone. But instead, she stepped aside.
Come in, she said. Tea?
The dishcloth in her hands twisted like a rope.
***
Her first protest was pathetic, almost childish.
Want to dim the festive mood? Buy rubbish biscuits, she told herself.
Usually, Susan bought delicate shortbread from a corner bakery, rich with butter and crumbly. This time, she skipped it for bland supermarket ones, cheap, prone to shatter before the tea arrived.
Lets see if they notice its not restaurant quality, she muttered, pouring them into a bowl.
The party, naturally, was a hit. Alisons friends chased bad biscuits with good news, someone brought cheese, someoneolives, and Alison laid out her signature tomatoes under cover appetiser.
At one point, giggling, Molly draped her giant plastic beads over the front door handle, forgetting them as she left. The next morning, Susan found them bobbing against the pristine white door. She was about to put them into the lost property bag when the bell rang again.
Susan! Alison blew in, uninvited as usual. Oh, look! she saw the beads and burst out laughing. Even your doorknobs are festive!
Susan wanted to say, Thats not a party, its a mess. But Alisons voice was so genuinely delighted she just sighed:
A party, indeed
A party that refused to leave…
***
That fortune-telling evening Alison called a hen night was an especially surreal affair.
Girls, tonight well see the future! she announced in the group chat, slyly adding Susan. Sue, youre the main oracle; in your kitchen, even the kettle whispers secrets.
Susan saw oracle and blinked at her old limescaled kettle. Oracle indeed.
One guest, Lizzy, arrived with a full kitTarot cards, fat candle in a glass, and a tiny ornate mirror.
Not a partythis is a séance, she declared. Well be communing with the spirits.
Susan giggled nervously.
Spirits, Liz? Youll only find the spirit of stew round here.
Not stew! Alison snorted. Relax, Susan, its just for fun.
Lights off, candle on: the golden glow filled the room. Whiskers, rarely far from the radiator, bristled on the windowsill, tail bushy.
Lizzy spread the cards, set the mirror so faces glinted in reflection.
Now we ask the universe, she whispered.
Susan perched at the end of the sofa, feeling like a minor guest at her own party. The questionslove, money, house movesseemed to swirl right past her.
Just then, as if to play along, lights flickered across the flat. One lamp, then another, finally a bangthe power gone.
Oh! someone squeaked.
Its a sign! Lizzy hissed, met by thrilled screams.
Susan instinctively reached for her mobile torchand at that moment, a dark blur shot past her feet. Whiskers, terrified of the flicker and shrieks, zipped through the room, launching herself into the wardrobe with a crash and a bang.
Its definitely a sign, Susan croaked. Even the spirits cant take much more.
The lights sputtered back minutes latera neighbours dodgy DIY had tripped the fuses. But Whiskers wouldnt leave her hiding place for a day. Only her faint, sorrowful purring betrayed her lair.
When, a day later, Whiskers finally emergedoffended and dust-drenchedSusan, stroking her back, murmured:
Shall we hide together next time?
Whiskers snorted and slunk off to the kitchen, where the odd sequin still lingered.
***
Susan didnt find her resolve at once.
At first, she just sat at the kitchen table, phone screen blank and cursor blinkingthin, twitching.
Her fingers typed: Alison, next time have your party at yours. She erased it.
She tried softer:
Alison, I really cant keep doing this
Alison, can we give my place a rest from parties?
Alison, Im honestly tired of guests, truly.
Each sounded either feeble or harsh. Alisons phrases echoed in her head: Sue, you understand, Youre so kind, Its not too much for you.
She inhaled deeply, put the phone aside, and went to stand before the mirror. The bulb flickered, throwing shadows across her face. Susan picked up her brush, but instead, looking at her own reflection, she declared:
Alison, next time the partys at yours.
Her voice trembled, a tight string. She grimaced.
No justifications, Tanyas voice nudged in her head. You have the right.
Susan straightened her shoulders, as if before a roomful of strangers.
Alison, she said, meeting her own eyes, I love our gatherings, but I’m exhausted by hosting constantly. Next time, your turn.
Her voice slipped into apologetic by habit.
No buts, she admonished herself. This isnt court.
She returned to the phone, typed slowly:
Alison, Im truly tired. Lets have the next party at yours, okay? I need a break.
Her finger hovered, chest tight with fearof losing, of offending, of hearing in reply, Typical! Knew you were no fun.
She pressed send and slid the phone away.
Time for a proper talk, she whispered. In person.
She rehearsed a few times before the mirror.
Alison, its my home, its hard with people always here
Alison, I love you, but Im not obliged to host everyone
Alison, lets set some boundaries.
Each time she said boundaries, her voice wobbled, her throat closed. The reflection was not a stern matriarch but a woman whispering no as if it were a foreign word catching between her teeth.
But by the third or fifth attempt, there was something new in her eyesnot anger, not weariness, but resolve. Quiet, dogged.
Right then, she told the morning and her reflection. Let’s go. Not at mineat hers.
***
Susan purposely set off for Alisons flat unannounced.
If she can turn up at mine, pie and girls in tow, whenever she fanciesso can I, Susan thought. Not as the forever-host, but as a guest. As a witness.
Alisons place was in tired old terraceshigh ceilings, scuffed plaster, letterboxes brimming with takeaway menus. Once, Susan adored old buildings character. Now, the smell was damp, cigarette smoke and cheap disinfectant.
No lift. Susan took the wide stairs, counting battered steps. On the third landing, a foggy whiff of air freshener met with the whiff of stale soup.
Alisons door was unmistakablea skewed faux-laurel wreath and a wooden plaque: A Miracle Lives Here. What once felt sweet now struck her as both sad and childlike.
She knocked. Silence. Pressed the bell, long and hollow. After a minute, shuffling, a weary, cracked voice called
Who is it?
Its me, said Susan. Sue.
The lock fussed, as though the door itself resisted. Finallya click, a narrowing crack.
Alison peeped out, clinging to the door like a shield. In a saggy tracksuit and just one woolly sock, her hair up in a slapdash knot, eyes puffy.
Susie? Genuine surprise. You came without warning?
And you always warn me, do you? Susan replied evenly.
Alison blinked, but stood aside.
The flat hit Susan at oncenot with décor, or furniture, but emptiness. The emptiness you feel in your bones.
No welcome home hereno doormat, no shoe rack. Just a mop propped in a corner, squash-heeled shoes, stray boot. On the floor, a dried ring where something spilt.
Susan moved further in, her heart pinched.
There was a lone green sofa, now worn to grey. Clothesdresses, jeans, t-shirtsheaped in a pile, a washed-up tide.
On the floor, empty wine bottles, energy drink cans, a magazine torn to shreds. A laptop on a rickety stool, an overflowing ashtray.
Under the table, two mugsone toppled, its contents a dried brown circle on the lino. The other teetered; inside, the last of the coffee, scummed with cigarette ash.
Drunk mug of coffee, Susan thought, Tanyas old phrase returning for neglected drinks after one too many diversions.
On the sillno flowers, just empty plastic cups, a crisp packet, a lone shrivelled lemon.
Inside, Susan felt something twist.
Not just mess. Not just neglect. A whole life coming apart at the seams, and no one noticing.
***
Dont look at me like that, Alison snapped, seeing Susans gaze. I havent tidied up since well whatever.
Since what? Susan asked softly.
Since Mum, since losing the job, since she waved at the empties. Since life, basically.
She slouched into the cramped kitchen. Susan followed, taking in the poky size, one battered table, old fridge grimy with peeling magnets, sink piled with crusted plates. Frying pan, potatoes blackened grey. In the corner, a bin bag not quite making it to the bin.
I meant to call, Alison muttered, putting the kettle ona kettle dusty and unloved. But well she shrugged.
Susan stood holding her bag, recent images flashing in her mindher own tidy kitchen, tablecloth, cakes, laughter, the ghost world here where laughter drained away, replaced by dirt and silence.
She finally saw her flat for what it was to Alisonnot just a convenient venue. But the only place Alison could vanish from her cupboard.
Are you here for something? Alison finally said, turning.
For something, Susan replied. Though I suppose an inspections part of that.
***
I Alison sank onto a chair, as if her legs buckled. I thought you were still angry.
Her eyes shone with tears, not mirth.
I am, said Susan, honestly. Very. Ive had enough of playing hostess. Last night was my limit.
She put her bag on the table, not bothering to clear a space.
But I also her voice trembled, but she forced it steady. I wanted to understand.
Alison awkwardly wiped at her face.
Understand what?
Why this Susan waved a hand around. And why feels like home always means my place.
Alison let out a short, cracked laugh.
Because you really have a home, she said. And I have only cheap set dressing.
And then, with a deep breath, it all spilled out in a rush:
I dont feel at home here, Sue. Not since Mum died, since all that fighting and sorting. The wallstheyre not mine. I live as a lodger, things in place but no home. You know?
Susan was silent, but inside something softenedshe remembered her own early months without Mum, unable to breathe easy until shed moved the furniture, changed the curtains.
And at yours Alison looked up, theres a throw, shiny mugs, the cat curled on the windowsill. You walk around, sure where everything is. You just you look like you know how to host life.
She sniffled.
At yours, for the first time in ages, I dont feel scared. Or alone.
Susan felt a warm, gentle ache growing insidesympathy, recognition.
And I Alison attempted a laugh, thought you loved the bustle! Youre so organised, such a good hostess.
She clasped her hands tight.
I really believed you thrived on a lively house. That it stopped you being lonely. I didnt notice she eyed the scattered mugs. Or maybe didnt want to see. I clung to your place, fooling myself it was still before Mum.
Susan swallowed.
And so she said quietly, you didn’t see my home turn into a mirror of your own mess?
Alison buried her face in her hands.
I Im scared to be alone, Sue. I am. Every night, I hear Mums voicethe nagging, the nothing you do is right. So I call friends, turn up at yours. Because her voice hitched, only at yours does it feel safe again.
Susan sat across from her. The words shed rehearsed lost their edge; what remained was their truth.
Alison, gently, firmly, Im sorry youre so lonely. Its good you find comfort in my home. But
She rested her shaking hands on the table.
I cant be the only pillow for all your escapes.
Alison stared at the table. Susan steadied herself.
Lets try differently, she said.
***
Differently how? Alison asked, blowing her nose.
For a start, Susan scanned the room, not every party at Susans.
She eyed the drunk coffee mug, messy sofa, rubbish.
First lesson, she said, home isnt just where its fun. Its where you can face yourself.
Alison smirked through tears.
Ive been ashamed of myself for a long time.
So lets start here, Susan stood. If all your crew keep coming to mine, this place will stay empty and grimand me, exhausted.
She leaned on the chair back, eyes meeting Alisons.
Heres the deal, said Susan. Get-togethers by turns. On mine, then yours. Fewer peoplenot the whole Hen Do Brigade. Not every week, just monthly.
Youre actually asking me to entertain in this? Alison gestured weakly.
Im asking you to stop using my place as the only party venue, Susan answered. Turn your flat into somewhere youd want to invite friends.
She softened.
Lets start small. Not with people. Just you and me.
Alison frowned.
Meaning?
Susan rolled her sleeves.
Meaning, she said, lets sack off the muck, wash up the mugs, clean this table and make pancakes. Just us two. No girls, no glitter, no séances. Just you and me.
Pancakes? Alison laughed, a spark reappearing. I do a mean drop scone.
Drop scones, then, agreed Susan.
***
They began.
Awkward at first. Susan found a rubbish bag, tied up the old one, took it to the door. Sheepishly, Alison gathered mugs. Susan ran water, located a sponge.
I wasnt born tidy, she offered. My mum taught me, then life rammed it home. You just found a different way to cope.
Alison washed up in silence, scrubbing as if on trial.
The kitchen warmed with the scent of frying butter. Alison, working at her familiar rhythm, suddenly seemed once more that girl from childhood, staging home fashion shows. Except now, her props were cracked walls and cold potatoes.
When they finally sat down, munching their first warm drop scones with jam, the doorbell rang.
Now whos that? Alison sprang up.
Susan peeked through the spyholeand smiled.
Family, she said.
Tanya stood at the door, rucksack and carrier bag in hand.
I followed my nose, she confessed. Texted you, Mum, you didnt answer. Decided to check in.
Alison, self-conscious, patted her hair.
Come in, said Susan. Were having a dress rehearsal for the new normal.
Tanya glanced around: flat, table, Alison, her mum. Surprise, then a flicker of approval crossed her face.
Oh, she said. So Aunt Alisons got the glitter now, too.
What glitter? Alison looked puzzled.
Check the lampshade, Tanya grinned.
They looked up; a familiar silver star, clearly glitter from last night, clung to the bulb above.
Susan burst out laughing.
Well, she said. Now we both sparkle. Not just me.
The main thing iseveryone sparkles by choice, Tanya winked at her mum.
Susan felt something vital and gentle begin to unfurl inside her again. She was still angry at Alison, still wary of hosting more hens. But nowthere was a choice. For both of them.
The three of them sat, scooping pancakes from the pan, faces soft with laughter when icing sugar dusted Alisons cheek.
And for the first time, it felt like an honest partyno Queen of Canapés, no Best Hostess in the World, just Susan, Alison and Tanya.
