Prime Time by Jane Wenham-Jones Page B

of empty cups and glasses on it, along with the discarded crisp packets and biscuit wrappers, suggested that the kids hadn’t exactly starved in our absence.
    Charlotte opened the huge fridge and pulled out the bottle of wine. ‘Didn’t strain themselves clearing up, I see! Ah, there you are,’ she went on, as her daughter Becky appeared in the doorway. ‘Go and ask the boys what pizzas they want, Bex.’
    Becky pushed back her long, dark hair and scowled. ‘Why do I have to do it?’
    â€˜Because I just asked you to,’ said Charlotte sweetly. ‘And say hello to Laura, please – don’t be so rude.’
    Becky shone a smile on me. ‘Hello, Laura,’ she said in exaggerated tones, and then in her ordinary voice, ‘what was it like?’
    â€˜Wait till you see it!’ said Charlotte with glee. She crossed the room to the doorway. ‘ Boys !’
    â€˜You’d have loved it,’ she told Becky. ‘If Laura has to go back and you’re not at school, we’ll take you next time.’
    â€˜I want to go on The X Factor ,’ said Becky.
    â€˜You’re too young,’ Charlotte replied in a tone that suggested they’d had this conversation before. ‘You have to be 18.’
    â€˜I can look 18,’ said Becky. ‘In fact,’ she added with quiet relish, ‘one of the sixth-formers at Highcourt saw me on Facebook and said he’d have thought I was 19.’
    â€˜Well you’re not,’ said Charlotte, wagging the corkscrew. ‘You’re 13 and you remember it. Which reminds me, you can put my new lip gloss back where you found it. And my eyelash curlers. Now go and get your brother.’
    Becky pulled a face, sighed loudly and moved off.
    â€˜Little moo,’ Charlotte said, handing me the corkscrew and rummaging in a drawer. ‘I’d better get on that damn Facebook page and check it again. You should see the photos she and her mates put up. All this pouting and finger-sucking stuff – total jail bait.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve told her Roger would have a fit.’
    â€˜What about?’ said Roger, coming up behind her.
    Charlotte held up a pizza menu. ‘Found it! Nothing – just Miss 13 Going On 26 up there.’ She frowned. ‘Get that wine open, Laura, for God’s sake.’
    Joe burst into the room, wearing a red football kit, with Benson, the family’s black Labrador, bounding along beside him. Stanley trailed behind in his socks. My son had taken off his tie and his shirt was untucked, with a large smear of mud down the front. The bottoms of his trousers, still much too long despite my torturous attempts to take them up, were scrunched around his feet and had already began to fray from constantly being walked on. There was another smear of mud on his face and his hair was more than usually unkempt.
    â€˜Good day at school?’ I asked, holding out my arms to him.
    â€˜OK.’ He looked sideways at Joe and frowned.
    â€˜Both come and give me a kiss,’ instructed Charlotte, hugging Joe and reaching out an arm to Stanley. ‘And you, young man!’ Stanley blushed, smiled and allowed himself to be embraced. ‘Now go and give your mother a smacker.’
    Stanley smiled sheepishly and came over to me, looking me up and down.
    â€˜Is that what you wore on television?’ he asked disapprovingly. ‘What did you say?’
    â€˜She was very good,’ said Charlotte firmly. ‘As we’ll see when it comes out. I must write it down.’ She crossed the room to where a big desk diary lay open on the work surface and picked up a pen with a flourish. ‘Weds, 9 a.m. Set video, Laura!’ She gave one of her raucous laughs. ‘Ooh, I can’t bloody wait.’
    Stanley pulled a face at me. ‘I hope none of my friends see it.’
    â€˜They’ll all be at school. And nobody we know watches that sort of