Page 51 of Pictures of Him

‘Lucian. Darling. As your friend, can I tell you something?’

I nod, even though I know I’m not going to like what comes next.

‘I think there’s something strange with Jack and Catherine. Did you notice how they didn’t exchange a single word last night? Which is pretty weird when you think how close the four of us once were; we were virtually living together for a while. And it made me think of something Jack once said to me at Bristol, soon after Catherine left you. He said she is not who everyone thinks she is. I’ve never forgotten it. What do you think he meant?’

‘Jack loves to wind us up,’ I say, taking a furious slug of my Bloody Mary so that the vodka and spice burns the back of my throat. ‘It’s his favourite pastime. And you of all people should know that.’

I won’t have this insinuation in my head, I won’t have it. I feel sharp, hot tears forming in my eyes.

‘Hey, guys, come on, don’t fight,’ says Rachel, but she’s in no position to help, with her brutal hangover and her Hadean guilt, so we sit in silence, glaring out at the well-watered lawn, and I count the minutes until Catherine comes back.

Four months before: Catherine

Harry’s kitchen is a 1950s time capsule – mustard-yellow cabinets, cast-iron pans dangling from hooks in the ceiling, a rusting Aga that looks about a hundred years old. Ling is standing over the hob, stirring something in a wok, but she turns as I come into the room. There’s warmth and familiarity in her smile; already it’s as if I’m an old friend.

‘Catherine!’ she says as we embrace. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

The room smells of ginger, lemongrass and brave measures of Thai fish sauce. There are glass bowls filled with prawns and chunks of beef marinating in amber-coloured liquid, the flesh flecked with specks of green and tiny pale half-moons of ginger. Beside them on the counter are twenty or more jars and bottles and packets with red and yellow labels and the distinctive Thai lettering. She picks up a jar and shows it to me.

‘This is red limestone paste; I was surprised to find it. Filip drove me to the Thai supermarket in Bristol this morning – I was soglad, I bought the whole shop.’

‘You must get homesick.’

‘It’s more that when I saw all these familiar bottles and jars and the crates of Thai vegetables and the huge fat bunches of herbs, I realised I could still eat all the things I love. And that made me feel happy, not homesick. I left my village six years ago, I’m used to living without my family.’

I sit on a stool drinking my Bloody Mary, watching Ling as she tips beef into the wok and leans away from the hot, splashing fat.

‘Will they come and visit?’

‘I hope so.’

She hesitates for a moment.

‘We haven’t told anyone yet. But we’re planning a wedding party. Harry wants to fly my whole family over.

I keep telling him, there’s a lot of us. You have no idea.’

‘You’ve certainly got the space.’

Ling laughs.

‘Crazy, isn’t it? And craziest of all is that it already feels normal. My sister has started calling me Lady Muck. Harry thinks it’s hilarious. This morning he brought me coffee in bed and said: ‘Cup of coffee, Lady M?’

Ling somehow manages to roll her eyes and look enchanted at the same time.

‘Maybe I’ll start styling myself that way. It has a good ring to it, no?’

To me the dining room is hideous, with its patchwork of framed paintings on the ceiling (robust nudes, cherubs with tactfully placed wafting skeins of fabric, that sugar-coated, mock-Renaissance style), gilded candelabras, a long polished table with a fierce, mirror-like shine. The room is panelled in dark oak on the bottom half and hung with rose-pink damask wallpaper on the top half, where several po-faced portraits also line the walls. All that’s missing is a red cord to keep the National Trust hoi polloi out.

Rachel and Alexa lounge in their gilt-edged chairs, entirely comfortable in these ornate surroundings.

‘Is there an ashtray, darling?’ Rachel asks, lighting up as soon as she finds one, and it feels all wrong somehow, like smoking in a museum. And after only a sip or two of wine she pulls a face. ‘It’s Riesling, isn’t it? Can we have some rosé, Harry, it’s a bit too punchy for my hangover,’ and Harry pulls out his phone, sends a text and two minutes later, Filip is in the room carrying several bottles of pale pink rosé on a silver tray. If you’re rich enough, it seems Colton House comes to you.

Lunch is wonderful, more delicious than anything I’ve eaten in a Thai restaurant, and it also puts Ling right in the centre of attention. I see her slowly coming into focus to Alexa and Rachel, I see how she accepts it, this sudden beam of spotlight, without pride or shyness, just the same quiet confidence I noticed before. She tells Rachel, because Rachel asks – probably the first time she’s asked Ling anything – about learning to cook in the village where she grew up.

‘We were taught by all the mothers and aunts and grandmothers in the village. But there was one woman, Apinya, who was a really clever cook. She grew her own herbs and spices and she always tried out new things, like beef with bitter chocolate or fish and orange soup, and even on the days when rice was all we had she would make something interesting, like spicy fritters with coriander salsa. I miss her food, I am always trying to remember it.’

‘It sounds such an idyllic way of life,’ says Alexa. ‘Why did you leave?’

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