Do You Want to Know a Secret? by Claudia Carroll Page A

dates – but as Barbara pointed out at the time, they were probably all too scared of her not to. (Unpunctuality is considered the ultimate war crime chez Laura, and the corresponding punishment is reserved only for the boldest of the bold: NO TELLY .)
    Anyway, born mammy/candidate for canonization that she is, she arrives bringing a full bag of limes for the margaritas, plus a cocktail shaker, plus crisps and dips and other assorted yummy things. As usual, she’s thought of everything. Honestly, if I were a fella, I’d marry her in the morning. No question.
    ‘I knew you and Barbara wouldn’t have bothered to eat today,’ she says, as we air-kiss in my filthy, dusty hallway, which WILL be lovely when it’s finished. (Trust me, the more I keep repeating this like a mantra, the more I actually start to believe it myself.)
    ‘Angel from on high,’ I say, leading her inside and down the bockity, narrow, uneven staircase to the kitchen, stepping over boxes of tiles and grouting as we go.
    ‘Dearest, please understand I mean no rudeness by this question,’ she says. ‘But what has your builder actually achieved since I was last here? If you don’t mind me saying, the place, if possible, actually looks worse.’
    ‘Well, emm . . . my new fridge arrived,’ I say, a bit defensively, pointing to it, palm outstretched, a bit like a game-show hostess. ‘And I do have electricity. And the loo now flushes properly and all.’
    God, I sound just like my granny when she used to tell us about the happiest day of her life. It wasn’t her wedding day, or even when her kids and grandkids were born, no: it was the day she got her first indoor toilet installed. In 1952.
    Laura opens the fridge, sees that the builder has stuffed it full of his own things: Jaffa Cakes, bagels, full fat butter and, for some bizarre reason, last Thursday’s
Daily Star
, conveniently opened at the racing page.
    She pulls out an ancient jar of peanut butter and shoots me one of her knowing glares. Put it this way, if you were a crime lord handcuffed in the dock and she looked at the court jury like that, you’d know instantly that you were a goner.
    ‘Is there a section in
The Guinness Book of Records
for the longest time an unopened jar of peanut butter has been kept for no apparent reason?’
    ‘I know, I know . . .’
    ‘Vicky, only say the word and you can move in with me any time. Now my house may not exactly be the Ritz Carlton, but if you could endure my darling cherubs, we’d love to have you. At least it would be hygienic.’
    ‘Honey, I really appreciate the offer, but at least this way I can keep an eye on Bob the Builder and . . .’
    I’m saved from having to make further excuses by the doorbell and Laura’s phone ringing simultaneously. Not that I don’t appreciate her lovely offer, but I absolutely know that if I had to live under the same roof as her kids for a prolonged period of time, I’d end up either: a) an alcoholic; or b) on eight milligrams of Valium a day.
    Note to self: never in my most drunken moment
ever
reveal to Laura that, while I love her kids and on a one-to-one basis am well able for them, the four together can be a bit . . . well, let’s just say challenging.
    I leave her to her call and race upstairs to let Barbara in.
    ‘Hey, hon, how was your date?’ I say as we hug, and I lead her inside. I’m really delighted she’s here. Barbara’s probably the one person I’m never ashamed of the state of my house in front of. Mainly because her flat is, if anything, worse.
    ‘Eughh, not a keeper,’ says Barbara, ‘not by the longest of long shots. You should have seen him. The eyes were so cold and dead, it was like sharing a bowl of pasta with Nosferatu.’
    ‘Sure as hell beats what I did last night, i.e., worked. Came home. Tried to figure out what the hell Useless Builder had done all day. Slept.’
    ‘Exactly what I’m here to sort out. Where’s Laura?’
    ‘In my elegantly appointed kitchen,