Free Summer of Love by Katie Fforde Page A

Francombes and Robert were both fashionably late. Sian insisted on acting as butler and letting guests in. Fiona wasn’t at all happy about this until Sian said she found it quite easy to open a door and show people through, but not at all easy to make conversation with virtual strangers.
    Sian had finished clearing up the kitchen (despite Fiona insisting she shouldn’t and she didn’t want her to ruin her own outfit) and was wondering if she should go and join the others in the garden when the bell rang.
    ‘Oh! Where’s Fiona?’ said a large, well-dressed woman with a massive scarf wrapped round her. ‘Are you the help?’
    ‘Of course she’s not the help, darling,’ said a good-looking if slightly plump man who followed his wife. ‘She’s a helpful guest.’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Sian, remembering that the ‘how to entertain’ booklet had referred to hiring the daughters of friends to be waitresses. They must be the Francombes. ‘Now, is there anything you want to leave? Or shall I show you through?’
    The bell jangled again, swinging to and fro on its coil.
    ‘We’ll find our own way, thank you, dear,’ said the woman, whom Sian found herself warming to, although the word ‘smug’ had obviously been invented for her. She was so confident: a self-made woman completely satisfied with her creation.
    Sian opened the door to a man who was tallish, quite good-looking with a decent amount of hair. She was sure this must be Robert and she could see perfectly why Fiona had said he couldn’t be ‘the one’.
    ‘Hello?’ he said, putting his hand in hers and squeezing it hard. ‘I’m Robert Warren. Are you Fiona’s daughter?’
    ‘No, just her friend. Do come in. Everyone’s in the garden.’
    Robert Warren stepped over the threshold, looking about him. ‘Good Lord! This place must be worth a few bob!’
    Sian flinched but continued to smile. ‘Follow me to the garden.’
    ‘Do you know if it’s mortgaged?’ he asked in an undertone.
    ‘I have no idea!’ said Sian. ‘Do come this way.’
    Sian watched Fiona at the head of the table and felt proud of her. Everything was going brilliantly. There was enough room in the conservatory now half the plants had been removed, the table looked lovely and the Francombes were unable to hide their amazement at the elegance of the occasion. The food was delicious. Sian felt grateful that she’d talked Fiona out of parcelling up her green beans and just added crispy bits of bacon to them to make them special. She and James had helped clear away the asparagus and then James had carved one leg of lamb (perfectly pink) while Fiona did the other one. Robert, to Sian’s private annoyance, just made slightly disparaging comments about the quality of the wine. If he’d actually been rude she’d have said something, but he was just dismissive. Fortunately Fiona didn’t hear. Sian found she was enjoying herself. She didn’t go to many dinner parties – when her parents held them she usually found herself out with friends for the evening – and despite the fact that she knew Fiona’s wouldn’t be a stuffy affair she had been concerned she might feel somewhat overwhelmed, but she didn’t. And although her dress was a little frayed round the hem, she knew it suited her and she didn’t feel too out of place amongst the peacock display of outfits around her. She’d had a long conversation with Margaret Tomlin who owned the boutique and whom she’d promised to visit with examples of her work. She even found herself able to converse with Melissa without wanting to wince.
    They were on the cheese course, prior to the puddings, and Sian was just thinking how lovely Fiona looked when she heard a noise. Some sort of engine. It sounded terribly near, as if a vehicle was actually in the gravel drive, when usually people parked round the back.
    She caught Fiona’s eye. She had heard it too and obviously wanted to investigate. The noise got louder and more worrying.