her a spare key. “Hello, darling,” said Mum, bustling in with armfuls of carrier bags. “Well, pop the kettle on!”
Mind started whirring. “They’re electric, they’re lethal…”
“I was just in Debenhams doing some shopping and I wandered into the maternity department and ta-ta!”
She pulled out a giant maternity smock—in the style of the late Princess Diana when she was expecting Prince William and everyone thought you were supposed to conceal your bump instead of spray-tanning it and exposing it on the cover of
Vanity Fair.
“You see?” she said, holding it up against me. “You’ll look much better in something which covers you up, then you’ll look…”
“Fat?” I finished for her.
“Well, Mummy has piled on the pounds a bit, hasn’t she? Of course I never had that problem. The doctor was telling me to eat Birds custard and blancmange to put on a bit of flesh.”
“The baby needs to graze.”
“He says, ‘It’s not me who wants the food—it’s Mummy!’ ”
“Mum. Stop. Why do you always make me feel like I’ve done something wrong? Why are you always trying to change what I wear…”
She sank down on the sofa and burst into tears.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” I said, putting my arm round her.
“It’s just this whole baby business. I mean, of course I want to be there for you, darling, but if only you could have done it like normal people. It’s just thrown everything into disarray. Everything! I just really, really wanted to sit next to the Queen.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I said, patting her hand. “But why is it so important to you to sit next to the Queen?”
“It would mean that I meant something if the Queen sat next to me. I’ve never meant anything. And I’ve worked really hard for the village all my married life with all the baking and the preserves and everything and it would have meant…”
“Like being a hundred or something?”
“Not a HUNDRED, darling!”
“No, I mean like a CBE or a Queen’s Guide or something. Like an official stamp of being worthwhile?”
She nodded, wiping her eyes. “The Admiral says the Queen’s table is going to be decided by a vote. I mean, I was hoping you could just sort it out and find out who the father IS—perhaps the baby IS Mark’s, and it would be so wonderful for all of us if you were to come to the pre-vote debate and say it was Mark’s. Will you? Will you, darling? And will you come to the seating plan event?”
“Mum, I’ve got an important work meeting tomorrow morning. I need to go to sleep.”
“All right, I must get back to Daddy, anyway. You will come, darling, to the debate?”
“I’ll try.”
“…and wear the smock?”
Mercifully, the phone rang.
“Better take that, probably work,” I said. “Bye, Mum.”
She gave me a quick kiss and scuttled out, leaving the smock.
—
9 p.m. Phone call was from Daniel.
“Christ, Jones, did you see that bloodbath? It was an assassination attempt from the start. Bill Sharp’s entire life goal is to prove he’s read
The Oxford Dictionary of Incomprehensible Defunct Long Words to Slag People Off With
from cover to cover. As for O’Shea: envy, Jones, the green-eyed monster. They had no understanding of the concept…”
By nine-thirty p.m. Daniel was still going on “this whole baby thing has thrown me off kilter. I could have taken them on if I’d been at the top of my game.
The Poetics of Time
can’t be represented by a ten-second sound bite and a couple of resentful goons. It will set the tone, it’s all over the wires, and now I have the reviews to face. It’s like going over the top, I feel…”
There was a texting ping—
MAGDA
Audrona is taking a job designing new Airbus propeller shafts. I have no nanny. Help! Can I call you?
This was followed by another text.
TOM
I’ve just had a blazing row with Shazzer about the baby thing. She says I AM a horrible person. Am I? Can I call you?
—
11.20 p.m. Just
Mind started whirring. “They’re electric, they’re lethal…”
“I was just in Debenhams doing some shopping and I wandered into the maternity department and ta-ta!”
She pulled out a giant maternity smock—in the style of the late Princess Diana when she was expecting Prince William and everyone thought you were supposed to conceal your bump instead of spray-tanning it and exposing it on the cover of
Vanity Fair.
“You see?” she said, holding it up against me. “You’ll look much better in something which covers you up, then you’ll look…”
“Fat?” I finished for her.
“Well, Mummy has piled on the pounds a bit, hasn’t she? Of course I never had that problem. The doctor was telling me to eat Birds custard and blancmange to put on a bit of flesh.”
“The baby needs to graze.”
“He says, ‘It’s not me who wants the food—it’s Mummy!’ ”
“Mum. Stop. Why do you always make me feel like I’ve done something wrong? Why are you always trying to change what I wear…”
She sank down on the sofa and burst into tears.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” I said, putting my arm round her.
“It’s just this whole baby business. I mean, of course I want to be there for you, darling, but if only you could have done it like normal people. It’s just thrown everything into disarray. Everything! I just really, really wanted to sit next to the Queen.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I said, patting her hand. “But why is it so important to you to sit next to the Queen?”
“It would mean that I meant something if the Queen sat next to me. I’ve never meant anything. And I’ve worked really hard for the village all my married life with all the baking and the preserves and everything and it would have meant…”
“Like being a hundred or something?”
“Not a HUNDRED, darling!”
“No, I mean like a CBE or a Queen’s Guide or something. Like an official stamp of being worthwhile?”
She nodded, wiping her eyes. “The Admiral says the Queen’s table is going to be decided by a vote. I mean, I was hoping you could just sort it out and find out who the father IS—perhaps the baby IS Mark’s, and it would be so wonderful for all of us if you were to come to the pre-vote debate and say it was Mark’s. Will you? Will you, darling? And will you come to the seating plan event?”
“Mum, I’ve got an important work meeting tomorrow morning. I need to go to sleep.”
“All right, I must get back to Daddy, anyway. You will come, darling, to the debate?”
“I’ll try.”
“…and wear the smock?”
Mercifully, the phone rang.
“Better take that, probably work,” I said. “Bye, Mum.”
She gave me a quick kiss and scuttled out, leaving the smock.
—
9 p.m. Phone call was from Daniel.
“Christ, Jones, did you see that bloodbath? It was an assassination attempt from the start. Bill Sharp’s entire life goal is to prove he’s read
The Oxford Dictionary of Incomprehensible Defunct Long Words to Slag People Off With
from cover to cover. As for O’Shea: envy, Jones, the green-eyed monster. They had no understanding of the concept…”
By nine-thirty p.m. Daniel was still going on “this whole baby thing has thrown me off kilter. I could have taken them on if I’d been at the top of my game.
The Poetics of Time
can’t be represented by a ten-second sound bite and a couple of resentful goons. It will set the tone, it’s all over the wires, and now I have the reviews to face. It’s like going over the top, I feel…”
There was a texting ping—
MAGDA
Audrona is taking a job designing new Airbus propeller shafts. I have no nanny. Help! Can I call you?
This was followed by another text.
TOM
I’ve just had a blazing row with Shazzer about the baby thing. She says I AM a horrible person. Am I? Can I call you?
—
11.20 p.m. Just
Similar Books
