Free Life Begins by Amanda Brookfield Page A

the Monster, and pioneered early efforts to get Charlotte to leave. But then Martin had finally pitched up for a school parents’ evening and she had found herself talking to a mild-mannered, good-looking man with anxious eyes and a ready smile. She had dropped the nickname overnight and, while remaining supportive, stopped trying to tell Charlotte what to do.
    ‘But Charlotte’s got her estate agent to look after her now, so she’s fine, isn’t she?’ pressed Josephine, as she took her place at the table, determined to get a rise on the subject from at least one of her companions. ‘And she’s beautiful,’ she exclaimed, with some exasperation when neither responded. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to look like that and be happy, would it, now?’
    ‘Jo, you’re horrible,’ said Naomi, amicably, sitting down next to her.
    ‘Let’s throw to settle who’s the North Wind,’ commanded Theresa, shooting both of them dark looks. ‘I’ll be me as well as Charlotte.’
    With a precision that would have been impossible to orchestrate, Charlotte arrived on the step just as Henry was slotting his key into the front door. Thus unheralded, she had time, while easing off her coat, to hear her name being mentionedthrough the half-open door of the sitting room. Henry, hearing it too, looked momentarily panic-stricken and barked an unnecessarily loud reprimand as George’s dark curly head bobbed through the banisters. ‘You should be in bed.’
    George rolled his eyes, announcing, with some pride, ‘Look, Dad,’ and proceeding to push his tongue up over his upper lip until the tip made contact with his nose.
    ‘Does young Sam have such social graces, I wonder?’ asked Henry, grinning once his son had been ordered back to bed.
    ‘Not that particular one. But he used to be able to put both legs behind his head and do somersaults round the room.’
    ‘Blimey – how alarming.’ Henry chuckled, pushing open the sitting-room door. ‘Here we are, ladies, your missing member.’
    There was a half-beat before the three women responded, like the pause before applause at an inconclusive conclusion of a performance. It was enough to confirm for Charlotte that she had indeed been the subject of conversation and to leave her with a dim, irrational sense of exclusion, which persisted in spite of the warm greetings that followed.
    They had been talking about Tim, probably – understandably – and she was being over-sensitive, she reasoned, trying her best to enjoy the usual chaos of the game with collapsing walls and Josephine shrieking ‘pung’ every time she meant ‘cong’ and one of Theresa’s delicious curries to oil the wheels. And, of course, not having a husband did make her different, Charlotte reminded herself, wondering that it had taken so long for this feeling to dawn. Holding back on her own news, she tried to lose herself and the niggling sense of separation in the merry stream of anecdotes that bounced around the table. Only to find the feeling getting worse:family life, family holidays, family tiffs, husbands this, husbands that. It was as if all three friends were speaking a different language.
    She was rescued eventually by Theresa, who caught her gaze and held it, generously insisting that their Suffolk cottage (inherited a few years before from Henry’s parents) was at her and Sam’s disposal for an Easter as well as a summer break if they wanted it. Whereupon Naomi, having suggested they abandon the game and retreat to comfortable chairs, asked with touching concern how things were going with Tim.
    ‘We’ve only had the one date and it was a bit of a blur, to be honest,’ Charlotte admitted, basking in the warmth of the kindness, ashamed that she could ever have doubted it. ‘We went to this weird Spanish place and ate salted almonds and lots of little dishes of oily snacks. It was okay, I suppose, but then I let him kiss me in the car when we got home, which has made him think we’ve got a proper