The Foster Husband by Pippa Wright

take mine gratefully. Ben lets out a loud ‘Aaaaaah’ after his first gulp and Dad looks at him murderously. Since Dad is not
exactly a stickler for manners, and used to be famous for his ability to crush a beer can on his forehead, I wonder what Ben has done to ignite his wrath.
    ‘Ben here has just been telling us all about his business plans for Baileys’,’ says Mum, her eyes swivelling nervously from Dad’s face to Ben’s.
‘They’re very, er, interesting. Aren’t they, David?’
    Dad mutters into his wine. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘They are very . . . interesting.’ He takes a swig from his glass and slams it down on the table, staring challengingly at
Ben.
    ‘Lovely,’ I say, trying to understand all that remains unspoken here. I’m afraid to ask a question in case the entire room combusts. Only Ben seems immune to the atmosphere,
smiling affably back at Dad in a way that suggests there is not an awful lot going on in that curly-haired head of his.
    Prue bustles in from the kitchen, proffering a plate of wildly ambitious canapés.
    ‘Mango, scallop and Thai basil skewer?’ she offers, thrusting the plate at Ben. ‘Mini timbale of oriental vegetables?’
    Ben exclaims, ‘Yum, yum,’ like a little boy, as he accepts a mini timbale. He rubs his stomach appreciatively in anticipation and his face falls as he realizes his shirt is open.
While he tries to button it up again with only one hand, the tiny timbale leaps out of his thick fingers, and lands, split in two, on the carpet. If only Minnie had been here he’d have got
away with it. Her hoovering abilities beat any cleaner.
    ‘Ben!’ shrieks Prue, whisking the tray away from Mum, whose hand hovers in mid-air, halfway through reaching for a skewer.
    ‘Gosh, sorry, Prue.’ Ben’s face goes even redder as he stands, frozen in shame.
    ‘Please don’t worry,’ insists Mum, scooping up the canapé and flinging it into the fire. ‘That rug’s had everything you can imagine dropped on it over the
years, a mini – what was it Prue, love? – a mini thingummy won’t do it any harm.’
    ‘It was a mini
timbale
, Mother,’ says Prue. ‘And I only made three each, so Ben you can only have two now.’
    Dad raises his eyebrows at me, unseen by Prue. We are all a little terrified of my sister, and never more so than when she’s playing the ungracious hostess.
    ‘Mmm, scallop skewers, yum,’ I say, reaching for one in the hope of mollifying Prue.
    ‘Don’t patronize me!’ she hisses under her breath.
    ‘I’m not – they look lovely,’ I say, and it’s true.
    ‘Well, take one then,’ she snaps. And I do. She puts the tray down on the wobbly wooden table by the side of Ben’s armchair and stalks back to the kitchen.
    ‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Prue never does anything by halves, does she? Did she dive for these scallops herself out in the bay, do you reckon?’
    ‘Ah, no,’ says Ben, with a look of polite condescension. ‘Prue isn’t a diver. She bought the scallops, actually. From the fishmonger down by the Cobb. But I’m sure
they are just as fresh as if she had dived for them.’
    ‘Right,’ I say, not quite sure how to answer.
    Ben grimaces at Mum, ‘Awfully sorry about the carpet.’
    ‘Really,’ Mum insists, lowering her voice, ‘it’s not about the carpet; Prue’s just a little stressed because she’s spent all afternoon making sushi and I
don’t think it’s gone awfully well.’
    ‘She made her own sushi?’ I ask. I’m astounded. Even at my most derangedly domestic goddessy, I have never attempted sushi.
    Dad harrumphs; he’s still looking at Ben with misgivings. ‘I never knew rice could stick to a person like that,’ he mutters.
    ‘Oh dear,’ I say. I have to bite my lip to stop myself smirking. I notice Mum can’t meet my eye either.
    I don’t want you to get the impression that Prue is some kind of monster. She isn’t at all, although I realize I’ve painted her as one so far. Maybe it makes me feel