been trying v., v. hard not to rise to the bait, but at that, the saliva in my mouth suddenly turns to battery acid. Is this honestly what this one thinks I’ve been at? Arsing round watching daytime soaps, when in fact I’ve practically been hammering doors down trying to get some work? Any kind of work?
Oh, to hell with her anyway. I snap up from the oven, where I was shoving in yet another fresh batch of mini beef Wellingtons.
‘Excuse me,’ I tell her v. firmly, hands on hips, like a character out of a spaghetti western. ‘I’ve already had a job interview this week, I’ll have you know, thanks very much.’
‘Oh, really? What for?’ she scoffs. Can practically sense her getting riled up to test out what she thinks is her rapier wit on me.
‘For … a position. A really good one, as it happens. Something secure, just till I get back on my feet again.’
‘Where?’
‘Never you mind where.’
I turn and bury my face deep in the fridge-freezer to avoid eye contact, pretending to rummage round back of it. Needless to say there’s absolutely no offer of help from Madeline, but then because she’s a lawyer, she clearly considers herself a cut above menial labour. Whereas, in her eyes, I may as well be the hired help with an apron on, saying ‘Just hand me a broom and call me Daisy from Downton Abbey.’
‘Stop avoiding my question, Angie, and just spit it out!’
‘No, now go away and leave me alone. The mini pizzas won’t defrost themselves, now will they? Toby? Call her off, will you?’
‘Jesus, I came in here for a bit of peace,’ Toby mutters disinterestedly, this time between gobfuls of mini gherkins. ‘So for feck’s sake, just tell Mads what your big interview was for and then the pair of you can shut up. Besides, bar you applied for a job as an exotic dancer, what’s the big deal anyway?’
Deep sigh. Because he’s right: I know only too well that Madeline won’t let up with the third-degree questioning till I come clean. She’s worse than the KGB like that. I fully realise from years of dealing with her that it’s easier just to let her have all the jibes she wants at my expense, and get it over with. Quicker in long run.
‘Right then, have it your way. The job I applied for is in a catering company, if you must know.’
‘A catering company?’
Then a short, two-second time delay while Madeline puts two and two together. ‘Oh my God, don’t tell me you mean like, buttering batch loaves in one of the sandwich bars your friend Sarah runs!’
If I’d said the interview was for a job scrubbing public toilets and that the main perk was that after two years I’d be issued with my own brush and a bottle of Domestos, Madeline couldn’t possibly sound like she’s enjoying this any more. She guffaws at me, like an Ugly Sister from Cinderella as I look pleadingly over to Toby for back-up, but no such luck. He’s far more interested in the sports pages now, not to mention the plateful of mince pies he’s devouring.
Thank Christ, am saved from further torture by Mum briskly swishing in, all swingy scarf, big, bosomy tweed suit and sensible shoes, looking even more like Ann Widdecombe than Ann Widdecombe herself. In she breezes, not a scrap of make-up on her, despite having a houseful of visitors to entertain. But then, Mum’s proudest boast is that she hasn’t put on foundation for minimum of forty years. No time.
As usual, her eyes are like hawks, taking in everything in one quick up-and-down glance.
‘So here you three are!’ she eye-rolls at us. ‘Now come on, girls, stop all your bickering. I need some help. Chief Justice Henderson has just arrived; Toby, would you be a pet and entertain him? And, Madeline, I know Douglas McGettigan has to be the single most boring man in the Northern Hemisphere, but he’s sitting all alone; anyone that’s actually met him before won’t go within six feet of him. Can you look after him for me, please? Chat to him about his golf handicap, he enjoys that.’
As the other pair scarper, I get thrown a familiar, vaguely exasperated look.
‘Angela, you let your sister goad you, and you really shouldn’t, you know. You just got to stop rising to the bait every single time. How often do I have to tell you?’
I mumble something vague into dishwasher along the lines of Madeline being a back-knifing cow and Toby being worse than useless, but Mum swishes off, too much in distracted hostess mode to pay much attention.
The minute she’s out door, I pour myself a very large glass of Prosecco and knock it back in a single gulp.
Then check that there’s plenty more bottles in fridge. If I’m to survive today, I’ll be needing lots, lots more where that came from.
Dining room chez Blennerhasset, 3.45 p.m.
Dinner served. Determined somehow to survive and live to tell the tale. Mum and I jointly cooked, but then we’re the only ones round here who eat normally and still gain weight. The other three are like bleeding rakes.
3.55 p.m.
Conversation turns to a personal injury case Dad presided over in the District Court few months back, where Toby was a junior counsel for plaintiff. Toby won, record settlement. Got in the papers and everything, one or two scuzzy tabloids even lapping up the whole father/son thing. Dad was utterly mortified by all the fuss, but I’m prepared to bet good money Toby still has all press cuttings framed and mounted in his downstairs loo. Strongly suspect he thinks it’ll boost his chances of landing a quick shag.
But if you weren’t involved in said case, and if you don’t happen to get the legal terminology, it’s all deeply, deeply boring, so while Toby’s telling yet another ‘hilarious’ lawyerly anecdote, I surreptitiously whip out my mobile from my jeans pocket and check it. Just on the off chance Simon has news. Or better still, in case Kitty herself has miraculously resurfaced. Who knows? Maybe having crashed out on someone’s sofa for past twenty-four hours? And now with nothing more than a minging hangover and a hilarious tale to tell?
Course I’ve tried to check if Kitty is by any chance visiting her foster mum, but can’t. Already made two sneaky phone calls to Foxborough, Mrs K.’s nursing home, when I was holed up in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. No answer, though. ’Course not, it’s Christmas Day. Who in their right mind would be working on reception Christmas Day?
Mum’s straight on to me. Asks me why I keep glancing down at my phone every few seconds. Then tells me to put the phone away, that it’s rude.
3.56 p.m.
Golden chance for Madeline to get yet another jibe in.
‘You know, Angie, you can just say if all this legal chat is a little bit above your head. We can always change the subject and talk about, ooh, let’s see now … what’s happening in the lives of the Kardashian sisters? Would that be a little more up your street? Or maybe the latest news from the catering industry?’
‘I was actually checking to see if there was any word from Kitty,’ I fire back, throwing her what I only hope is a scalding look.
The whole table give long sighs and eye rolls. Yet again. All in lawyerly agreement I’m totally overreacting to whatever’s going on. The gist of what they think is that Kitty’s spending
