The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [6]
***
Half an hour later, Alice was beginning to notice a theme. “Is there anyone here…younger?” she asked casually, finding Flora by the dessert table. “I mean, everybody is around my age, aren’t they? Or older.”
“Nathalia is twenty-three.” She pointed out a doe-eyed model in what Alice could only assume were next season’s hot, draped peg-leg trousers. “With Jonty. He and Stefan used to race yachts together round the Mediterranean.”
“Mmm,” Alice murmured tactfully. Jonty may well be a very nice man, but he was also pushing fifty. “What about your art school friends? Or people from back home.”
Flora gave a small shrug. She picked at frosting on her tiny cake, earlier enthusiasm fading. “It’s been hard, to keep up with people.” Her voice was soft. “They were weird enough about Stefan, but then when we bought the house, and I got the deal with my paintings…” she trailed off, looking so mournful, Alice felt guilty. She often felt guilty around Flora.
“Well, everyone here seems nice!” she exclaimed brightly. “And if they weren’t happy for your success, then they can’t have been good friends to begin with.”
“That’s what Stefan says.” Flora nodded, still forlorn. “When Zara sold her first print, we all had the best celebration. But when things started happening with me…”
“It’s all right.” Alice glanced around, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. “Oh, look, there’s Julian! He said he’d be dropping by. Probably to scope out your catering, you know he’s always sizing up the competition.”
She steered Flora firmly across the garden, chatting about the divine profiteroles in an effort to raise her party spirits again. She couldn’t blame her for the moping, but she had some sympathy for those art school friends too. Flora’s paintings were pedestrian, to say the least: endless dreamy watercolors of flowers and pastoral scenes that Ella had once described as “not so much art as a visual sleeping pill.” Nonetheless, Stefan had somehow used his business contacts to wrangle a deal with a publisher, and now Flora was officially the twelfth most-sold artist in the country; her prints (and coasters, and calendars, and wipe-clean placemats) snapped up in gift shops from Bournemouth to the Isle of Wight. Alice could see how that might sting her old classmates, who were struggling in their run-down bed-sits with night jobs waitressing to get by.
“Happy anniversary!” Julian strode over to meet them, sweeping Flora into a bear hug. He was casual as ever in his weekend uniform of corduroy trousers and a crumpled shirt; after a decade of friendship, Alice would have been shocked to see him in a tie. “You outdid yourself this time, Flor, everything looks great.”
Flora brightened. She looked around at the pink wonderland with a faint smile. “It’s all Stefan, he found the best party planner through a client. He did Sienna too.”
“And who did you use for the food?”
“See,” Alice laughed. “I told you!”
“Told her what?” Julian stole a pastry from Alice’s plate, looking back and forth between them. He had oversize, almost dramatic features: a large nose, deep-set eyes, wide cheekbones. Caught still for a moment, they didn’t seem to add up, until he made a gesture or expression, and then they slipped together perfectly.
“Just you and your obsession.” Alice slapped his hand away lightly. “One of these days, you’re actually going to have to open that restaurant, instead of just talking about it all the time.”
Julian gave a sheepish shrug. “When I get my ducks in a row. Anyway, I have to dash now, I just wanted to say congrats and all.”
“Oh,” Flora pouted. “Can’t you stay longer? There’s going to be croquet, and the cake.”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Yasmin’s flight gets in at five, I have to be there to pick her up.”
“But—”
“I’ll save you a slice,” Alice interrupted, before Flora could guilt-trip