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“Well now…” murmured Sylvia, gingerly lifting a chipped fragment of a Wedgwood vase before placing it, undecided, on the sash window. “Aunt Lydia, forgive me,” she whispered into the hush.
The flat still smelled of shampoo and Champagne, andoddly enoughtangerines, though none had been peeled the night before, as far as she could recall. A plastic wreath flecked with glitter was abandoned behind the sofa. In a drawer beneath the coffee table, she discovered a silk scarf neatly folded and stamped with silvery script: Hen Do to Remember.
And beneath the radiator lay a lonely rubber cleaning glove, pink, with a drooping bow. It looked as though it had tried to make a dash from the previous nights festivities and got stuck.
Sylvia, still in a crumpled dressing gown with a threadbare tasselled cord, wandered the room with a bin bag perched on one hip. With every step came the faint crunch of sweet wrappers underfoot.
On the sill, a wine glass boasted a sunken jewel of dried burgundy at the base. In the vaseinstead of flowersthree plastic straws stuck out, each ending in a glittery star. Along the wall, a garland of paper hearts was strung, though one sported a clear bite-mark.
Ahead, the kitchen beckonedyet another battlefield.
Upon the table, half a tiered cake stood abandoned, the icing puddled like a melted snowman and two toppled birthday candles jammed at wonky angles: a 3 and, next to it, an 8. For all that, it had been no birthday, but simply a girls get-together.
In the sink, chilled wine glasses stood with lipstick stains. Next to them, saucers streaked with the remains of hummus. On a kitchen chair, the tarot cards from the evenings fortunes: half facing up, half face down, as though an oracle had given up midway through a prophecy.
***
Sylvia picked up a card at randomthe king of diamonds, looking back at her with aristocratic fatigue. The night before, she and the girls had used those very cards to conjure up weddings, moves abroad, and foreign suitors. Against whispered predictions, laughter had always burst out, Champagne fizz punctuating every future.
She stooped to pluck a bit of glitter from the rug and, tugging from beneath the sofa, retrieved something supple and lacya strangers torn stocking, a relic from the nights dancing-on-stools. She shook her head and retreated to the bedroom, seeking quiet.
There, mercifully, reigns of chaos were held in check. Save three pillows on the floor and the duvet coiled in a serpentine heap. Sylvia smoothed her pillow only to find a folded pink slip of paper beneath.
A stone turned in her chest.
Perhaps it was another scribbled note from one of those Toms at the pub” for a friend? But the hand was familiarbig, slightly slanted letters, and every o encircled meticulously, as Lucy always did, making each one a little balloon.
Youre the best hostess in the world! Love, Lucy.
Sylvia lingered on the shaky exclamation point. She smiled to herself, one corner of her lips quirking. Best hostess with Aunt Lydias vase in bits and glitter in the bath, where each morning rinse now sparked a miniature firework display.
How many times have I promised Id never again she muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bed.
***
Something squelched unpleasantly beneath her slipper.
Sylvia startled, slipped off her slipper, and found a perfectly ripe tangerine insideits skin smooth and shiny. Affixed with a rubber band and cocktail stick: a tiny scrap of paper, For a sweet life.
Last night, the girls had laughed themselves silly at that toast. Now, the tangerine felt like mockery.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table. The caller: Lucy (our hurricane).
Of course, said Sylvia to the empty room, but answered anyway, clearing her throat. Hello?
Sylv! You goddess, you! In the receivers echoing din, it sounded as if the party had simply migrated elsewhere. The girls are over the moon! Even Sophie the nail tech hasnt left yet, and we keep laughing about you scaring the cupboard ghost!
A voice bellowed gleefully in the background: Tell Sylv Ill only have my next baby at hers!then merriment resumed.
Thanks, Sylv, Lucy added more quietly. You well you know. With you, its like home.
Sylvia gazed at the tangerine in her slipper.
Right, she replied. Just like home
All right, Ill let you rest! Queen of all soirees! Clicka sudden hush again.
***
Sylvia laid her glasses down by Lucys note. In the wardrobe mirror she caught sight of a woman of fifty, face tired but eyes surprisingly green, greying hair scooped in an impatient bun, one stray bit of glitter refusing to budge.
The phone buzzed once morethe gentle chime of a video call. Tanyaher daughter.
Sylvia sighed, smoothing her hair; the glitter twinkled on stubbornly.
Hello, darling? She accepted. Tanyas face filled the screen, fringe awry, coffee in hand.
Mum! Tanya squinted. I knew itglitter on the cat again?
Me, actually, Sylvia corrected. The cats gone into hiding since last nights card-dancing. Quite likely burrowed in the linen drawer
She recounted all the antics.
Mum, Tanya managed a grin, then turned grave. You do realise what this sounds like? Cat in hiding, Wedgwood in pieces, tangerines in slippers Can you ever say no to Lucy?
The affection and exasperation in Tanyas voice hung like two clock pendulums.
Shes she needs it, Sylvia replied without thinking. You know how things are.
And what about you, Mum? Tanya interrupted gently. When do you really rest? Ever have people over because you want to, not because its expected?
Sylvia looked at the pink glove by the radiator, at Lucys note, and the echoing flat, heavy with laughter not her own.
I dont know, she admitted. Feels like Ive crawled away somewhere myself. Maybe under the bed, with the cat.
Tanya chuckled fondly.
Mum, love you to bits. But really, think about it? Maybe next timejust you, me, a nice brew. No fortunes, no glitter.
The connection flickered, suspended in a beat of silence.
Well see, said Sylvia.
For the first time in years, well see didnt sound like her usual polite, of course, Lucyit sounded like the start of something different.
***
The first time Lucy came to Sylvias just because was that spring when grimy wintry snow still slumped outside, but Sylvia already nurtured hopeful green shoots on her windowsill.
Sylvie, open up, I come in peace! Lucys voice carried through the letter box before shed even pressed the bell. And Ive brought pie!
Sylvia opened the door and stepped backLucy swept in, smelling of vanilla perfume and icy air, cradling a massive dish wrapped in a tea towel.
Homemade cabbage pie, just like Gransremember? Already on her way to the kitchen, Lucys shoes were half-off. Blimey, look at this hallwayyou could frame it for a magazine!
Sylvia blushed, adjusting her carefully hung scarf. Her two-bed in an old London terrace was her quiet pride; curtains and wallpaper perfectly matched, sofa draped in a knitted throw by her mum, kitchen tidy and flushed with flowers on every sill.
Cosy was the word on every guests lips, and for Sylvia, it was more than a wordit was something shed built.
Come in, take your boots off, she responded, taking the pie. Gosh, its heavy.
Like my life! Lucy laughed, but her eyes danced. Listen, Sylv My place she gestured, referring to her cramped flat in a crumbling old building, walls this thin, six-foot kitchen, neighbours yelling above, drills below. But yours
She spun dramatically in the middle of the open plan lounge where Sylvia had installed a round table by the window.
Theres space to breathe here! Air! Its a crying shame to sit alone. What dyou saya few little gatherings? Just you and me. Plus two of my friendsyoull love them, promise!
The notion of a crying shame to sit alone gave Sylvia the oddest sting.
She recalled all those evenings snug on her own, telly murmuring, another scarf on the needles, while Tanya was outand family phoned only at Christmas and Easter.
A gathering? she echoed. Well, why not. Ive got a pie, after all, she grinned, aiming for buoyancy.
Lucys eyebrows shot up.
You mean it? I was half-bribing you with the pie, ready for a wrestle, she giggled. Right! Saturday, then. No fussy reasonwell call it a rehearsal hen do.
Sylvia popped the pie in the oven to warm. Saturday seemed a distant, unreal prospect.
All right, she agreed. Ill make something too.
Sylvie, youre a star! Lucys hug was so tight Sylvias ribs clicked. Were near enough sisters, arent we?
The near enough sounded odd, but Sylvia swallowed it along with her slice of future pie.
***
That year, for whatever reason, the family decided to spend Easter at Sylvias. The ringleader, naturally, was Lucy.
Sylvs always makes it feel like home! she announced far and wide. Her simnel cakes picture perfect, eggs like a magazineand a cat that patrols everything like royalty.
In reality, the catMisty, a brindled tabbylooked more like a wearied watchman, but regal sounded better.
Lucy arrived trailed by three friends at once.
Used to modest family gatherings, Sylvia was momentarily floored as three contrasting women burst in: a brash redhead in a canary mack, a tall brunette in a leather jacket, and a little brunette with a laugh to raise the rafters.
Thats Helen, thats Irene, thats Mary. Lucy waved them in. Girls, this is THE Sylviabest cuppa, best cottage pie, China like a showroom.
Sylvia hastily set them upshoes off, slippers at the ready, coats perched on hooks. Her mind raced: enough chairs, two cakes, eleven eggs. Plus salads and ham for effect.
As it turned outall barely enough. Within an hour, as debate raged over the best simnel icing, Lucy fished out her phone.
Crikey, I forgotKate and Julie are nearby! Ill tell them to pop in. Sylviayou dont mind, do you? Theyll bring their own eggs!
Sylvias mouth opened to answer, but then the oven clicked, and she scurried off to check the cakes. By the time she returned, Lucys phone was set aside and she beamed.
All sorted! Half an hour and theyre here!
***
The gathering soon became a bustling fair.
Discussions flared over whose dough rose properly and whose childhood held the truest country-bake. To prove the point, Helen swung a bowl of chocolate glaze in a dramatic arcsplattering Sylvias pristine tablecloth in a fine spray.
Oh blimey! Helen froze, contrite. Is that lucky, then?
Lucy cracked up, the others roaring with her. Sylvia dabbed the stain, but the brown mark had already taken root.
Oh, itll wash, she said.
And just then she caught Lucys eyea warmth and gratitude, as though Sylvia had rescued more than a tablecloth, perhaps an entire world.
By tea-time, rainbow-bright eggs striped the window sill, a garland of tissue wreaths adorned the wall, and sandals were abandoned under the table. Raising a glass, Lucy declared:
Ladies, official decreeevery proper partys always at Sylvias!
All cheered. And for Sylvia, blushing, proper party echoed oddly under her ribs, as if her quiet lounge had indeed become the stage for something greater than shed meant.
***
Yet in childhood, it was the oppositereal parties were always at Lucys.
Lucy had ever been the leadersparkly, slightly loud, but vastly magnetic. The estates children gathered outside her front door for fashion shows in their mums dressing gowns and clandestine clubs beneath the stairs. Even the old ladies called her our little actress.
Sylvia, by contrast, was tidy and invisible. She came home on time, always returned books uncreased and wiped her shoes to a shine.
Sylvie, youre such a star pupil, Aunt LydiaMums sister and Lucys mumwould say. Sit with Lucy a bit, keep an eye on her, maybe youll rub off.
As teenagers, their paths forked. Lucy returned home early with stories of discos; Sylvia stayed for college and then accountancy evening classes, settling into calm work and home. Their cousinly meetings grew rarereserved for family feasts.
Then Aunt Lydia died. The funeral and the mourners tea, drawn faces and sullen feuds from decades past. For the first time in years, the cousins sat late in Sylvias kitchen, sipping sweet tea to temper grief.
I feel like, with Mum gone, the homes gone too, Lucy murmured. I dont know how it works anymore without her.
Sylvia, herself four years bereft of her own mother, quietly answered, It just works differentlyno better, no worse. Just differently.
Afterwards, they began phoningat first about paperwork, then just to chat.
Lucy drew Sylvia into her current, as one might coax a cautious leaf into the stream.
What are we meant to dolive side by side as relatives, never meet? she railed. Forget itIm coming round, and youre coming to mine.
Yet Sylvia seldom did go to Lucys. Work, Tanya, or simple tiredness intervened. Lucy, however, showed up at Sylvias ever more often.
***
Eventually, at Sylvias became a catch-all solution.
Girls, well obviously at Sylvias, Lucy would chirp, flicking through her diary. What, drag everyone to mine? Her kitchen goes right through to the living room, actual bloggers dream of a space like it!
Wheres New Year? theyd ask her.
At Sylviasshes got the best fairy lights. Her herring under the duvet could be a cake.
Easter? At Sylvias.
Marys birthday? At Sylvias, of course. Best cake display.
A random wine night, just because? Where elseSylvias kitchen, best snacks in London.
At first, the attention flattered Sylvia.
Her neat home had become a tiny hub, a safe haven people sought. She delighted in napkin choices, Instagrammable nibbles, new recipes. Lucys friends exclaimed over her bone china. Sylvia, its like a magazine spread!
But the event cycle only thickened. Guests arrived not only by Lucys summons. Once, the doorbell rang for the third time that week and Sylvia opened it to a face she instantly recognised.
Nadineone of Lucys oldest friends, with whom Sylvia had suffered through a painful misunderstanding years back. Nadine had once publicly shamed Sylvia, wrongly accusing her of spreading stories. Since then, theyd hardly spoken.
Oh, hi, Nadine greeted, fussing with her hair. Lucy said the partys at yours, thought Id come early to help
Sylvia could have replied, Lucy erred, Im not expecting guests, but instead she stepped aside.
Come in, she said quietly. Tea?
Her little tea towel twisted in her hands, taut as cable.
***
Sylvias first attempt at protest was almost childish.
Want to ruin the party? Buy rubbish biscuits, she told herself.
She always bought the good ones, from a proper local bakerybut this time, she passed it by, picking up the cheapest supermarket digestives in blue plastic wrap instead. They crumbled in the packet before the kettle even boiled.
Let them see Im not a catering marvel, she muttered, laying them in the dish.
The party, of course, was a success. Lucys friends washed down dry biscuits with gossipy laughter; cheese and antipasti appeared from handbags, Lucy produced her signature tomatoes under a blanket.
At one point, Mary, giggling, looped her giant plastic beads over the front door handle, forgetting to reclaim them on her way out. The next morning, Sylvia found them twinkling against her white door. She meant to set them aside for lost property when the bell rang again.
Sylv! Lucy burst in before her could reply. Ahlook! She noticed the beads and burst into laughter. Youve even got a party on your handles!
Sylvia wanted to objectits not a party, its mess. But Lucys warmth disarmed her.
A party indeed
It just wouldnt leave.
***
That particular hen night dubbed Fortune Telling Evening was unique.
All right, girls, tonight well see our futures, proclaimed Lucy in the WhatsApp group (secretly adding Sylvia). Sylv, youre the oracle! Even your kettle prophesies.
Sylvia raised an eyebrow at her battered kettle, crusted with scale. An oracle, indeed.
One of the guests, Helen, arrived armed with a full fortune kita tarot deck, chunky candle, and a little hand mirror.
This is not just any night in, she solemnly declared. This is a séancewe shall summon spirits!
Sylvia stifled a giggle. What, spirits of leftover stew? Nothing else haunts these corners.
Not stew! Lucy snorted. Loosen up, Sylv, its all fun.
They dimmed the lights, lit the candle; the room slipped into gold-toned shadow. Misty, usually nestled by the radiator, bristled and perched on the sill.
Helen laid out the cards; the mirror stood so their faces reflected alongside the flames.
Ask your questions of the universe, she whispered.
Sylvia sat on the edge of her own sofa, feeling oddly surplus at her own party, watching the flicker across the others’ faces. All the questionslove, money, moving awayseemed to slip past her.
As if in solidarity, the house betrayed them. First one bulb, then another sputtered and diedthen total darkness.
Blimey! someone squealed.
Its a sign! Helen whispered theatrically, the girls erupting.
Sylvia instinctively reached for her phone; at that moment, something soft and quick scuttled under her feetMisty, darting away in terror, yowled and vanished into the wardrobe, slamming the door behind her.
It is a sign, Sylvia croaked. Not enough room for all these spirits.
Just minutes later, the lights returned; someone had fiddled with the fuse in the stairwell. Misty, however, did not emerge from the wardrobe for twenty-four hoursSylvia only heard the faint scratch and mew within.
The day after, when Misty finally crept out, dusty and offended, Sylvia, stroking her, murmured, Well, old girlwell hide together, shall we?
Misty flicked her tail and stalked into the kitchen, where a stray trail of glitter sparkled on the linoleum.
***
Sylvia didnt find her courage right away.
At first, she simply stared at her phone; the blank message screen blinked, cursor twitching like a nervous tick.
Her fingers typed: Lucy, next time please host at yours. Then she erased it.
She tried, Lucy, I cant keep doing this
Lucy, can we skip parties at mine for a bit?
Lucy, Im worn out by all the guests, honestly.
Nothing seemed quite righteither too soft, or too harsh. Lucys imploring voice echoed in her mindSylv, you get it! Youre so good, Its no trouble, is it?
Breathing deep, Sylvia set the phone aside and faced herself in the bedroom mirror, the bulb above her head throwing shifting shadows across her face. She seized her hairbrush, but instead of tidying her hair, lifted her chin and said to her reflection:
Lucy, next time, have the celebration at yours.
Her voice quavered like a string pulled too taut. She winced.
No caveats, Tanyas voice nudged her memory. Youre allowed.
Sylvia straightened, squared her shoulders like an actress before the curtain.
Lucy, she declared, eyes steady, Im happy we get together, but Im tired of parties at mine. Next time, yours.
Again, her voice wobbled at the edges.
No buts, she sternly told the reflection. Not the explanations office.
Sylvia returned to the phone, typed slowly:
Lucy, I mean itIm exhausted. Next times at yours, okay? I need a break from hosting.
Her thumb hovered over Send. Inside, fear gripped: fear of losing, of causing hurt, of hearing the inevitable There we goknew you were the bore.
She sent it, then pushed the phone away.
Time for a real conversation, she whispered. Face to face.
At the mirror, she ran through the lines shed rehearsed.
Lucy, its my home; its too much having people here all the time
Lucy, I care about you, but Im not an all-purpose venue
Lucy, we need boundaries.
Each time, the word boundaries thinned her voice, leaving her tongue thick in her mouth, alien as a foreign phrase caught in the teeth.
But after several tries, something new glimmered in her gazenot annoyance or exhaustion, but resolve: quiet, but obstinate.
All right, she told her morning reflection. Lets go. Not my placeyours.
***
Sylvia set out for Lucys flat without warning, on purpose.
If she can turn up at mine with pie and the girls, unannounced, thought Sylvia, then surely I can, just once, drop by on herjust another guest, for once. Not the hostess, but the witness.
Lucys home, in an old blockhigh ceilings, peeling plaster, and battered post boxes stuffed with local papers. Sylvia once adored old London blocks for their air of history. Now, it was must and tobacco.
No lift. Sylvia climbed the wide stairs, eyes tracing the worn steps. On the third landing, a breath of cheap air freshener and cold stew mingled.
Lucys door was instantly recognisablea wonky artificial-lavender wreath and a wooden sign: A miracle lives here. Once it seemed quaint; now a little tragic, a little childish.
She knocked. Silence. Tried the belllong, deflated. After a minute: shuffling, then a voice, hoarse and muzzy.
Who is it?
Its meSylvia.
The lock rattled reluctantly. The door inched open.
Lucy peeked, half-shielded behind the door. Slouched in an aged tracksuit, one woollen sock on, the other in hand. Her hair jammed in a rough knot, eyes puffy.
Sylvie? You why didnt you ring?
Do you ever ring before coming to mine? Sylvia replied calmly.
Lucy blinked, but eventually stood aside.
Inside, the flat struck at oncenot with decor, but with emptiness. The kind you felt rather than saw.
No cheery welcome mat, no shoe rackonly a mop handle, battered trainers, one sad heel. On the floor, a dried-up stain from some long-spilled drink.
Sylvia pressed onand her heart squeezed.
A lone sofa, once vivid green, now threadbare to grey in spots, littered with a heap of clothesdresses, jeans, T-shirtsall tumbled together.
On the floor: empty wine bottles, crumpled energy drink cans, a torn magazine. An open laptop jostled for space on a stool beside an overflowing ashtray.
Beneath the table, two mugsone overturned, stuck to the lino by a ring of dried tea, the other perched at the rugs edge, holding half an inch of coffee dusted with cigarette ash.
A drunk mug, Sylvia thought, remembering Tanyas phrase for such mugs: drinks abandoned when life seemed bigger than tidiness.
No flowers on the ledge as in Sylvias; only empty takeaway cups, a crisp packet, and a shrunken lemon by the radiator.
A slow horror dawned: not simply uncleaned, but a life spilling out, unheeded.
***
Dont look like that, Lucy snapped, catching her eye. Ive just not tidied since, you know.
Since what? Sylvia asked softly.
Since Mum. Since work. Since all this. She gestured at the bottles. Since life, really.
Lucy chivvied off to the kitchen, and Sylvia took in the cupboard-sized galley: one table, one chair, a decrepit fridge with peeling magnets. Sink stacked with plates, a frying pan with leathery chips, a tied rubbish bag in the corner, still unremoved.
I meant to ring you Lucy called, washing a mug, but
Sylvia pressed her bag to her waist. Scenes flashedher own sparkling kitchen, tablecloths, cake, laughter. And here, a parallel universe where laughter happened outside, and only silence and chaos stayed inside.
It was then Sylvia realised: For Lucy, her home was more than convenience. It was the one place to escape her own cupboard.
So, youre here for something? Lucy asked, glancing round. Or just to pass judgment?
For something, Sylvia replied. Though a reckoning, perhaps, is part of it.
***
I Lucy crumpled into a chair, as if her legs gave way. I thought you were cross.
Her eyes shone, but not with cheertears banked.
I am cross, Sylvia said honestly. So very tired of all the gatherings at mine. Yesterday was the last straw.
She set her handbag on the cluttered table, refusing to shift the tins and wrappers aside.
And yet her voice threatened to quiver, but she forced it even. I want to understand.
Lucy swiped at her mascara.
Understand what? she asked thickly.
Why is it like this? Why is home only ever at mine?
Lucy gave a short, sad laugh.
Because you have a real home, Sylv. Mines a cheap setpiece.
She drew a shaky breath, words spilling like breaking dam.
I dont feel at home here, not since Mum, since we divvied everything up, argued over it all. These walls they arent mine. I live like a tenant. Stuffs here but not home. Do you get it?
Sylvia remained silent, but something clicked. She remembered her first months after her own mothers death, how her flat felt alien until she changed the curtains and rearranged the furniture.
With you, Lucy went on, its all in place. Throws smooth, cat asleep on the ledge, cups shining. You move around your kitchen like you know exactly where everything is. Its like youve cracked lifes code or something.
She wept once, quietly.
Being at yours its the only time Im not frightened, not lonely.
Sylvia felt a tender warmth rise withinsympathy, recognition, a pang of fellow-feeling.
And I Lucy laughed nervously, honestly thought you loved ityour place buzzing with everyone, because youre so brilliant at it.
She twisted her fingers.
I really thought you got a kick from a living house. From not being alone. I didnt see, she waved at the mugs on the floor, or maybe I didnt want to. I just dashed to yours, because her voice choked, yours is the closest thing to before Mum I get.
Sylvia swallowed.
And so, she said gently, my home became an outpost of your own disorder?
Lucy covered her face.
Im afraid of being alone, Sylv. Properly afraid. At night I hear Mums voice, her threats, her Youre messing it up again. I put music on, get company, rush to yours, because with you, I finally feel like I belong.
Sylvia sat across from her. The lines shed practised in the mirror softened now, their essence unchanged.
Lucy, she said, soft but steely, Im so sorry you feel that lonely. And glad you see my home as refuge. But
She pressed her hands flat so they wouldnt tremble.
I cant be the sole safety net for all your fleeing anymore.
Lucys gaze dropped. Sylvia exhaled.
Lets try something different, she added.
***
Different, how? Lucy sniffed into a napkin.
Well, Sylvia scanned the room, not every party at Sylvias.
Her eyes flicked to the drunk mug, the laundry-laden sofa, the rubbish in the corner.
For starters, home is more than where the fun is. Its where youre not ashamed before your own self.
Lucy managed a wan smile. Been ashamed before myself for ages, she admitted.
So lets fix it here, Sylvia stood. If we keep dragging your lot to mine, this will stay abandoned, grim. Its too much for me.
She steadied herself on the chair-back, looking Lucy in the eyes.
Lets sayone time at mine, one at yours. Never the whole crowd at once. Small, and only monthly.
Youre serious? Have people in this? Lucy indicated the flat.
Im proposing we quit using my home as the only venue, Sylvia replied, and try making yours feel like one.
After a beat she added, But first, you and me. Not others.
Lucy frowned.
How do you mean?
A small start: we clear up here, wash these mugs, wipe the table, and make some pancakes. Just for two. No girls, no glitter, no seances. Just us.
Pancakes? Lucys lips trembled, but a familiar spark shone in her look. I do better crumpets, actually.
Fine, crumpets it is, Sylvia nodded.
***
They began.
Awkwardly at first. Sylvia found a new rubbish bag, knotted up the old and set it by the door. Lucy, bashful, gathered mugs. Sylvia ran the tap, found a sponge.
I wasnt born with a perfect sofa, Sylvia said, sudsing up. Mum taught me this. Life refined the lesson. You just survived differently.
Lucy said nothing, cleaning mugs as if facing examiners.
Soon the kitchen warmed with the scent of frying. Crumpets and jam, not posh but honest. Lucy, flour-dusted, suddenly looked like that young queen of the estate, draping old dressing gowns for a paradeonly now, there were bare walls and burnt chips instead of tea towels.
As they sat eating the first hot crumpetsnoisily, with jamthere came a knock.
Oh, not more people! Lucy yelped.
Sylvia checked the peep-holeand couldnt help smiling.
Our own, she said.
There stood Tanyarucksack and carrier in hand.
I came through on a whiff, she said sheepishly. Texted you, Mumyou didnt answer. Thought Id stop by.
Lucy, abashed, tugged a lock of hair.
Come on in, Sylvia welcomed. Were rehearsing a new routine.
Tanya entered, surveyed the changed flat, the table, Lucy, her mum; a flicker of surprise, then faint approval.
Oh, she grinned. Aunt Lucy, youve got glitter now too.
Glitter? Lucy queried.
Look up, Tanya teased.
There on the lamp, a familiar silver star twinkledstuck, perhaps, from Lucys borrowed jumper.
Sylvia laughed.
Thats itglitter for both of us, now. Not just mine.
As long as its consensual, Tanya winked at her mother.
Sylvia felt something open inside her. While she still bristled at Lucy, still dreaded the next hen do, she now had options. Lucy did, too.
There the three of them sat, sharing crumpets from the skillet, laughing as flour landed square on Lucys cheek.
Within that laughter, nobody was taking advantage. It was a small, honest celebrationno soiree queen, no best hostess on earth. Just Sylvia, Lucy, and Tanya.
