The Gatecrasher by Sophie Kinsella

was in the middle of something else, and he’d feel so shocked that he would have to stare ahead and breathe deeply and blink several times, to stop his eyes filling with tears, for Christ’s sake. But other times it seemed completely natural; almost something he’d been expecting.
    He’d got used to telling people that his mother wasdead; perhaps telling them that his father had a girlfriend was just the next step along. Sometimes it even made him want to laugh.
    Gillian had finished whipping the cream. She shook the whisk and dumped it in the sink without even licking it. Then she sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead with her hand.
    “Are we having pavlova?” said Antony.
    “Yes,” said Gillian. “With kiwi fruit.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s what your father wants. But it’ll just have to do.”
    “I’m sure it’ll be great,” said Antony. “Everyone loves pavlova.”
    “Well, it’ll just have to do,” repeated Gillian. She looked wearily about the kitchen and Antony followed her gaze. He loved the kitchen; it was his favourite room. About five years ago his parents had had it done up like a huge farmhouse kitchen, with terracotta tiles everywhere, and an open fire, and a huge wooden table with really comfortable chairs. They’d bought five million pots and pans and stuff, all out of expensive catalogues, and hung garlic on the walls and got a woman to come in and arrange dried flowers all over the place.
    Antony could have spent all day in the kitchen—in fact, now they’d installed a telly on the wall, he often did. But Gillian seemed to hate it. She’d hated it as it was before—“all white and clinical,” she’d called it—and she still hated it, even though she’d been the one to choose the tiles and tell the designer where everything should go. Antony didn’t understand it.
    “Can I help?” he said. “Can I peel the potatoes or something?”
    “We’re not having potatoes,” said Gillian irritably, as if he should have known. “We’re having wild rice.” She frowned. “I hope it’s not too difficult to cook.”
    “I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” said Antony. “Why don’t you use the rice cooker?”
    His parents had given Gillian a rice cooker three Christmases ago. The year before that they’d given her an electrical juicer; since then there had been an automatic herb shredder, a bread slicer and an ice-cream maker. As far as Antony knew, she’d never used any of them.
    “I’ll manage,” said Gillian. “Why don’t you go outside? Or do some revision?”
    “Honestly, I don’t mind helping,” said Antony.
    “It’s quicker if I do it myself.” Gillian gave another heavy sigh and reached for a cookery book. Antony looked at her silently for a few moments, then shrugged and walked out.
    It was a nice day, and he was, he thought, quite glad to get out into the sunshine. He wandered out of the drive of The Maples and along the road towards the clubhouse. All the roads on the Greyworth estate were private and you had to have a security pass to get in, so most of the time there were hardly any cars; just people who had houses on the estate or who were members of the golf club.
    Maybe, Antony thought as he walked, there was time for a quick nine holes before Dad arrived. He was supposed to be revising for his exams this week; that was the reason he was at home. Ahead of him stretched a week-long home study period. But Antony didn’t need to study—he knew all the stuff they were going to ask. Instead he was planning to spend his days lazing around, playing golf, a bit of tennis maybe. It depended on who was around. His best friend,Will, was away at school like him, and Will’s school didn’t have home study periods. “You jammy bastard,” Will had written. “Just don’t blame me if you fail everything.” Antony had to agree. It was bloody jammy. His dad hadn’t been at all impressed. “What are we paying your fees for,” he’d exclaimed,