Open Sesame by Tom Holt

dentist’s appointments. Tapped into the bank’s, computer and diverted money to an Access account to pay the bills and everything. Like a mother to you, that phone.’
    Michelle hung her head in shame. It was no more than four months since she’d finally slung out the old dial-fronted phone and treated herself to a flash new cordless walkabout.
    ‘Of course,’ said the fridge, ‘there was the problem of how to account for it all. Please bear in mind that until tonight, we were never able to talk to you. Actually, we honestly thought you knew about us - you know, what we’ve been to you all these years - or at least had some sort of inkling… But apparently not. Ah well.’
    ‘Don’t,’ Michelle said, choking back a sob.
    ‘But,’ said the answering machine, ‘we were realistic enough to tumble to the fact that one day you were going to start asking questions; where’s my mummy, where’s my daddy, all that jazz. A problem, yes?’
    ‘So,’ interrupted the toaster, ‘we hypnotised you.’
    ‘Hypnotised…!’
    The answering machine blinked a red light. ‘Remember the old pendulum clock, used to hang on your bedroom wall? Piece of cake, apparently. Once you were under, of course, we were able to communicate with your subconscious, or whatever the expression is - the TV knows all the technical terms, you’d better ask her - and just sort of sweep all that stuff under the carpet, so to speak. And then, when you were, oh, eleven
    ‘Twelve and a half.’
    ‘Was it? My memory. Anyway, the phone called your school with some cock-and-bull story about your family getting wiped out in a car crash, and we sent you away to a boarding school, so you could grow up with your own kind.’
    ‘Nearly blew our fuses,’ sniffed the cooker. ‘After twelve years, you were just like our own little baby.’ What’s a baby cooker, Michelle couldn’t help asking herself. Toasted sandwich maker, perhaps?
    ‘And that’s it, more or less,’ the answering machine concluded. ‘Oh, except for your aunt. The one who had the ring.’
    Michelle gulped. ‘Aunt Fatty,’ she said.
    ‘That’s right. Came as a real shock, I can tell you. Must have been when you were six, maybe seven. This woman rang, asking to speak to your phone.’
    ‘You mean me?’
    ‘No,’ replied the answering machine sternly. ‘Haven’t you been listening? Anyway, that was weird enough, finding a human who could talk to us. Then when she said our little Michelle was her great-niece …’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Not,’ continued the toaster, ‘that we were able to get anything useful out of her, like who your mum and dad were or what happened to them. Clammed up on us, as soon as she found out you were all right. She did say she’d like to see you, so we made a note of the address and put it into your mind under hypnosis.’
    ‘She left a tape for you,’ said the answering machine, ‘on me. But,’ it went on guiltily, ‘it got wiped. Not my fault, I can’t actually change my own tapes, and you wouldn’t take a hint.’
    ‘Can you remember what she said?’
    ‘Certainly not,’ replied the answering machine, offended. ‘You think I eavesdrop on people’s private conversations?’
    There was a long silence.
    ‘Well,’ said Michelle eventually. ‘I don’t know what to say. I—’
    The washing machine hummed. ‘Thanks might be a convenient starting point,’ it said acidly. ‘Twenty-seven years washing your underwear, there must be some kind of medal.’
    ‘I am most frightfully grateful,’ Michelle hastened to say. ‘Really I am. But, well, it’s been a bit of a shock.’
    ‘Not good enough for you, are we?’ grumbled the tumble-drier. ‘You’d have preferred blue blood in your veins rather than alternating current? Well, young lady, I’m afraid it’s a bit too late to do anything about that now.’
    ‘Be fair,’ replied the hoover indulgently, ‘it hasn’t been easy for the kid, she’s missed out on a lot. I mean, boyfriends,