There was something strangely familiar about this face in the crowd . . .
BY RACHEL HANCOX
It was all the usual people: the friends who’d populated the years of Chrissie’s marriage and had stayed in touch, or not, since her divorce.
Mostly not, she reflected.
She spotted Jane and John, Mandy and Philip, clutching wine glasses and talking earnestly by the French windows. They’d all had children in the same primary school class as her Billy. Those five-year-olds were twenty-two now.
Billy was in Woking, working at Costa while he figured out what to do with his life. No doubt their children all had proper jobs, girlfriends, nice flats. Another thing Chrissie would rather not talk about.
It was ages since she’d been to a party. Had people got out of the habit of having them, she wondered, or just stopped inviting her?
Perhaps they invited David instead.
That probably wasn’t true, but the thought pricked at her, even so.
She’d forgotten what you were supposed to do at parties. What you were supposed to say to people.
She hesitated a moment longer in the hall, then went through to the kitchen.
“Chrissie!” Anna, still wearing her apron but looking effortlessly elegant nonetheless, hugged her tight. “I’m so glad you came!”
“I’m so glad you asked me.” Chrissie smiled. Anna was a sweetheart. Wasn’t that why she was here? “Happy birthday,” she said, handing over the little package she’d wrapped earlier.
Christmas paper, but you couldn’t really tell. And the earrings she’d chosen were pretty. They’d look nice on Anna.
“You shouldn’t have,” Anna said, kissing her. Chrissie hoped she’d open them, but instead she added them to the pile on the dresser. Too late, she realised she’d forgotten to attach a card.
“There are loads of people you know,” Anna said, handing her a glass of fizzy wine.
“The old St Mary’s gang.”
“Among others. The Coes, the Rayners. And did you ever meet Bex Jackson’s first husband? He’s moved to Morton Road. Never remarried, apparently.” Anna bent towards the oven. “He’s rather nice. Not going to set the world on fire, but . . .”
But beggars – or indeed forty-nine-year-old divorcees – couldn’t be choosers, Chrissie thought.
Well. At least not quite everyone else at the party was married. She’d read that forty percent of women over forty-five were on their own, but you’d not know it round here
