Текст книги "Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother"

Автор книги: Carroll Claudia

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 8 страниц]

I leave about six messages for Nathaniel too, but, surprise, surprise, he doesn’t get back to me either. I’ve always liked Nathaniel, but in my yo-yoing emotional state, now I’m furious with him too. I always thought he was a bit weak, a bit too easily dominated by Sam and his Type A personality. Now here’s the proof. I ring Eva too, the only one of our foursome who’s still actually speaking to me, but it turns out she has another yummy mummy friend over with her kids for a play date, so she can’t talk. She swears she’ll call me later on though. Which of course, she doesn’t.

Roger calls to say that, as he suspected, no one is hiring right now. He’d put out a few feelers on my behalf, but nothing doing. ‘Best lie low for a bit, Jessie dear,’ is his sage advice. ‘When this unpleasantness all dies down, I’ll try again. Perhaps not a primetime show, but maybe something on one of the digital channels.’ This is about as close as polite, gentlemanly Roger would ever come to saying, ‘Your stock is so low in this town, you’ll be bloody lucky to get a job in community radio reading out the funeral notices on the 5 a.m. graveyard slot.’

Then Paul the publicist rings with an update; our press release has done the trick and seems to have killed the story for the moment at least. I’m now further relegated to page eight, which is marginally better than being publicly stoned.

‘Any actual…em… goodnews?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Are you kidding me? You don’t pay me for good news; you pay me to make bad news go away. You’re now on page eight beside the horoscopes and the weather report; as far as you’re concerned, that’s a miracle up there along with the second coming of Christ.’

Funny, my entire career, which I worked so hard for, is lying in ashes around me and yet all I can eat drink or focus on is Sam and this disappearing trick he’s pulling. I don’t even sleep that night. Every time I hear a car on the road outside, I keep thinking that it’s him and that he’ll knock on my door and that there’ll be some completely rational explanation for this crucifying silence and then he’ll hold me in his arms and everything will be just fine.

Week from hell: day three

There isa completely rational explanation! I ring snotty Margaret at the office who tells me that Sam is in London on business and will be back tomorrow! A wash of near-euphoria comes over me. Of course, Sam wasn’t ignoring me, he’s out of the country, that’s all and when he gets home everything will be back to normal. Well apart from my being broke and unemployed that is. But like I say, once he’s back in my life, everything else will seem bearable again. I conveniently brush aside the fact that every other time he’s away, he never fails to call day and night. He was probably just stressed up to the ceiling about all his meetings in London, that’s all. I actually have a spring in my step for the first time in days, which lasts all the way up until 11 a.m., when the phone rings. It’s the letting agency who found this house for me. ‘Bad news,’ says the property management guy, who sounds about fifteen. ‘You’re now almost four months behind in rent which means you’re in breach of the lease agreement. The owners have instructed me to request that you vacate the premises and return the keys ASAP. Otherwise, they’ll be left with no choice but to instigate legal proceedings.’

For a second, I think I’m going to black out as I slump against the stairs, with my back to the wall. It’s official; I’m on the express train to hell.

‘Listen to me, Jessie,’ says Teen Boy kindly. ‘This could be an awful lot worse. I know these people and trust me; all they want is you out of the house by the end of the week. Fair’s fair, you do owe them well in excess of €12,000 in back rent.’

‘€12,000?’ is all I can think, fresh beads of panicky sweat forming in the small of my back. How in the name of Jaysus did I let that happen?

‘Go quickly and quietly,’ he says, ‘and I’m pretty certain that they’ll leave it at that. Going to court will cost time and money and the owners already have interest from people who want to come over and view the place.’

By now I’m actually drenched in sweat. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I’m made homeless. I thank the poor guy as politely as I’m able to; after all, none of this is his fault and like he says, go quietly and I won’t get sued. But go where?

Now the tone of all my messages to Sam has completely changed from angry to pleading. I urgently need to talk to you, I almost beg. Something calamitous has happened. Ring me and I’ll explain. Then, a brainwave; he always stays at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel when he’s in London; vintage Sam, only the best will do. So I call them and ask to be put through to his room. The over-polite receptionist asks me for my name first, checks the room, then comes back to me and says Mr Hughes isn’t there. Trying my best not to sound like some kind of psycho stalker, I explain that I’m his girlfriend and would she pretty please with knobs on have any idea when he’ll be back?

The blind panic in my voice seems to do the trick.

‘Well, I normally wouldn’t dream of giving out personal information, but seeing as you are his girlfriend…OK then. He should be back in the room in about an hour or so. He’s down in the spa at the moment having a sports massage.’

So he’s not up to his eyes in meetings, too busy to return my calls. He’s lying naked, wrapped in a hot towel having aromatherapy oil rubbed into him. I spend the rest of the day trying to pack, then collapsing into floods of heaving tears. Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It’s the ambulance coming to take me away.

Week from hell: day four

Funny thing is, when the final blow falls, it happens fast. I’m lying in bed with all the life and energy of a used teabag. My phone rings and it’s him. It’s Sam. I almost drop it with nervous anxiety and before he’s even said a word, my heart’s already twisting in my ribcage.

‘So…you got my messages then?’ is my opener. Shit, I didn’t mean to sound sarky, it just slipped out.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all you’re going to say? “Yes”? A monosyllable?’

There’s an awkward pause, so I do what any TV presenter does when faced with a hiatus, fill it up with gabble and shite. The nightmare the last few miserable days have been, the agonising worry over why he was blanking me out—

‘Woodsie,’ he interrupts and I jibber over him. But then nervous tension tends to have that effect on me.

‘I need somewhere to stay,’ I stammer. ‘So – and I know it’s an awful lot to ask – is it OK if…Look, what I’m trying to say is…and of course, it would just be until I get back on my feet again…but the thing is…can I move in with you?’

There’s silence. I didn’t expect silence. I have to say ‘Sam?’ a few times just to check that he’s still on the line.

‘I’m here,’ he says dully and I swear to God, now I can actually feel the beads of sweat starting to roll down my face. ‘To be honest, Woodsie, I think right now, that would be a bad idea. A really bad idea.’

For a second I can’t speak. Then more gibberish comes tumbling out, Tourettes-like. ‘Look, I know it’s a big ask, and an even bigger imposition, but Sam, it’s just temporary, just until I find another job, that’s all…’

‘I’ve got my parents coming to stay, so I’m afraid it’s not going to work.’

‘But your house has seven bedrooms! It’s not like we’ll all be on top of each other!’

‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but I really feel that…’

The breath catches in the back of my throat. ‘You really feel that… what?’

‘That you and I should take a bit of a break. I need to be honest with you; I’m finding all of this negative media attention very difficult to live with.’

There it is, the one cold, bald sentence that I’ve been dreading this whole, horrendous week. Funny, now that it’s out in the open, a dead calm comes over me. ‘Just so you’re clear on a few things, Sam,’ I say icily, almost spitting, staccato style. ‘The negative media attention as you call it, is dying down. We put out a press release and that’s pretty much killed the story—’

‘Woodsie,’ he interrupts, ‘you know where I’m coming from here.’

I’m cooler now so I let him talk. And out it all comes, all my worst fears, verbalised. He’s worked so hard to get to this level of his career and bad press is the last thing he needs right now, he feels his position is utterly compromised because he and I are so publicly linked together…blah-di-blah-di-blah.

It’s like he’s reading from an instruction manual on how to break up with someone and leave them with absolutely no hope of reconciliation. And all I feel is numbness, like I’m anaesthetised from pain that’s going to hit me like a sledgehammer any minute now.

‘What you’re trying to tell me, Sam, is that you don’t want to be tarred by association with me. Like my fall from grace is something contagious.’

‘Woodsie, look—’

Then I throw in an old classic. What the fuck, I’ve nothing to lose. ‘I thought you loved me. But here you are, at the first real hurdle we’ve ever had to face, bailing out, running for the hills. You’re the single most important person in my life and I mess up once and suddenly you decide that I’m flawed and therefore dispensable. Have you any idea how that makes me feel?’ My voice is shaking so much, I’m amazed I even managed to get that much out coherently.

‘Woodsie, you’re taking this the wrong way…’

‘What other way is there to take it? You’re dumping me over the phone? After two years?’

‘Can we drop the dramatics? No one is dumping anyone. I’m just suggesting we take a break, that’s all.’

It’s an odd thing when the man you love asks you for ‘a bit of time out’. Makes you feel like the first quarter in a basketball game.

‘Woodsie? Are you still there? Because there’s something else I need to say to you.’

I catch my breath, waiting on some crumb of comfort he might throw my way.

‘I’m having my PR people put out a press release to say we’re not together any more. I think it’s best for both of us to put a full stop to this. Don’t you?’

Week from hell: day five

Somehow I manage to get out of bed and haul myself to the one meeting I’ve been postponing all week but have now run out of excuses for. My accountant. You should see me; I’m like a dead woman walking. Literally. Dead on the inside and dead on the outside. The whole way there, all I can think is, If I were to getrun over by that bus…it wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing that could happen.Given the rate at which my entire life is unravelling, I’d be surprised if Satan wasn’t waiting at the gates of hell for me with a fruit basket and a complimentary robe.

My accountant is called Judy: she’s a widow with four sons all of whom she’s single-handedly putting through schools and colleges, and I’d say she’s never been in debt once in her whole life. I think she realises that there’s rock bottom, followed by another 500 feet of crap before you finally arrive at where I’m at right now. So, for once, she’s going easy on me.

She sympathises over my being turfed out of the house and even manages not to invoke the one phrase that really would send me over the edge, ‘I told you so.’ Then, for a full hour, Judy goes through every sickening, nauseating entry on my credit card statements, household bills, the works, trying to figure what we can write off against my tax bill versus debt that just has to be saddled onto all of my other loans and toxic debts. I’ve even come clean with her about the secret Visa card I’d been hiding all along. At this stage, on the brink of bankruptcy, what’s another few thousand? But, try as I might, even in my numb, deadened state I still can’t tune her out entirely and snippets of past extravagances keep filtering through, stabbing me right in the solar plexus.

Shopocalypse Now. Story of my life to date. Veni, Vidi, Visa.

‘The fifteenth of last month, crystalware from Louise Kennedy, €485.’

I remember. Six beautiful long-stemmed champagne flutes. An anniversary gift for Nathaniel and Eva. Who by the way, I rang this morning to ask/beg/plead for a temporary roof over my head. Eva didn’t even have the good grace to sound concerned about me; just said that they’d now decided to stay down in Marbella with the kids for longer than they’d thought, so it just wasn’t a runner. Anyway, she’d spoken to Sam and knew about our break-up. Knew about it before I did, I’ll warrant. And her final word on the subject? ‘Yeah…you know, we’re really sorry but I suppose these things happen. Shame you won’t be coming away with us this Easter. You’re always such fun to be away with.’

Like I’m some kind of court jester. But however vague and dismissive she sounds, the subtext is clear as the crystal I bankrupted myself to buy for her; Sam was their friend long before I came along, so, foursome or no foursome, if anyone is going to get jettisoned, it’s me. Of course it is. I’m utterly dispensable. In Eva’s eyes, I’m broke = I’m out.

In fact, the only real friend that’s come out of all this for me is Emma. Before I’d even had a chance to ask, she said that I’d be more than welcome to stay at her flat in town. The only person I know who actually offeredto put me up. There was a catch though; she’s on a few months’ paid leave from Channel Six and is going down to stay with her parents in Wexford for a few weeks, so she’d already sublet the flat before she’d heard about my, ahem, domestic difficulty. Nice of her to offer though. More than some people. A lot more.

‘So to recap,’ Judy the accountant is still droning on, ‘I’ll have to get on to credit control at Visa and explain the situation. Needless to say, your card will be cancelled forthwith. But, with luck, maybe we can stall them from referring this to their legal team.’ She smiles at me. God love her, she must think this’ll cheer me up. ‘Obviously with a commitment from you to come to a long-term payment arrangement with them,’ she adds.

‘A payment arrangement?’ I say, temporarily stunned out of my deadened stupor. ‘Emm…sorry to state the obvious, Judy, but payment from what exactly? I have nothing.’

‘Come on, you must have valuable items you could possibly sell? When you were earning, did you invest in paintings? Jewellery? Anything?’

I’m too embarrassed to tell her that the only investments I ever made were in handbags/shoes/designer clobber etc, so instead I just focus on dividing the snotty Kleenex that’s lying on my lap into half, then quarters, then eighths and not bursting into tears. Yet again.

‘Jessie,’ she says, softly, ‘you have to understand that I’m trying to help you as much as I can. And I want you to let me know if there’s anything else that I can do for you.’

‘You could lend me the bus fare home.’

‘Please, be serious.’

‘I was being serious.’

‘What I meant by that was, do you have any assets at all which I could liquidise for you? Something that would give you a cash injection to get you through this?’

Me? Assets? For a second I want to laugh. I’m a live now, pay later kind of gal.

‘Jessie, I hate bringing up a distasteful subject but needs must I’m afraid. When your father passed away, didn’t he leave you anything at all?’

‘No,’ I mutter dully. ‘Poor Dad had nothing to leave. Well, apart from the house that is.’

Her eyes light up.

‘He left you a house? Explain, please?’

‘Nothing to explain. Dad left our family home equally to my stepmother and me. That’s all.’

‘So this would be the house that you grew up in?’

‘Yup.’

‘And he left it to be divided fifty-fifty between both of you?’

‘Ehhhh…yeah.’

‘So, all this time, you’ve been part-owner of a house and you never told me?’

Swear to God, the woman’s eyes look like they’re about to pop across the room like champagne corks. ‘And was it sold? Is it rented out?’

‘No, my stepfamily still live there. The three of them. But I have absolutely nothing to do with those people and they’ve nothing to do with me. Trust me; it’s an arrangement that suits all of us.’

‘But you’re the legal owner of half of this property.’

‘Judy, I’m not with you. What do you suggest I do here? Turf them all out and sell the place from under them? They’d get a hit man after me. You have no idea what these people are like; they’d have me knee-capped. This is their home.’

‘You needed somewhere to stay, didn’t you? Well here’s the answer staring you in the face.’

For a second I look at her, my mouth I’m sure forming the same perfect ‘O’ that the kids do in the Bisto commercial.

‘Jessie, welcome to the wonderful world of “Got no choice”.’

Chapter Six

It’s like a mantra with me the whole of the next day: I have no choice, I have no choice. I. Have. No. Choice. And in fact, if I don’t get a move on, chances are I’ll come home to find all my stuff in cardboard boxes outside the security gates, the locks changed and new people already living there. All of which fits in beautifully with the recurring theme of my life right now; when you’ve got everything, you’ve got everything to lose.

It’s late Saturday afternoon and I’m still in bed, paralysed. Praying that at this exact moment Sam is doing the same thing. That he’s dead on the inside too. Despondent. Missing me. Willing himself to swallow his pride, pick up the phone and beg me to get back with him.

I’ve been practically a ‘Rules Girl’ since our last, harrowing conversation and by that I mean I’ve only texted him approximately a dozen times and left around eight voice messages on his mobile. Per day, that is.

TV is my only friend, but as I’m avoiding the news for obvious reasons, I stick to the History Channel where there’s bound to be nothing on that’ll only upset me more. An ad comes on where they quote Buddha saying that all suffering stems from failed expectations. Yup, sounds about right to me. Next thing, out of nowhere, there’s a massive, urgent walloping on my hall door downstairs, which my first instinct is to ignore, but then it flashes through my mind, Suppose it’s Sam?Standing there with a huge bouquet of flowers and a speech all prepared about what a complete moron he’s been? I dive out of bed like I’ve just had an adrenaline shot to the heart and race downstairs, still in my pyjamas. Course, it’s not Sam at all though. It’s the estate agent, with a middle-aged-looking couple standing on either side of him like twin bodyguards, wanting to view the house. The estate agent is super-polite and says he’s mortified for disturbing me, but his implication is clear; just disappear for the afternoon and let people who can actually afford to live here get a once-over of the place in peace.

Which is how, about an hour later, I end up back in our humble little corporation estate in Whitehall, on Dublin’s Northside. My first time back to the house since I was eighteen, all of eleven years ago. I’m absolutely dreading what lies ahead and at the same time, so punch drunk by all the body blows I’ve taken in the last week, that the part of me that’s numb just takes over everything; all bodily functions like walking down streets and holding conversations without crying. Anyway, like I said, where I come from is not posh. Nor, from what I can see so far, has much of it changed since I used to live here. It’s basically 1950s corpo-land that’s so close to the airport, you can actually see the wheels going up and down on the bellies of all overhead flights. It also gets so deafeningly noisy at times that you feel like you could be living on the near end of a runway. But it just so happens that deafening noise suits me right now. As does anything that drowns out the loop that’s on eternal long play inside my head: dumpedhomelessjob-lessdumpedhomelessjoblessdumpedhomelessjobless…etc., etc., etc., repeat ad nauseam.

The house is right at the very end of a cul-de-sac, which means that when I get off the bus, I have to do the walk of shame down the whole length of the street, alone, unprotected and totally exposed. Which, I know, makes it sound like I come from Fallujah Square and it’s not that I’m worried about broken bottles or other random missiles being flung at me; no, it’s the kids on this street you’ve got to watch out for. They’re complete savages and their cruelty knows no bounds. Plus, as it’s a warm, balmy evening, they’re all out swarming round the place like midges. Sure enough, right across the street, there’s a gang of them led by a boy of about ten, a dead ringer for the kid in The Omen,all harassing someone I can only presume is a Jehovah’s Witness making door to door calls.

‘You says there’s no Our Lady, you says there’s no Our Lady!’ they’re chanting at the poor gobshite, hot on his heels. I pull the baseball cap I’m wearing down even lower over my forehead and pick up my pace a bit, head down at all times. But just then an elderly neighbour out doing her hedges spots me.

‘Jessie Woods? Mother of God, it isyou!’

Shit. Caught. And by a neighbour who’s known me ever since I was a baby, worse luck. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Foley.’

Right then, stand by for the sideshow. And sure enough, Mrs Foley yells excitedly over at another pensioner who’s busy doing the brasses on her front door. ‘Mrs Brady? Would you look who it is! Jessie Woods herself, as I live and breathe! She’s come home!’

‘Suffering Jesus, I don’t believe it,’ says Mrs Brady, clutching her chest, then abandoning the hall door and waddling over to Mrs Foley’s front gate.

Nononononono, you see, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid. The thing about our street is that it’s considered rude to walk past a neighbour without having at least a ten-minute chat about the most intimate details of your private life. God, the difference between life here and life in Dalkey, where my house – sorry, my ex-house – is. Over on that side of town, I couldn’t even tell you who my neighbours are. Everyone lives behind high security gates and apart from seeing the odd four-wheel-drive zipping in and out, you wouldn’t have a clue who’s living next door to you. There were always rumours flying around that Bono and Enya lived locally, but you’d never, ever get a glimpse of them out buying cartons of milk, Lotto tickets or similar. There was a Southside snobbery at play too; even if you met people locally, say in Tesco’s, they were all far too cultured and sophisticated and up themselves to even admit that they recognised me from TV.

But Toto, I’m not in Kansas any more.

‘Terrible about what happened to you last week, Jessie love,’ says Mrs Foley kindly. ‘Big fuss over nothing if you ask me. And they really fired you just for doing that? For taking the offer of a free car?’

‘Yes, they really did.’

‘But sure I watched the whole thing myself. They made it very hard for you to say no. Nearly forced it on you, they did.’

‘Yeah, you’re right, they did,’ I agree, touched and grateful to her.

‘Well, if you ask me, you should have had more sense, Jessie Woods,’ snaps Mrs Brady, treating me exactly like I’m still the kid she used to give out to for sitting on her front wall and damaging her geraniums. ‘You big roaring eejit. No such thing as a free lunch, sure the dogs on the street could tell you that. You should have told them where to go with their flashy car and then you’d be on the telly tonight, wouldn’t you? Instead of walking the streets, looking like a refugee.’

I’d forgotten that about Mrs Brady. She has a very nasty side to her.

‘So what’ll you do now, love?’ says Mrs Foley gently. ‘The papers all said no one would come near you for work, you poor pet.’

‘Emm…well, I’m actually hoping to take a bit of time out and just, emm…you know, reassess my options,’ I manage to say, weakly.

The pair of them look completely unconvinced, so I try changing the subject instead.

‘So how’s Psycho, Mrs Brady?’ Psycho is her son. He’s my age, we were in junior school together and from what I heard, he went on to spend most of his teenage years in juvenile prison. Everyone calls him Psycho, ever since he was about three. Even his mother.

‘Ah, he’s grand, love. Thanks for asking,’ she smiles proudly, instantly brightening. ‘He’s getting out on TR tomorrow, so we’re having a bit of a knees-up for him. You should drop in if you’re still around. He was always very fond of you. And I happen to know that he’s single at the moment.’

‘Ehh, sorry…TR?’

‘Temporary Release. Please Jesus, with a bit of good behaviour, he could be out before the summer. Only a short stretch this time, thank God.’

I ooh and aah about how brilliant that is and am just about to make my excuses when the gang of kids, led by Omen-boy,spots me.

Shit.

Next thing, there about eight kids all clustered around me, demanding to know whether or not I’m your one off the telly?

‘Go on,’ says one. ‘Take off the baseball hat and sunglasses till we can get a decent look at your face!’ says another one, while a third, who can’t be more than about eight, whips out a camera phone, shoves it right under my nose and starts taking photos.

“Cos if you really are Jessie Woods,’ he says cheekily, ‘then I’m emailing this to the Daily Star.Might make a few quid.’

Which serves me right of course. I should have remembered that round here the only safe, harassment-free time to walk down this street is in pitch darkness, preferably between the hours of 2 a.m. and 5 a.m., when it’s a kid-free zone. They really should have a sign up, warning people.

‘Leave the poor girl alone, you ignorant shower of pups!’ says Mrs Foley, shooing them away with her apron. ‘How would you like it if you got the sack and then your fella dumped you, all in the one week?’ Then she realises that I’m still standing right beside her and claps her hand over her mouth, mortified. ‘Oh, Jessie love, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t embarrass you, pet. It’s just that it’s been all over the news ever since yesterday. About you not going out with that good-looking businessman any more, what’s-his-name.’

‘Imagine getting dumped and the first thing your ex does is go running off to the papers,’ sneers a third neighbour who’s just joined us. She’s leaning on a yard brush and has a perm so tight that it’s almost as if someone poured a tin of baked beans over her head. I haven’t the first clue who she is, but she seems to know more about my own private life than I do myself. Sam and his bloody, bollocking press release included. He warned me he was going to do it, ‘Put a full stop to this,’ as he’d said during our last, nightmarish phone call, so I knew it was inevitable. But it still somehow feels like someone’s physically taken a shovel to my insides. Right. Officially had enough. Got to get outta here.

‘Sorry, but I’m afraid I really should get going…’ I say lamely in an attempt to make a run for it. No such luck though.

‘You should have married that Sam Hughes when you had the chance, Jessie,’ pontificates Mrs Brady. ‘Then at least you’d have a few quid to show for yourself. Or you could have had a baby with him, then maybe he’d think twice about running to the press to tell everyone it’s all off with you. Plus you’d have the child maintenance coming in every week, which would have come in very handy, now that you’re jobless…’

‘The secret to a long and happy marriage’, says Baked Bean Head, leaning on her yard brush, ‘is that the man has to be scared shitless of the woman. They only really respect you when they’re completely terrified. You must have gone far too easy on him, Jessie…’

OK, it’s at this point I officially can’t take any more. ‘I’m really sorry, ladies, but I have to get going.’

They turn to glare at me, like I’m being rude to just walk away when they’re all busy throwing out their pearls of relationship advice, but at this point I’m beyond caring. I take a deep breath and turn into our tiny front yard. And almost fall over when I see the state of it. I’m not messing, there are actual statues of stone angels blowing into trumpets dotted around the tiny grassy bit, the original agony in the garden. Trying my best to keep my stomach from dry-retching at the very sight of it, I knock firmly on the front door.

And wait.

And wait again.

A kafuffle from the TV room inside, followed by a clearly audible row about who’s going to get up and answer the door. Which is followed by another glacier-slow wait before the door is eventually opened. By Joan, my stepmother. Dressed, and I wish I were joking here, pretty much like Cher on the Reunion tour. It’s almost scary the way everything matches; her suit is deep purple and so are the nails, lipstick and shoes. With, the final touch, tights the colour of Elastoplast. Honest to God, there are mothers of brides out there who’d blush to be seen in this get-up.

‘Jessica!’ she says, with a horrified, icy smile so fixed that it almost makes her look embalmed. That’s another thing about her; she’s the only person in the northern hemisphere who calls me Jessica. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here? It’s not Christmas Eve, is it?’

‘Emm, I did phone to say I was calling today, do you not remember, Joan? About an hour ago? You told me to be sure to call after Britain’s Got Talentbut before American Idol.’

Now coming from any other family, that might sound pig rude, but the thing about these people, certainly when I lived with them, was that their lives entirely revolved around the TV schedules. And clearly that hasn’t changed.

‘Oh, did I? I really have to start writing things down. I also have to have a drink. Right then,’ she sniffs, looking down at me like I’m about as welcome as a fungus. ‘Seeing as you’re here, I suppose you’d better come through to the drawing room.’

By which I’m assuming she means the TV room, which is the only reception room in the house, apart from the tiny kitchen. But then that’s Joan for you, everything gets talked up. In fact, I’m surprised she doesn’t refer to the minuscule patch of grass in the front garden with the ludicrous gakky stone angels as the ‘meditation and contemplation’ area.

So in I go and am instantly struck by just how garish the place looks. So utterly different to when it was just me and Dad living here. The hallway, which is minute, dark and poky, now has a patterned cream Axminster carpet with loud polka-dot wallpaper in pink, blue and green. The overall effect of which is to make me feel like I’m trapped inside a bottle of prescription pills. No trendy, ‘less is more’ minimalism going on here; this has turned into the house that taste forgot. Joan catches me staring gobsmacked into the kitchen, which is straight ahead of us, and completely misinterprets my dropped jaw.