The Sunday Lunch Club

by Juliet Ashton

  Anna considered carefully before opening her mouth. He might explode, but it needed to be said. ‘If you’d walk across hot coals to attend Paloma’s wedding, what’s stopping you changing her nappy now and again?’ She took in the way he glared at her, but carried on. ‘Santi did everything for Paloma today. You didn’t take any of the strain.’

  ‘It’s not like that at home,’ snapped Neil. ‘Oh, and thanks for the support.’ Archly, he put an emphatic full stop to their tête-à-tête and stalked back to the others.

  Elaborate goodbyes were made. ‘I love these Sundays,’ said Isabel. ‘You’re never sure if there’ll be way too much food or not enough. There’s always some sort of row. Sometimes somebody cries. But they’re never ever dull!’

  She sounded as if she planned to be around for quite some time. Anna made a point of hugging Isabel, eyeballing Sam over her shoulder with a See! I’m being nice! look. There was nothing wrong with Isabel. Perhaps that was the problem. She was a cut-out doll, not what Anna would choose for Sam.

  To Maeve, Anna whispered, ‘How much did she give you?’ She’d spotted the sleight of hand as Dinkie slipped Maeve a bundle of notes. When they were kids, it had been fifty pence, but rates had gone up.

  ‘Just a little something to tide me over,’ said Maeve.

  Josh lurked. He always skulked at the end of a lunch, needing a lift, too diffident to ask. He was a puppy, hoping for a caress, fearing a slap.

  ‘Hop in, you,’ said Luca, unlocking the car.

  The bedsit was miles out of their way, but Anna was grateful to Luca for rescuing Josh. The journey gave her a chance to talk to her little brother. Wary of Luca’s judgement, she kept the nagging to a minimum, even though she longed to ask if he’d contacted his landlord about the dodgy wiring. She didn’t ask about Thea. She asked what she should name the baby.

  ‘We should let babies name themselves,’ he said.

  If Maeve had said it, Anna would have rolled her eyes until they were sore. From Josh it was cute. ‘Oh shut up,’ she laughed, slapping him.

  He laughed too. Anna felt as if she’d won a prize.

  Luca dropped her at her gate, calling her back three times to kiss him, igniting a need that would have to wait until they met again.

  Home. The familiar pictures on the wall, the worn carpet on the stairs, the favourite spot in the kitchen where Anna sat herself gratefully down. Yeti bounded into her lap, his paws on her shoulders, licking off her make-up. His breath smelled of shoe.

  There was so little evidence of her pregnancy that the fatigue took her by surprise. Sunday Lunch Club had exhausted her. Anna tried to retrace life’s steps, to work out when Dinkie had made the transition from somebody to lean on, to somebody she worried about.

  It was only fair that Anna look out for her grandmother; it was loving payback. There was no effort required; it was easy. When her parents had moved to Florida, the baton had been passed to Anna; the unspoken assumption being that the oldest, unmarried, childless Piper female would step in.

  Sexist, thought Anna. And what’s more: sisterist. She’d roped Neil in, and they’d found Sunville together after a few dispiriting weeks of nosing around residential care homes. Neil’s financial adviser had finessed the house sale; it was the usual modus operandi: Neil paid the bills but didn’t get his hands dirty. The anxiety was chiefly Anna’s.

  There was ironing to do. A bath to be had. Luca to call and talk dirty to.

  And the letter to read. Again.

  Chapter Five

  Lunch at Luca’s

  ANTIPASTO: PROSCIUTTO, SALAMI, BRUSCHETTA

  TORTELLINI IN BRODO

  LAMB IN BREADCRUMBS

  ZUPPA INGLESE

  Anna had morning sickness. She also had midday sickness, afternoon sickness, middle-of-the-night sickness. She wondered who’d named it so misleadingly.

  That Sunday morning it was only a vague queasiness, easily forgotten in the splendour of Luca’s bedroom. His spacious flat, on the ground floor of a detached period house on a road between a loop of the Thames and Henry VIII’s magnificent palace at Hampton Court, was full of books and paintings and things. It could have been cluttered, but instead it had a crazy order. Each artwork meant something; he’d read all the books; the furniture had travelled with him through many house moves. She buried herself in its colour and texture, in the changing light that crawled across the rooms throughout the day, completely altering them.

  In his bed – a colossal four-poster affair – she tugged the red drapes across, creating a personal night-time. She didn’t want it to be Sunday; she wanted to live with Luca in an eternal Saturday night, when love was made and boxed sets were watched and the deep rumble of his laugh made her tingle.

  Hampton Court Palace had become one of ‘their’ places. They picnicked in the grounds and caught the ferry from the riverbank. It was such an unlikely place – a sprawling fantastical castle plonked in a suburb. Gilded dragons and unicorns glowered from its gates yet it was opposite a Pizza Express. It suited their strange romance, which was also caught between two separate realities. There was Anna’s, which involved a baby, and Luca’s, which did not.

  It wasn’t that they didn’t mention her pregnancy. They did. They never discussed it, though. It was a fact, like so many other facts.

  Fact: Anna was allergic to coriander.

  Fact: Luca snored.

  Fact: Anna was pregnant.

  Fact: Luca was not.

  In the far end of the flat, an oven door slammed. Luca had been up since dawn, and heavenly smells nosed their way through the bed drapes. It had been his idea to host this week’s Sunday Lunch Club: ‘My way of apologising for keeping you to myself all this time.’ Each time Anna had been invited to lunch during the last two months, she’d demurred, preferring her flat or Luca’s, just the two of them. The other clubbers had preferred not to meet without her; she’d been both flattered and dismayed. It was a pressure of sorts and she had her fill of that.

  The covers moved by her feet. She heard panting. Yeti was waking up.

  A bump travelled up the bed, a pointed snout trimmed with impressive whiskers emerged, followed by the rest of Yeti. There was a lot of Yeti; he’d grown into his name and out of his dog basket. Despite Anna’s best intentions to train him carefully, he had Access All Areas, shedding hair like a Kardashian spends money.

  The latest rule he’d torn up was her most precious one. She’d vowed never to let Yeti on the bed, but the piteous howling got to her and now she and Luca were a threesome. He complained that he was the odd one out, as his girlfriend and her dog cuddled and spooned and shared licky kisses beside him.

  The noise of the door easing open and the sound of feet padding across the carpet got Anna wiggling with anticipation, pulling the silk cover up to her chin and enjoying the feel of its rumpled weave against her breasts.

  ‘Buongiorno, cara!’

  Anna squirmed, corkscrewing herself down among the bedclothes. Luca knew the effect his speaking Italian had on her. She was radioactive with desire around this man; it could be hormones, but she preferred to believe it was chemistry.

  The first time they’d made love – a mere five hours after they met, making Anna more or less a slut, and a happy slut at that – could have been awkward, icky. It had taken Anna a while to come to terms with her pregnant body; it had felt ‘other’, not entirely her own.

  In Luca’s arms – greedy, lusty, passionate – she’d reclaimed herself. He’d roamed all over her, enjoying the scenery, his mouth on every part of Anna. Their nakedness was so honest she felt clothed in her skin; as if she could wander out and buy a pint of milk without covering up her creamy nudity.

  Her body had changed since then. Pregnancy was the gift that keeps on giving – it gave her a new shape every couple of days. Her tum was expanding, her profile rounder, but she was still not obviously pregnant.

  That mattered. Anna had a faint fuzzy fear that when her bump rounded out, when it got to the point
where strangers gave her their seat on the tube, she would revolt Luca. That moment was some way off, and Anna had trained herself not to think about it. She took each day as it came with Luca; they couldn’t, and didn’t, make plans.

  The breasts, however, had arrived, and for that Luca was truly grateful. Anna felt voluptuous, ripe, powerful. Undressing in front of him was a joint pleasure; no shucking off her pants and leaping into bed. Two equals enjoying each other.

  It was heady stuff.

  The bed curtain was drawn back. ‘Breakfast!’

  ‘Is there any nicer sight in the world,’ said Anna, ‘than a great-looking man you’ve just had superb sex with coming towards you with a tray in his hands?’

  ‘Thank you, madam. We pride ourselves on offering a complete service.’

  The flat didn’t need much primping to prepare it for the Sunday Lunch Club crew. It looked best in slight disarray, with the sun slanting through the shutters. A spattering of dust only added to the patina, as if a portion of old Italy had been towed across the Mediterranean and moored in Surrey.

  As Luca sang and sliced salami among the hanging copper pans in his galley kitchen, Anna vomited discreetly in the en suite.

  This was one by-product of pregnancy, unlike the increased cup size and libido, she was keen to keep from Luca. It would be different if he was the father; I’d share everything, good and bad with him.

  Anna wiped her mouth with a groan, remembering the days when the only times she threw up was when she mixed her drinks on a night out.

  The phone trilled. LITTLE SIS read Anna.

  ‘Maeve!’

  ‘I might be a bit late. There’s some sort of works on the track or something.’

  ‘No probs.’ Why is she calling to say this? Maeve was always late.

  ‘Oh, and Paul can’t make it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Don’t bloody “ah” me, Anna Piper. I knew you’d do this.’

  ‘Do what? Use a simple two letter word?’ Anna cupped her hand, checking her breath.

  ‘You know what you’re doing. Making out there’s something wrong, that stupid Maeve has cocked up her love life. Well, he has food poisoning. He’s lying in his bed, dying. Happy now?’

  Anna flinched; her dad used to say that to her, with the same ugly inflection. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but Paul’s ace. I . . .I love him.’

  ‘Then I’m happy for you.’ I’m also wondering why you’re so incredibly defensive. ‘You’ve got me all wrong, Maevey. I just want you to be OK. I want us all to be OK. I want to meet this amazing Paul.’ Anna fought to keep the subtext out of her voice; she’d been wondering why Paul hadn’t yet been shown off like a show pony.

  ‘He’s so keen to meet you lot. I’ll have a lunch club down here!’

  ‘Sounds great.’ In her mind’s eye, Anna saw limp vegetarian pasties and finger-marked glasses.

  ‘Listen, Alva’s making trouble.’

  ‘Alva? How?’ Surely not the same Alva who covered more than half of the household bills, paid for Storm’s schooling and babysat him whenever Maeve had an inkling to ‘find herself’ at Glastonbury?

  ‘He’s saying stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘That maybe Storm should live with him for a while.’

  ‘You mean, literally move in with him and Clare and the kids?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  Anna knew that sound; Maeve’s lips were pursed to keep in the tears. ‘What’s the reason? I mean, Storm’s happy at home, so . . .’ It was hard to tell with the boy. He turned inwards. Perhaps it was his age, but Anna worried he was like his Uncle Josh. That the discontent would linger long past his teens. ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Let’s talk about it properly when you get here.’ Maeve was as prickly as a hedgehog; she only lost her trademark cool when she was deeply troubled. ‘We’ll sort it out, don’t worry.’ She’d been making promises like this to Maeve since her sister was a baby. On the whole, she kept them. ‘I’m sure Alva isn’t planning to take Storm away from you. Perhaps . . .’ She trod carefully. ‘Perhaps it would be good for both of you, you and Storm, if he went to his dad’s for a bit. We all need a breathing space now and then.’

  There was no explosion, just a small voice on the other end agreeing that ‘you might be right’.

  With half an hour to go, Luca was flat out. The oven was on, the hob was crowded with bubbling pots, the girlfriend was banished from the kitchen.

  Drifting about in jeans – top button undone beneath a floaty white top – Anna crossed a line. Specifically the line at the door of Luca’s consulting room. He hadn’t said so, but it was clear that he preferred her to keep out; he was sensitive about client confidentiality. Many times Anna had tried to dig into his professional relationship with Josh, but no matter now subtle the question, Luca warned her off. Gently. But very firmly.

  Like an illegal immigrant, Anna flitted across the border into the dark-walled room. There was, disappointingly, no chaise longue. Between an inviting sofa and a plush office chair, a box of tissues sat ready on a low table.

  It was a room of secrets.

  Files stood tidily on a shelf. There were no names, just initials. Anna speed-read the labels until she found J.P. Before she could raise her hand to take it down, she heard Luca clear his throat in the doorway.

  ‘Are you trying to get me struck off?’

  ‘No, just . . .’

  ‘Just looking for your brother’s file.’ Luca stood to one side, indicating she was to leave the room. Now. ‘This is my place of work,’ he said gravely. His expression, fixed and stern, made him look older, less like ‘her’ Luca, and Anna was flooded with remorse.

  ‘I know. I shouldn’t have. Sorry.’

  He smiled, back to himself again. ‘Don’t make me lock the door, Annie.’ She loved it when he called her that; nobody else ever had. ‘This has to be private. You understand?’

  She understood. She kissed him. He tasted of garlic and tomatoes, and Anna had always liked those ingredients. She could have kissed him for a lot longer, but the doorbell rang and, judging by the sounds of bickering, Neil and Santi and Paloma had arrived.

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ said Neil instead of hello, flouncing past, leaving Anna with a bottle of good Italian wine and a hand-tied bouquet of white and green and mauve flowers. Her favourite colours; Neil was a genius at gifting.

  ‘We’re not talking to each other,’ said Santi sniffily, offering Paloma up for adoration.

  ‘From what I could hear, you’re talking to each other very loudly.’ Anna hugged her brother-in-law, grateful as ever for his presence. He was a radiator, not a fridge; Santi gave out warmth, never hoarding his happiness, always ready to share.

  Even when he was miffed.

  ‘What’s he done n— oh my God!’ Anna stepped back as Neil turned to face her in the narrow hallway. ‘Your face!’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had Botox. Sue me. Crucify me.’ Neil’s taut face was crimson with emotion. ‘I happen to think it takes years off me.’

  ‘It’s your face,’ said Luca, kissing him on both rubbery cheeks. ‘You can do what you like with it.’ Anna could tell he was hiding his shock. And amusement.

  ‘There was nothing wrong with your face.’ Santi spoke low, nostrils inflated, as he whisked past into the sitting room. ‘I like your face.’ He stopped, looking around him, taken aback by the dimensions of the space. ‘You’ve knocked two rooms into one!’ He stared about him, delighted. ‘Luca, you have taste.’

  ‘I know.’ Luca winked at Anna. ‘Just look at my bird.’

  Slang was so wrong in Luca’s mouth; it was strangely thrilling to be called his ‘bird’.

  Like number fourteen buses, the lunch guests arrived all at once. Maeve and Storm met Josh on the stairs, ahead of Sam and Isabel, who’d brought a pot plant and a strange home-made cake which Isabel kept apologising for.

  All were
taken aback by the paper plates. Luca was taken aback that they were taken aback. It was, he said, how his mother always served Sunday feasts. ‘It’s the food that’s important, not the washing-up. To Italians, anyway.’ He enjoyed a dig now and then at his heathen British friends. ‘I go to her place at least once a month and we throw out the plates when it’s finished.’

  ‘Why didn’t you invite your mum today?’ asked Sam.

  ‘It’d be great to meet her,’ said Maeve. She turned to Anna. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘I, um, wouldn’t know,’ smiled Anna.

  ‘Mama’s a busy woman,’ said Luca.

  Not too busy to talk to her son daily on the phone, or to meet him in town every week for a cocktail. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world for such a dutiful, fond son to introduce his mother to his ‘bird’, but so far Luca had never even mentioned it.

  ‘Oh God, this bruschetta,’ said Maeve, eyes flickering in bliss, once the obligatory toast to the absent Dinkie had been made.

  ‘And the salami!’ Sam spoke with his mouth full, leaning across the lace tablecloth – a strangely feminine choice for a man like Luca, but, apparently, an heirloom – to snaffle a bruschetta. He patiently held up his toasted ciabatta topped with an oily tumble of diced tomato so Isabel could Instagram it. Her account was, apparently, ‘mainly food and kittens’. Anna knew that the ‘old’ Sam would have scoffed at that, but the new, smitten Sam looked at Isabel as if she was made of precious china.

  ‘It’s so good,’ said Santi, putting his hand to his heart, ‘to eat food made with real love. And proper seasoning.’

  ‘Are you really enjoying it, Neil?’ asked Sam. ‘I can’t tell from your expression . . .’

  ‘Enough with the Botox jokes.’ Neil didn’t join in with the laughter. ‘Remember that gay years are like dog years – we age quicker than you boring straights.’