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

probably Parazone-wiping my borrowed patio furniture by now.’
    ‘You got furniture? Way to go.’
    ‘On loan from my mother. Has to be back tomorrow. God love her, she didn’t want me to be entirely mortified at the state of the place in front of you pair.’
    ‘Don’t suppose by any chance Laura brought food?’
    ‘Tonnes. Dips, crisps, the whole carb-heavy works.’
    ‘Cool, I’m starving. Sex always makes me hungry.’
    ‘Barbara, I thought you didn’t even like him?’
    ‘I didn’t say I
liked
him, I just
fancy
him. Completely different thing. God, you’ve so much to learn from me in such a short space of time.’
    We head into the kitchen where poor old Laura is deep in mid-conversation/row with one of the kids, while (I was right) simultaneously Parazone-wiping down the patio table and neatly rearranging the chairs around it, as if you’re
supposed
to have garden furniture indoors. Even though she’s holding the phone at ear’s-length, we can hear everything and it’s not pretty.
    ‘Emily, your brother is very sensitive and you are NOT to tell him that you can’t heal animals, you just prefer to witness their suffering instead. You know perfectly well that he’s very attached to that gerbil, and you’re to go in there and apologize to him right now. Yes, well, when you’re a mother, you can be mean too. No, that’s not true, I
AM
glad you’re alive. Right, that’s it, I’m hanging up now, tell Granny she can referee the next row . . . ooops, sorry you had to overhear that, ladies,’ she says, snapping her phone shut and looking very hassled, as she gives Barbara a big bear-hug.
    Poor old Laura, her kids really do come with two volumes: loud and deafening.
    ‘Trouble at mill?’ asks Barbara sympathetically.
    ‘Oh, don’t let’s even go there, it could take all night. Barbara dearest, what in God’s name are you wearing, did you really come out in public dressed like that?’
    ‘Haven’t been home since last night.’
    ‘I thought you’d a date last night.’
    ‘Well, what can I say? It was a good date. Apart from the eejit I was with, that is. In fact I’ve just done the walk of shame from his apartment . . .’
    ‘And this is what you wore?’
    Laura’s now picking bits of stray fluff off Barbara’s jacket, grooming her like female gorillas do when they’ve chosen a mate. I saw that on
National Geographic
once and made a silent vow never EVER to even attempt to ‘tidy up’ a bloke, just in case he runs a mile. At my stage of life, I’m taking no chances. Plus it’s sort of evolved into a phrase Barbara and I use to describe the way really, scarily possessive women behave around their blokes: ‘dust-fleckers’.
    ‘Yeah, why, what’s wrong with it?’
    ‘Nothing, only just that it looks like the kind of fabric they use on the space shuttle to prevent it from burning up on re-entry.’
    Now, granted, it might sound a bit stinging, but then that’s our Laura for you. Always the barrister, ready with a rapier riposte.
    ‘Mix me a margarita, and while you’re at it, pour out a large saucer of milk for the dust-flecker here,’ Barbara says to me, as I’m busy squirting lime juice into the cocktail shaker.
    I keep my head down and wisely elect to stay well out of this one. Like I said, time and experience have taught me this is always the best course of action whenever this pair start having one of their legendary ding-dongs . The great thing about Barbara, though, is that she never takes offence and is virtually unembarrassable, so Laura’s harping on at her tends to go right over her head. Besides, harping on is just a natural extension of Laura’s innate mammy gene.
    ‘Was I dust-flecking?’ asks Laura, surprised.
    ‘Most definitely.’
    ‘Sorry, dearest, it’s an involuntary action with me at this stage,’ she says, putting crisps into neat little bowls that she’s brought. ‘It’s just that you can look so lovely when you’re dressed . . . how do I put