that be crowding you as well?’
Jess almost relented. Matthew and Paula got on well: she’d been to the house several times, been sweet to the girls, flirted mildly with Oliver and laughed at Matt’s jokes. But this wasn’t social, this was work.
‘Let’s put it this way,’ she said eventually. ‘You didn’t used to take me to your business lunches.’
Jess knew they were being juvenile. If she’d been listening to any of her children having this discussion she’d have told them quite firmly not to be so silly.
‘Mum and Dad, you’re shouting! We can’t hear the telly and Friends is on!’ Zoe stood in front of them like a cross referee. Jess wondered which of them would be awarded the yellow card.
‘Sorry Zo. Just having a frank exchange of views,’ Matthew told her.
‘Is Natasha with you?’ Jess asked suddenly.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Just wondered. She didn’t say much over supper.’
But Zoe was already out of the door, back to her favourite spot on the sofa, curled up with the cat and with her bare feet tucked away under a cushion.
‘What’s that about Tash?’ Matt asked. There seemed to be a truce, Jess thought, brought on simply by a change of subject.
‘Nothing, really. She brought home a boy today.’
‘She’ll bring home dozens of those. She’s a bit of astunner, our Natasha. I’ll get the shotgun polished and ready, if you like.’
‘No need for that, I hope! No, this one was strange. He looked like he’d been sort of abandoned, like a lost puppy. He doesn’t seem to have a family.’
Matt reached into the fridge for another beer. ‘Want one?’ he asked. She shook her head, trying not to wonder how many alcohol units he’d packed away that day. ‘So, not one of the usual posh boys,’ he said. ‘More the type old Angie would fancy?’
‘I think he’s a bit young even for her! I think he’s been in care, something like that. He looks damaged.’
‘A learning experience for Tash, then. Your dad would be pleased, having her exposed to someone who’s done without the comforts of capitalist privilege.’
‘You make the boy sound like something educational we’ve bought for her to play with. And that reminds me. Dad’s back from his holiday on Thursday. He said he’d come over when he’s checked over the allotment.’
‘Better get him to bring something to eat with him,’ Matthew suggested. ‘After all, we can’t afford to entertain now there’s only one of us earning.’
Four
‘Why do they put “pan-fried” on the menu? Is it supposed to make it sound posher than just “fried”? Or less fattening, do you think?’ Jess was laughing as her lunch arrived. She looked down at the delicate arrangement of prawns perched precariously on top of a scaffolding of French beans and strips of celeriac and felt a childish urge to scatter the elaborate still life across the comically oversized plate on which it sat.
Paula Cheviot, editor of the Sunday Gazette’s Comfort Zone section, was opposite Jess at the inadequately small table in one of central London’s currently hyper-smart restaurants. She didn’t reply with an agreeing giggle as she normally would but looked a bit puzzled, as if Jess had questioned one of life’s acknowledged truths – such as did moisturizer really make that much difference. Slowly, Paula picked up a rocket leaf and nibbled at it, a look of intense concentration on her face. She had something on her mind. Jess could tell by the small frown lines.Paula never normally allowed such things to rumple her flat matt skin, for that would lead inevitably to the appointment at the clinic to have her forehead injected with botox into a paralysed (but smooth; divinely, age-defyingly smooth) expression of mild surprise.
Jess, in the process of loading her fork full of prawn, felt her appetite trickle away like chilled bathwater down a drain. Paula’s phone call two days previously, the apparently spontaneous suggestion that it was high time
Jess almost relented. Matthew and Paula got on well: she’d been to the house several times, been sweet to the girls, flirted mildly with Oliver and laughed at Matt’s jokes. But this wasn’t social, this was work.
‘Let’s put it this way,’ she said eventually. ‘You didn’t used to take me to your business lunches.’
Jess knew they were being juvenile. If she’d been listening to any of her children having this discussion she’d have told them quite firmly not to be so silly.
‘Mum and Dad, you’re shouting! We can’t hear the telly and Friends is on!’ Zoe stood in front of them like a cross referee. Jess wondered which of them would be awarded the yellow card.
‘Sorry Zo. Just having a frank exchange of views,’ Matthew told her.
‘Is Natasha with you?’ Jess asked suddenly.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Just wondered. She didn’t say much over supper.’
But Zoe was already out of the door, back to her favourite spot on the sofa, curled up with the cat and with her bare feet tucked away under a cushion.
‘What’s that about Tash?’ Matt asked. There seemed to be a truce, Jess thought, brought on simply by a change of subject.
‘Nothing, really. She brought home a boy today.’
‘She’ll bring home dozens of those. She’s a bit of astunner, our Natasha. I’ll get the shotgun polished and ready, if you like.’
‘No need for that, I hope! No, this one was strange. He looked like he’d been sort of abandoned, like a lost puppy. He doesn’t seem to have a family.’
Matt reached into the fridge for another beer. ‘Want one?’ he asked. She shook her head, trying not to wonder how many alcohol units he’d packed away that day. ‘So, not one of the usual posh boys,’ he said. ‘More the type old Angie would fancy?’
‘I think he’s a bit young even for her! I think he’s been in care, something like that. He looks damaged.’
‘A learning experience for Tash, then. Your dad would be pleased, having her exposed to someone who’s done without the comforts of capitalist privilege.’
‘You make the boy sound like something educational we’ve bought for her to play with. And that reminds me. Dad’s back from his holiday on Thursday. He said he’d come over when he’s checked over the allotment.’
‘Better get him to bring something to eat with him,’ Matthew suggested. ‘After all, we can’t afford to entertain now there’s only one of us earning.’
Four
‘Why do they put “pan-fried” on the menu? Is it supposed to make it sound posher than just “fried”? Or less fattening, do you think?’ Jess was laughing as her lunch arrived. She looked down at the delicate arrangement of prawns perched precariously on top of a scaffolding of French beans and strips of celeriac and felt a childish urge to scatter the elaborate still life across the comically oversized plate on which it sat.
Paula Cheviot, editor of the Sunday Gazette’s Comfort Zone section, was opposite Jess at the inadequately small table in one of central London’s currently hyper-smart restaurants. She didn’t reply with an agreeing giggle as she normally would but looked a bit puzzled, as if Jess had questioned one of life’s acknowledged truths – such as did moisturizer really make that much difference. Slowly, Paula picked up a rocket leaf and nibbled at it, a look of intense concentration on her face. She had something on her mind. Jess could tell by the small frown lines.Paula never normally allowed such things to rumple her flat matt skin, for that would lead inevitably to the appointment at the clinic to have her forehead injected with botox into a paralysed (but smooth; divinely, age-defyingly smooth) expression of mild surprise.
Jess, in the process of loading her fork full of prawn, felt her appetite trickle away like chilled bathwater down a drain. Paula’s phone call two days previously, the apparently spontaneous suggestion that it was high time
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