“We girls are riding horses on the beach,” Pear says.
“We’re hopelessly horsey,” Prue adds. “Mum keeps a stable in Hampshire. Do you ride?”
Hope sucks her teeth. “No. When I look at a horse all I can think about is falling off it.”
“They’ve fallen hundreds of times,” I say. “It explains a lot about them. Head injuries, you know.”
“Oh, you should talk,” Pear says. “You rattle your brains head-butting the football so often I’m shocked you can function.”
“His ability to function is debatable,” Prue says.
“Try to be polite, children,” Mum says. “Hope, what are you doing tomorrow?”
“The Caribbean cooking class,” she says.
“So are Felix and Charles,” Mum says. “How nice.”
I take a sip of water to hide how pleased I am.
Hope turns to me. “A chef taking a cooking class?”
“Never hurts.”
“He never went to culinary school, so he needs the help,” Pear says.
“What she means is he’s self-taught,” Mum says, because Mum is an angel unlike her demonic daughters. “Worked his way up from a dishwasher, didn’t you, love?”
“He’s actually quite brilliant,” Pear says, probably because she can tell she’s annoyed me. “He’s always being written up in the papers.”
“We keep trying to convince him to let us invest, so he can expand,” Prue adds. “But he insists on doing it all himself.”
“What kind of food is it?” Hope asks me.
“New British, mostly,” I say. “All locally sourced, seasonal.”
“Sublime,” Mum says. “If you’re ever in London, youmusttry it.”
“What are they called?” Hope asks. “Your pubs.”
“The Smoke and Gun, in Canonbury. And the Fatted Calf in Stoke Newington.”
“We grew up in West London but he’s abandoned us for the North,” Pear says. “He’s much too edgy for Notting Hill.”
“I’ve only been to London once, during grad school, but I actually stayed with friends in Canonbury. It’s so beautiful. I wonder if we passed by your restaurant.”
“Well, if they’d ever like to go, send them my way. I’d be happy to look after them,” I say.
“Take him up on it, dear,” Mum says. “It’s impossible to get a booking.”
“Give him your contacts now, so you don’t forget,” Pear says.
Hope rummages in her bag for her phone. “Do you mind?” she asks, handing it to me.
Mind? I have never been so thankful for my sister’s interference.
“Not at all,” I say. I take it from her and enter my number, and then my email for good measure. She immediately sends me a text:
Unknown:Hi! It’s Hope Lanover, your new friend from the cruise ship.
