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Suddenly the science kits didn’t seem like such a great idea any more.
    They climbed the front steps and passed through the
front door, which was being held open by a uniformed maid. Rosie’s stomach lolloped. A maid. She thought she was living in a grand house, but not retainer-style grand. The fact they were going to have to employ a cleaner had been daunting enough for her.
    ‘Through there,’ the maid said, nodding across the vast hallway – again, it made the Perry’s entrance look like an aeroplane aisle. Ahead of them was a beautiful cantilevered oak staircase rising up to the heavens. To the left were open double doors. George charged through them, Toby held back.
    ‘No, Mummy! I’m scared!’
    ‘Nonsense, darling, it’ll be fun!’
    Rosie was petrified too. She’d never enjoyed making entrances.
    ‘No!’ Toby squawked.
    ‘It’ll be all the children from Wendy’s. All your friends.’
    ‘They’re
not
my friends. Everybody hates me.’
    Rosie felt as if she’d been pushed into a freezer. This was news. Wendy had said he was settling in well. ‘They
are
your friends, sweetie,’ she said firmly, and holding tightly on to his hand she led him into the room. It was gigantic with wall-to-wall cream carpets. Two low-slung cowhide sofas sat in the middle around what looked like a chunk of driftwood and the walls were covered in huge abstract splashes. Not a toy or a children’s item in sight, nor a single book. Houses without books always made Rosie uneasy, quite unreasonably. The first things
she’d unpacked had been her own huge collection of paperbacks, even though they looked tatty on Louis and Samantha’s pristine shelves.
    In the far corner, a clown was playing a guitar and singing, with a group of children kneeling in front of him, including George. Near the door stood a group of women, all in skinny jeans and floaty tops, some of whom Rosie recognized from the Wendy’s gates. Immediately she knew her gingham dress was all wrong. Cymbals clashed uneasily in her chest. Everyone looked so polished, like furniture in a showroom.
    ‘Hello,’ said a small lady in jeans (white) and floaty top (sort of scarlet and brown). Her black hair was in a severe Louise Brooks bob. Despite a totally creaseless face, Rosie would have put her at early fifties. ‘I am Patrizia, the twins’ mother. Welcome! And you are … ?’
    ‘Toby and George’s mum,’ Rosie said, holding out a hand. ‘Rosie. Thank you so much for inviting us – I mean, them. This is Toby,’ she added, indicating the child clinging to her leg.
    ‘Pleasure, pleasure, welcome to the Village. Love the dress! Giorgio Armani?’
    ‘No, Giorgio at Asda,’ Rosie quipped.
    Patrizia looked puzzled. ‘Wendy told us all about you,’ she said after a second’s hesitation. She looked over Rosie’s shoulder, disappointment flickering in her brown eyes. ‘So, no husband?’
    ‘Um, I didn’t know he was invited.’
    ‘But of course, we all wanted to meet him so much.
We’re such fans. “Not on
my
patio.” ’ Patrizia laughed uproariously, then snapped to attention. ‘You don’t have a drink.’ She waved at another uniformed minion, who approached with a tray of flutes. ‘Champagne?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘There are nibbles.’ Patrizia looked around crossly. ‘Where’s that girl gone? I hope you like sushi, we had our friends at Nobu prepare it.’
    ‘I
love
sushi.’ Though she hated the word ‘nibbles’; it was in the category she reserved for ‘crease’, ‘sassy’ and ‘hubby’. Inwardly Rosie was panicking. It was George’s birthday in July, Toby’s in October, and she’d been thinking along the lines of a few kids coming over to bounce on the trampoline. Was she now expected to host a party complete with sushi chefs? She looked around. ‘I love those paintings.’
    ‘Saatchi tipped us off about the artist; he’s very hot. Such a shame your husband couldn’t make it.’
    ‘Yes, well, I’m here!’ Rosie