‘But she’s eighty, and you’re a vicar!’ Estelle protested. ‘Going to bed early is in your job description.’
‘Stelle,’ Finn said. ‘Let Henry and Libby spend some time together.’
‘But—’
‘Alone,’ Finn continued.
Estelle puffed out her cheeks and sighed. ‘I’m not going to be this boring when I cop off with Isaac.’
Henry pushed out his chair and whispered to Libby. ‘I’m just going to speak to Rupert and get his keys.’
‘How’s the grand seduction of Isaac going?’ Finn asked Estelle.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s not. I think he’s taken a vow of chastity or something.’ She turned to Eveline. ‘Has he? You spend loads of time together. You must know.’
‘Estelle, I am not breaking his confidence by telling you anything about him.’
‘Oh, come on!’
Libby glanced along the table. Henry was arguing with Rupert.
Estelle followed her gaze. ‘What’s he talking to that pillock for?’
‘You’re not shagging in my bally car!’ Rupert yelled.
The table fell silent.
‘Please tell me he’s joking?’ hissed Estelle.
‘We’re not doing anything in his car,’ Libby whispered back. ‘He’s blocked Henry in, that’s all.’
‘Can’t you sort it out in the morning?’
She shook her head and stood as Henry approached, a thunderous look on his face.
‘You can shag in my car,’ Julian yelled. ‘But only if I can watch.’
Rupert brayed with laughter as his wife loudly shushed him.
Libby took Henry’s hand, murmured goodnight to those around her and pulled him out of the room to a chorus of whistles and cheers.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he said as they exited into the quiet of the corridor. ‘They’re like a bunch of bloody animals.’ He took out his phone. ‘I’m going to call a taxi.’
A member of the waiting staff passed them carrying a tray loaded with dishes.
‘Call them from the room,’ Libby said. ‘You don’t want anyone to hear.’
Twenty minutes later,it was clear that Henry wasn’t going anywhere fast. Libby had doubted the availability of taxis in rural Somerset at half eleven on a Saturday night, and by the time Henry had been laughed at for the fourth time, she knew he wasn’t leaving Foxbrooke that evening.
‘I’ll… Sleep in the car?’
‘Henry, please. You don’t have to do that.’
He grabbed the contract from his bag and waved it in the air with the confidence of Neville Chamberlain in nineteen thirty-eight holding a piece of paper signed by Hitler promising peace.
‘Yes, Libby, I should. I’ve taken advantage of you enough.’
No, you really haven’t.
