It’s just,’ Hugo goes on, ‘I gather things don’t go too well at home in your absence. And I thought, ah, she’s one of those women who runs everything brilliantly, like a well-oiled machine, and whenever she’s not on hand it all falls apart …’
I peer at him, fascinated by his observation. ‘Like a well-oiled machine? Whatever makes you think that?’
‘Well,’ he explains, ‘you’re certainly very tolerant, telling your other half how to use the washing machine.’
I watch as he pops the egg into his mouth. ‘You thought I was on the phone to my husband?’
‘Well, er, I just assumed …’
I laugh loudly. ‘That wasn’t my husband. I don’t actually have one. It was my son.’
‘Oh! Oh, I see …’ He chuckles awkwardly. ‘Sorry, Audrey. It’s just the way it sounded …’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, grinning at the thought of my non-existent, appliance-phobic husband. ‘It’s ridiculous anyway. I mean, Morgan’s not a baby. He’s eighteen and he should be able to cope on his own.’
‘I’m sure he can,’ Hugo says firmly.
‘You’re right. In fact, I suspect he could be perfectly capable. He just botches things up – I mean, if I ask him to hoover I can guarantee he’ll choke the tube with a sock …’
‘… Smart move,’ Hugo remarks.
‘Exactly. It’s his way of getting out of doing stuff …’
‘Phoney ineptitude,’ he adds with a smirk.
‘Phoney ineptitude?’ repeats the slender blonde woman who’s arrived at our side.
‘It means pretending you can’t do something when you’re perfectly capable,’ I explain, checking her name badge: Lottie.
‘Oh, I don’t need to pretend,’ she exclaims, widening her blue eyes. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before …’
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