Free Summer at Tiffany's by Karen Swan Page B

with Mum.’
    â€˜Henry, this is ridiculous!’ she said, turning to watch as he crossed the room in two strides and picked up a small khaki duffel bag, already packed, from the foot of the sofa. ‘You can’t just run out like this! We have to talk. Look, you’re stressed about Arch. I get it—’
    â€˜Oh, do you? Well, that’s good to hear. Nice to know you’re so
in tune
with how I feel.’ She flinched at the scorn in his words. ‘Tell you what I don’t understand, though – if you didn’t want to marry me, why did you say, “Yes”?’
    Words fled her yet again – her silence damning her – and Henry inhaled sharply, his hands on his hips as he stared up at the ceiling. Cassie reached for his arm, but he brushed past her, his head dropped low, and a moment later she heard the front door click shut, separating them like a sea.

Chapter Five
    She was just pulling the third batch of almond macaroons – Archie’s favourite – from the oven when the doorbell buzzed. Cassie frowned as she took off her oven gloves and lay them on the counter beside the hot tray. Henry had a key, obviously, as did Suzy.
    She peered through the spyhole. ‘Yes?’ she called through the door, seeing two dark heads – one significantly higher up than the other, one distinctly glossier than the other. She gave a gasp, throwing open the door.
    â€˜Oh my God! You came!’ she cried as two of the faces she loved most in the world turned to her with pleased smiles.
    â€˜Of course we did,’ Anouk said, hugging her hard. As ever, she smelt of nappa leather, her beige linen jumpsuit and panama putting Cassie’s pyjama ensemble of Henry’s tartan baggies – rolled low on the hips – and a khaki vest in the shade. It was barely nine in the morning, meaning the two of them must have been up at five to make it here from Paris, and yet still Anouk looked box-fresh from the Isabel Marant store.
    Bas, Cassie’s best friend in New York, swooped down second. At six foot five, thin as a noodle and with skin the colour of a walnut, he was her sounding board and partner in crime, the man who’d understood the therapeutic effects of a head massage and a greasy fry-up when a girl was on a no-carbs diet and going through a divorce. Bas released her from his bear hug so that her toes touched the floor again. ‘How is he?’
    â€˜Still critical, but stable, at least. I was just on my way over to Suzy’s to get the latest.’
    Bas looked her up and down. ‘You sure it’s only Arch who’s sick? You look like hell.’
    â€˜Thanks!’ she half laughed, half wailed. She had yet to look in a mirror, but she knew it wouldn’t be pretty. ‘I’d like to see how good you look on three hours’ sleep,’ she said, hoping they wouldn’t notice her puffy, reddened eyes. ‘Come in, come in.’ She stepped back into the tiny hall, aware that Henry’s sailing jacket – newly waxed – on the pegs behind, stank like burnt rubber and the coir matting, which had cost £99 per metre in the store, now looked like a cat basket. ‘Coffee?’
    â€˜Like you need to ask,’ Anouk replied, taking off her hat and tousling her hair lightly. Anouk was famously hard core about her drinks, only ever choosing knock-you-out black coffee, cognac or, at the other end of the spectrum, purer-than-thou mint tea; she refused to believe that water that came from taps was drinkable and would argue to the death that anything with milk in it was an abomination.
    Cassie looked over at Bas. ‘Tea?’
    â€˜Never change, baby.’ He winked. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got some—’
    â€˜Oh yes, I do. English breakfast or Earlers?’
    â€˜Full English, definitely,’ he sighed with an elaborate hand flourish.
    She grinned. She had thoroughly converted him to English