–’
‘Rory’s mother.’
‘Oh, right.’ I struggled to sit up.
‘I gather you’ve kindly invited Rory on holiday with you this summer?’
I came to. The ‘kindly’ had been crowbarred in somehow. Overall, the voice was distinctly frosty.
‘Yes – yes. I was going to ring you, actually, but we’ve only just got back from Paris, and last night was a bit hectic. To be honest, I only recently learned that Tara’s invited him. You know what they’re like!’
If I’d been hoping for a spot of mothers-with-teenagers camaraderie, I was disappointed.
‘I see. I got the distinct impression from Rory that Tara had invited him a while ago?’
Realizing I was about to drop Tara in it, I became vague. ‘Oh, well, I can’t quite remember when it was decided. But the thing is, it’s France now. Our plans have changed. Provence,’ I added happily, thinking that even Mrs Ice-cold in Gloucestershire would thaw.
‘Eau. I thought he’d be doing some stalking?’
For a moment I visualized Rory, in pressed chinos,
perving round Kincardine after the local talent, which was generously sized and, generally, underdressed. Then it dawned.
‘Oh, no, my father-in-law doesn’t … he no longer shoots. Just a bit of fishing.’
‘Right.’ She sounded incredibly disappointed. ‘I was distinctly told …’
What
had
Tara said? That she was from some wealthy Scottish aristo family whose land marched with Balmoral, and with whom we shared lavish shooting parties? Whereas, in fact, the Brig, albeit landed and creaking gentry, had acres of scrubby gorse and masses of mangy sheep?
‘Well, as I say, it’s immaterial,’ I said crisply, disliking this woman intensely, ‘ because we’re going to Provence this year.’
She caught my tone. ‘Ah, yes, I see. How lovely. And that’s yours, is it?’
‘No, it’s very kindly being lent to us.’
It occurred to me that it would be simpler to send this woman my bank statements. Spectacularly overdrawn, no Scottish pile, no French one either, just a four-bed semi in Clapham with a mortgage.
‘And Rory is very welcome to join us.’
‘Obviously, they’ll have separate bedrooms?’
‘Obviously!’ I seethed. Blimey, I was the
girl’s
mother; she was the
boy’s.
Was her precious son at the mercy of my siren?
‘Only they are very young. Rory is still only sixteen.’
I shut my eyes. ‘They are.’ I said quietly. ‘Very young.’ I got out of bed and clenched my fist hard. I wanted to say,
D’you know what? He’s no longer invited, but knew, for Tara, I couldn’t.
‘I think I need another word with Henry,’ said Mrs Friar-Gordon doubtfully.
Presumably, the husband. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ I said, as if she’d thanked me profusely instead of insulted me, which, happily, wrong-footed her. She remembered her manners.
‘Oh, er, yes. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Goodbye.’
I didn’t exactly put the phone down, but neither did I wait for her to reply.
Instead, I peeled off my T-shirt and ran into the shower, emerging a few minutes later, wet and steaming. I was just running naked down the corridor to the airing cupboard at the far end of the empty house for clean pants when the phone rang again.
‘Bloody woman!’ I shrieked, turning back, just as the door to Amelia’s bedroom opened. Toby emerged, his huge, hairy body squeezed into my daughter’s Cath Kidston dressing gown.
There was a ghastly freeze-frame moment. Our eyes locked briefly, then my hands flew – one up, one down – but not before his eyes had beaten my hands to it. He disappeared quickly back into Amelia’s room.
Shit. Bloody
hell.
I ran on, going as hot as the sun. What was he
doing
here? Well, lying in, clearly, whilst Amelia went to college, which, frankly,
was not on.
Toby staying here at all had slipped under the radar after a supper party six months ago, when we’d had some lovely friends from Wiltshire staying with all four of their children. Naturally, we’d all
‘Rory’s mother.’
‘Oh, right.’ I struggled to sit up.
‘I gather you’ve kindly invited Rory on holiday with you this summer?’
I came to. The ‘kindly’ had been crowbarred in somehow. Overall, the voice was distinctly frosty.
‘Yes – yes. I was going to ring you, actually, but we’ve only just got back from Paris, and last night was a bit hectic. To be honest, I only recently learned that Tara’s invited him. You know what they’re like!’
If I’d been hoping for a spot of mothers-with-teenagers camaraderie, I was disappointed.
‘I see. I got the distinct impression from Rory that Tara had invited him a while ago?’
Realizing I was about to drop Tara in it, I became vague. ‘Oh, well, I can’t quite remember when it was decided. But the thing is, it’s France now. Our plans have changed. Provence,’ I added happily, thinking that even Mrs Ice-cold in Gloucestershire would thaw.
‘Eau. I thought he’d be doing some stalking?’
For a moment I visualized Rory, in pressed chinos,
perving round Kincardine after the local talent, which was generously sized and, generally, underdressed. Then it dawned.
‘Oh, no, my father-in-law doesn’t … he no longer shoots. Just a bit of fishing.’
‘Right.’ She sounded incredibly disappointed. ‘I was distinctly told …’
What
had
Tara said? That she was from some wealthy Scottish aristo family whose land marched with Balmoral, and with whom we shared lavish shooting parties? Whereas, in fact, the Brig, albeit landed and creaking gentry, had acres of scrubby gorse and masses of mangy sheep?
‘Well, as I say, it’s immaterial,’ I said crisply, disliking this woman intensely, ‘ because we’re going to Provence this year.’
She caught my tone. ‘Ah, yes, I see. How lovely. And that’s yours, is it?’
‘No, it’s very kindly being lent to us.’
It occurred to me that it would be simpler to send this woman my bank statements. Spectacularly overdrawn, no Scottish pile, no French one either, just a four-bed semi in Clapham with a mortgage.
‘And Rory is very welcome to join us.’
‘Obviously, they’ll have separate bedrooms?’
‘Obviously!’ I seethed. Blimey, I was the
girl’s
mother; she was the
boy’s.
Was her precious son at the mercy of my siren?
‘Only they are very young. Rory is still only sixteen.’
I shut my eyes. ‘They are.’ I said quietly. ‘Very young.’ I got out of bed and clenched my fist hard. I wanted to say,
D’you know what? He’s no longer invited, but knew, for Tara, I couldn’t.
‘I think I need another word with Henry,’ said Mrs Friar-Gordon doubtfully.
Presumably, the husband. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ I said, as if she’d thanked me profusely instead of insulted me, which, happily, wrong-footed her. She remembered her manners.
‘Oh, er, yes. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Goodbye.’
I didn’t exactly put the phone down, but neither did I wait for her to reply.
Instead, I peeled off my T-shirt and ran into the shower, emerging a few minutes later, wet and steaming. I was just running naked down the corridor to the airing cupboard at the far end of the empty house for clean pants when the phone rang again.
‘Bloody woman!’ I shrieked, turning back, just as the door to Amelia’s bedroom opened. Toby emerged, his huge, hairy body squeezed into my daughter’s Cath Kidston dressing gown.
There was a ghastly freeze-frame moment. Our eyes locked briefly, then my hands flew – one up, one down – but not before his eyes had beaten my hands to it. He disappeared quickly back into Amelia’s room.
Shit. Bloody
hell.
I ran on, going as hot as the sun. What was he
doing
here? Well, lying in, clearly, whilst Amelia went to college, which, frankly,
was not on.
Toby staying here at all had slipped under the radar after a supper party six months ago, when we’d had some lovely friends from Wiltshire staying with all four of their children. Naturally, we’d all
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