needs his sleep, even if you don’t. He, at least , has to work hard tomorrow morning. All you have to do is take him to school.”
***
“I’ve done them this morning,” Cassandra announced martyrishly next day. “But from now on, they’re your responsibility.” Collected in the hallway was a sprawling collection of extremely smart bags which looked like the personal effects of a visiting potentate. An entire suite of Louis Vuitton; a soft, buttery, buckled leather holdall; dark red crocodile Mulberry and any number of Bond Street carrier bags nestled up lovingly on the floor with the entrails of the vacuum cleaner, which Lil had evidently started to disembowel and then thought better of.
“Gosh,” said Anna admiringly. “It looks like the luggage people take on Learjets.” Some of the bags, in fact, had Learjet labels on them, albeit slightly ancient ones.
“ Learjets !”Cassandra shot her a withering glance. “ No one takes luggage on Learjets,” she snapped.
Anna looked puzzled, previously unaware that the celebrated jet was luggage-free. She supposed it made sense—how else, after all, did it go so fast?
“All the luggage on Learjets,” Cassandra explained, a pitying note in her voice, “is carried on and off by the cabin staff. Only tourists or the terminally unsophisticated take their own on.”
“Oh. I see.” Anna resolved to bear the tip in mind next time she flew supersonic.
“ These are Zak’s school things.” As Cassandra produced a list and began performing a roll call of the contents and purpose of each bag, Anna’s jaw dropped ever nearer to what Cassandra had already told her were the individually peasant-fired Tuscan tiles on the floor of the hallway. Wonderingly, she recalled the one satchel and single gym bag which had got her through her entire formal education.
“Young Futures and Options,” barked Cassandra, pointing at a Vuitton attache case in the corner. “Operabugs and Junior Gastronauts,” she added, stabbing at another bag. There was also a fixture for extra extra tennis—“His instructor says he’s Wimbledon potential.” Cassandra chose not to reveal that what the instructor had actually said was that, yes ,Zak could easily get to Wimbledon, but only if you were talking about the Tube station. There was advanced French and dinner-party Chinese—“Well, Zak may as well learn how to pass them the mangetout if the bloody Chinks are taking over the world, after all.” After being briefed about Madame Abricot’s dance class and what sounded like tuition in every single instrument of the orchestra, Anna felt almost sorry for Zak.
Until, that was, he climbed into the brand new four-wheel drive—“We only got it yesterday and any damage comes straight out of your wages”—and turned the radio up to window-shattering volume. As Zak began throwing himself about on the front seat to the music, Anna inched through the Kensington High Street traffic, uncomfortably aware of the curious gaze of taxi, lorry, and double-decker bus drivers.
“Mummy’s very cross with Daddy,” shouted Zak suddenly. “There was an interview with him in the paper yesterday, about his new record. My daddy’s a very famous pop star, you know.”
“I see,” said Anna, glancing frantically between the A–Z and the back bumper of the car in front.
“The interview was supposed to be about Mummy’s book,” added Zak. “But the only bits about Mummy were her shouting at Daddy.”
“You’ve read it then?” asked Anna. She was surprised until she recalled Cassandra saying that reading and discussing the broadsheets was part of the daily curriculum at St. Midas’s.
“No, but Mummy read lots of it out very loudly at Daddy, so I heard.”
St. Midas’s seemed to be at a particularly tricky-to-get-at end of the Cromwell Road, an area inconveniently plunged into the darkness of the A–Z gutter. Panicking, Anna snapped back the book’s paper spine and stared fiercely at it for
***
“I’ve done them this morning,” Cassandra announced martyrishly next day. “But from now on, they’re your responsibility.” Collected in the hallway was a sprawling collection of extremely smart bags which looked like the personal effects of a visiting potentate. An entire suite of Louis Vuitton; a soft, buttery, buckled leather holdall; dark red crocodile Mulberry and any number of Bond Street carrier bags nestled up lovingly on the floor with the entrails of the vacuum cleaner, which Lil had evidently started to disembowel and then thought better of.
“Gosh,” said Anna admiringly. “It looks like the luggage people take on Learjets.” Some of the bags, in fact, had Learjet labels on them, albeit slightly ancient ones.
“ Learjets !”Cassandra shot her a withering glance. “ No one takes luggage on Learjets,” she snapped.
Anna looked puzzled, previously unaware that the celebrated jet was luggage-free. She supposed it made sense—how else, after all, did it go so fast?
“All the luggage on Learjets,” Cassandra explained, a pitying note in her voice, “is carried on and off by the cabin staff. Only tourists or the terminally unsophisticated take their own on.”
“Oh. I see.” Anna resolved to bear the tip in mind next time she flew supersonic.
“ These are Zak’s school things.” As Cassandra produced a list and began performing a roll call of the contents and purpose of each bag, Anna’s jaw dropped ever nearer to what Cassandra had already told her were the individually peasant-fired Tuscan tiles on the floor of the hallway. Wonderingly, she recalled the one satchel and single gym bag which had got her through her entire formal education.
“Young Futures and Options,” barked Cassandra, pointing at a Vuitton attache case in the corner. “Operabugs and Junior Gastronauts,” she added, stabbing at another bag. There was also a fixture for extra extra tennis—“His instructor says he’s Wimbledon potential.” Cassandra chose not to reveal that what the instructor had actually said was that, yes ,Zak could easily get to Wimbledon, but only if you were talking about the Tube station. There was advanced French and dinner-party Chinese—“Well, Zak may as well learn how to pass them the mangetout if the bloody Chinks are taking over the world, after all.” After being briefed about Madame Abricot’s dance class and what sounded like tuition in every single instrument of the orchestra, Anna felt almost sorry for Zak.
Until, that was, he climbed into the brand new four-wheel drive—“We only got it yesterday and any damage comes straight out of your wages”—and turned the radio up to window-shattering volume. As Zak began throwing himself about on the front seat to the music, Anna inched through the Kensington High Street traffic, uncomfortably aware of the curious gaze of taxi, lorry, and double-decker bus drivers.
“Mummy’s very cross with Daddy,” shouted Zak suddenly. “There was an interview with him in the paper yesterday, about his new record. My daddy’s a very famous pop star, you know.”
“I see,” said Anna, glancing frantically between the A–Z and the back bumper of the car in front.
“The interview was supposed to be about Mummy’s book,” added Zak. “But the only bits about Mummy were her shouting at Daddy.”
“You’ve read it then?” asked Anna. She was surprised until she recalled Cassandra saying that reading and discussing the broadsheets was part of the daily curriculum at St. Midas’s.
“No, but Mummy read lots of it out very loudly at Daddy, so I heard.”
St. Midas’s seemed to be at a particularly tricky-to-get-at end of the Cromwell Road, an area inconveniently plunged into the darkness of the A–Z gutter. Panicking, Anna snapped back the book’s paper spine and stared fiercely at it for
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