Текст книги "Love's Sacrifice"

Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Seven

Victoria Jane Montgomery

A nurse takes me to the evaluating psychiatrist later in the afternoon. The door opens and I see a man sitting at a desk. He is very still, but his eyes, behind his spectacles, are alert and intelligent. I can tell instantly that he is a man of great cultivation and charm who will speak with imagination and humor.

He stands and welcomes me as if I wasn’t a patient, but a guest. It is an act, naturally, but one he excels at. You see, he wants to see me as whole, but he cannot help turning me into parts—the parts that work and those that don’t.

I already know his name. One of the orderlies mentioned it and it is on his door. Dr. J. McBride. Anyway, he extends his hand, which surprises me. I put my hand in his and he looks at me with deliberately expressionless eyes. So he is hiding. He doesn’t want me to know how very curious he is about the Montgomery heir who has fallen under his care.

I smile serenely at him.

Someone opens the door and calls him outside. I am not sure that it is not just a ruse to see what I will do left to my own devices. When he leaves I move toward the window. The vast grounds are empty. Patients are not allowed out. Smokers have a small barred balcony to do their deed. I gaze at the sky.

‘What are you doing?’ he says, from the door.

I turn to face him. ‘Listening to the birdsong,’ I lie. I had been thinking of the phoenix. Remembering that night when the sky had split open and he had dropped out of the light-filled crack. Wondering where he came from, where he has gone to.

He relaxes, his disquiet stilled. He is probably of the opinion that people who listen out for birdsong, whatever their inner difficulties, or however shattered, must be lovely, or harmless at worst.

‘You were listening rather than watching,’ he adds.

‘Yes, yes. Exactly that. The starlings were Mozart’s muse. Ein Musikalischer Spass.’

He smiles, pleased. It is now obvious to both of us that there could be something not quite right with me, but that I am definitely not mad.

‘Birdsong is organized chaos,’ he says.

I whip my head around. Ah, Ordo ab chaos. Order out of chaos. So: he is one of us. My father has seen to it. Excellent. Eventually it will be useful. I used to be too impatient to be a good chess player, but now I have the time. To think. To plan. To make my moves.

‘Will you permit me to examine you?’ he asks so graciously, it is as if I had a say in the matter.

I smile my acquiescence. It seems Dr. McBride and I will get on just fine.

The routine of a neurological exam is soothing: reflexes, muscle strength, coordination, tone, visual acuity, hearing, senses, and solving puzzles. Some are repeats I have already performed with the nurses, but I accept the intrusion demurely. When he scratches a pen on the soles of my feet I giggle and he looks at me with an expression that is almost one of fatherly concern.

‘Tickles,’ I explain, with a smile. He smiles back.

‘That ought to do it,’ he declares finally.

‘I was wondering,’ I begin casually, ‘what are your thoughts on the subject of hallucinations?’

It is immediately obvious that it was a mistake to ask. A thin veil comes over his eyes.

‘In the West there is cruel misunderstanding of the condition, often thought to portent madness so many people are unwilling to share their experiences. But in other cultures hallucinations are regarded as a privileged state of consciousness that is actively sought using hallucinogens, solitude, spiritual practices and meditation. Do you…have hallucinations?’ His words are deeply enlightened but his eyes are a trap for the unwary. They watch me suspiciously.

‘Just once, as a teenager, when I dropped an acid tablet,’ I say softly.

‘Ah,’ his voice clears. ‘Do you ever hear voices or see things?’

I look at him calmly. ‘No.’

The veil lifts. How easily I made that small doubt go away. ‘At some stage we’ll have to talk about what you did at the wedding, if that’s all right?’

I smile tightly. ‘Of course.’

‘We’ll need to examine that particularly heightened state of anxiety that you found yourself in.’

‘I’m afraid I lost touch with reality. I was awfully depressed and angry. I didn’t think. I’ve never done anything like that before. Besides, I wasn’t really planning to hurt her. I just wanted to frighten her.’

He gazes at me, harmless as an old goat, as he tries to figure out if I am being honest.

I bend my head. ‘Honest, I didn’t mean to hurt her. And I am terribly sorry for what I did.’

And, surprisingly, he pats my hand reassuringly.

Eight

Lana Barrington

In the morning we go downstairs to an amazing buffet breakfast spread. The profusion of food is quite frankly a shock to me. A vast selection of local dishes, omelets made to order, rice porridge, toasts, cakes, pastries, cut fruit, different kinds of cereal. Blake has bacon and eggs and I have pancakes with maple syrup and fruit. Sorab nibbles on fruit.

Blake offers to keep Sorab for the day while I do some shopping with Billie. ‘I want you to buy a very short, white dress. One of those stretchy materials if possible.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll find out tonight.’

‘OK,’ I agree with a grin. ‘What will you guys do?’

‘We haven’t decided. It’s between going to see the tigers or Kidzania.’

‘Don’t go see the tigers without me,’ I wail.

‘That’s decided that, then. It will be Kidzania for us.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and plant a very noisy kiss on Sorab’s nose, which he immediately wipes.

We leave the breakfast lounge together and separate in the lift. Sorab blows flying kisses as the lift doors close on us. I walk along the corridor and knock on Billie’s door. She opens it with half-closed eyes, and walking away from me tumbles back into her bed.

‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.

‘What time is it?’ she croaks from under the pillow.

‘After ten.’

She rolls off the bed and drags herself into the bathroom. I open the curtains to let the sunlight through the ceiling to floor windows. I am standing at the window looking out at Bangkok when she comes out in the hotel-provided robe, her face washed, and her wet hair wrapped in a towel.

‘Have you had breakfast?’ she asks.

‘Yup. They have a beautiful spread downstairs. Want to go?’

‘Are you kidding? I’m not eating that shite.’

She picks up the phone and orders breakfast: a bowl of jam and a glass of pineapple juice. I shake my head, and she raises one weary, don’t-say-it eyebrow. She puts down the phone and goes to sit on the bed.

‘So tell me about last night, then,’ I urge impatiently.

Billie lights a fag, takes a huge lungful, and exhales slowly. ‘Brian took me to Bangla Street. I was doing cartwheels with the excitement of seeing a live pussy show, and boy was that street crammed with touts selling ping-pong shows. They were so aggressive as well. One would grab your arm, you’d shake him off, and literally two feet later your arm would be grabbed again. They all carried like a large laminated menu of things the girls in their clubs could do with their pussies. Most of them acted too vague and shady when Brian asked about prices, saying that would be decided at the club. Anyway, one guy was willing to give Brian definite prices so we followed him.’

There is a knock on the door and Billie goes to open it. A hotel staff comes in with a tray of Billie’s bowl of jam, a teaspoon and a glass of juice. She signs his receipt, tips him, and he goes out, closing the door after himself. Billie has a sip of her juice and lifts the dome to expose her bowl of jam.

‘God, I’m starving,’ she says. She grinds out her cigarette and, yanking the towel over her head, drops it on a chair. Lifting the spoon she starts spooning jam into her mouth as she walks to the bed. It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I see it—Billie polishing off a bowl of jam for breakfast. I never thought a human being could exist on jam, chocolates, and pizza.

‘There were about twenty-five different things the girls at his club could do. They could shoot ping-pong balls out of their fannies, sew with them, work their muscles so violently that they turned water into soda, open the tops of beer bottles.'

‘Open a beer bottle?’ I interject, shocked, despite myself.

She nods sagely. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. The guy took us to this place—small and smoky, and lit up like a comedy club, but somehow very seedy. There were tables around a stage. We were given one that was so close I could rest my feet at the wooden edge of the stage. The only other people were an elderly European couple, a lone man with a huge beer belly—German probably—and a Chinese or Japanese couple huddled together looking bewildered.

‘Anyway, we ordered our drinks. Apparently, what was unfolding on the stage was the last segment of another show. This girl was filling her vagina with ping-pong balls. She then shot them out with mind-zapping force at the audience. The funny thing was the elderly couple took a few in the chest and head and did not even flinch or duck as the balls hit them. No one clapped when it was over. It was all very odd.’

Billie scrapes her spoon on the bowl, licks the spoon and waves it around.

‘She had straight, long hair, a cute little arse and a tattoo around her belly button which I really liked, but believe me, the only thing she communicated was boredom. I actually can’t remember when I have seen someone look more bored. At this point a group of noisy Aussie surfer boy types walked in. As they took their places a man brought a birthday cake and deposited it on the stage. The girl sat behind it, inserted a straw into her fanny, and blew out the six candles on it while the Aussie boys cheered her on with wolf whistles.’

Billie pulls a cigarette out of a box, lights it, and takes a full drag.

‘Then she walked off and another girl walked on. This one, who looked pretty similar to the last one, danced and gyrated a few seconds around a metal pole and then came to the front of the stage, suddenly opened her legs, and fuck me, out plopped a live gerbil. The Aussies were loving it—they screamed and howled—but I was totally horrified.’

She shudders with the memory. ‘You know how much I love gerbils. That’s mental cruelty right there. The poor thing looked drenched and confused. It tried to run off, but the man who had brought the birthday cake came out from behind the curtains, picked it off by its tail, and walked off with it. That put me right off.’

From the time she told me about the gerbil my hand had flown to my mouth in shock. An uncomfortable giggle escapes me. ‘What happened then?’

‘Then she played a recorder with her pussy, which I have to admit was pretty damn impressive. And after that the way she then opened the beer bottle was fucking freaky. She simply squatted down over it, and popped its top off in seconds. By the time she turned water into soda water, the Aussies were starting to get downright rowdy, the single man was leaning forward eagerly, and I had started to feel icky about my moronic decision to go there. I felt really sorry for those women.’

She taps the ash off the end of her cigarette and scratches her leg where a mosquito had bitten her the night before.

‘It’s worse than being a prostitute. At least prostitutes suffer their degradations in private. But these poor women… All of them had the same blank expression. I guess mentally each one had switched off, and taken her mind to a different place.

‘At that point I shot a look at Brian and he had an expression of pity on his face. So we left. But not before we had a massive row about the bill with a big woman on ugly pills and her walrus-faced helper. They had added all these extras on and inflated the bill by about ten times. Brian refused to pay and told them to call the police. That stopped them cold.’

I stare at Billie, not knowing what to say.

‘I thought it was going to be fun and cool, but no one I saw was doing it for fun. Now I’m just sorry I ever went. I can’t un-see it, and I feel like I’ve stolen a part of their pitiful souls. In the taxi later, Brian told me most of them are trafficked women who don’t get paid hardly anything, and some have been seriously hurt while performing.’

‘I guess we never realize how privileged and lucky we are until we see what some people’s lives are like.’

‘I just imagined it to be like some sort of circus, but it wasn’t.’

I go up to her and take her hand. ‘I’m sorry you feel bad, Billie, but I’m glad you didn’t enjoy it. Every day we learn something about the world and about ourselves.’

‘Oh, now might be the perfect time to tell you that I’m giving up the baby clothes business,’ she announces.

‘Why?’ I ask, surprised.

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

‘I thought you loved designing. And you are so awesome at it.’

She sighs. ‘Well, I spoke to that accountant Blake sent me to, and it all boils down to two strategies. A: I make the clothes in England and sell them as exclusive designer gear in rich people’s shops, or B: I reduce the quality so they can be mass produced by slaves in some third world country and flog them to ordinary people. Both options are almost equally repulsive to me.’

‘So what do you want to do, then?’

‘I want to work with your charity. Does it pay?’

‘Yes, it pays,’ I shriek happily. ‘And I’d love to have you working with me.’

‘Great. When do I start?’

I can’t stop grinning. ‘As soon as we get back. I’m still waiting for all the legal leg work and jargon to be over and done with, but the first thing we are doing is supplying clean, free water in poor countries.’

‘Clean, free water. Do we get that?’

I hesitate. ‘Well, no.’

‘So…’

‘Billie, are you going to start? Or are we going to help these kids who have to walk for hours to fetch a pail of diseased water from the river?’

‘Now that you put it like that.’

I shake my head at her. ‘Sometimes…’

‘Now might also be a good time to tell you that I’m having my boobs done.’

‘What?’ I exclaim, surprised by the sudden change in topic, and the topic itself. ‘The shocks are coming in thick and fast today.’

She smiles wickedly. ‘I’ve always wanted big, beautiful breasts. And yesterday I realized that if I can’t be small and delicate like these Thai girls, then I want horribly perfect, overtly sexual melons on my chest. I think I’d like the idea of socking a man for looking at my cleavage, and not my eyes, while he is talking to me.’

‘You’re one strange girl, Billie.’

She puts the empty bowl and spoon on the tray, lights another cigarette, and inhales languidly. ‘I know,’ she sighs dreamily.

We spend what’s left of the morning shopping at Siam Paragon. I manage to find a short white Lycra dress as per Blake’s instructions.

‘Very racy,’ is Billie’s comment.

Billie buys herself a pair of gold hotpants she saw one of the hookers wearing the night before and a sequined Sandringham blue tank top.

‘Don’t worry. They’re not to be worn together,’ she assures me.

After lunch we return to the hotel and we agree to meet by the pool in half an hour, but after a few laps in the afternoon heat I am already exhausted. Billie takes the nanny and Sorab back with her, and Blake and I go back to our suite. Blake gets on with some work while I go up the flight of black wooden stairs and get into the shower.

It is nearly three when I come out. I can hear Blake downstairs on the telephone. I switch on the hairdryer. The water or the heat has made it a little flyaway so I end up clipping the sides with two brown slides. I apply some lip gloss and some mascara and then I stand in front of the six dresses I have brought with me indecisively.

I try them all on, discard all six, and then go back to the first one, which is a short-sleeved, rather bold affair with large, bright flowers. It slips over my head like liquid. I smooth it down my hips and look at myself critically. Perhaps the plain blue dress will be a better choice. I look at the blue dress. Maybe it is a tad too short. I flash a smile at my reflection. And then a scowl. Oh, what the hell! I’ll just wear this.

I take the slides off and tie my hair back with a red ribbon and add a shimmer of fragrance. When I come down the stairs, Blake is sitting at the dining table working. He looks up from his work and whistles, which is a good thing, because if he approves then Helena probably will, too.

He puts his elbows on the table, next to his green coconut drink, and smiles an angelic smile. The sun is coming in through the large glass wall behind him and he looks positively edible. ‘Come here,’ he mouths.

Oh man, this man could charm birds out of a tree. ‘No way,’ I mouth back.

‘Are you seriously disobeying me, Mrs. Barrington?’

I nod.

A dark chuckle rips through him. He raises his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asks.

I glance at the door. It is no more than ten feet away, and he is at least thirty away. And he is seated. I can definitely make it. Grinning cheekily at him I make a dash for the door.

I run like every horned devil in hell is after me. I am breathing hard and laughing as I grasp the doorknob. An iron-strong embrace crushes me, still laughing and breathless, into a big male chest. My eyes travel upwards and collide with his. His are magnificent, dancing with laughter and mischief. Nice mischief. And a wicked, wicked sliver of desire. His scent is like a sweet mist around me. Hot fingers tease my nape. Other fingers are at my skirt, dragging it upwards.

‘Don’t you dare,’ I warn breathlessly, but my voice is fluttery, lacks any real conviction.

‘No woman should go and see her mother-in-law without a little lick.’

I groan, ‘No,’ and try to wriggle out of his hold.

‘Or yes, that feels good.’

I stop wriggling. ‘This is a bad idea. You’re going to muss up my clothes,’ I scold, even though, like a starved little thing, my sex is already yearning for his tongue.

He laughs, the sound deep and coconut-scented. ‘It’s the best idea I’ve had all year. No one will ever know,’ he purrs silkily.

My skirt climbs steadily. Fuck it. He is going to have his way. I know it. I can taste it. I can sense it searing in his blood… And mine.

‘I can’t let poor pussy go to a chilly hotel suite with the air conditioning turned up too high. Poor thing, all alone, and barely covered.’

I crack a smile and lean back against the door. ‘Good job, Barrington, dragging me kicking and screaming to exactly where I want to go.’

The wandering hand arrives at my inner thigh. His palm is warm on my bare skin. Suddenly he is no longer over and above me, but underneath my skirt. I throw my head back and laugh. I’m not going to be laughing for long. Fingers creep under the gusset of my knickers and pull it to one side. Other fingers part me open. A warm mouth latches onto my cleft, and sucks me out as if I am an oyster, raw and about to lose its insides.

Oh, yeah.

See? Told you I wouldn’t be laughing for long.

Radiant heat glows between my legs. I close my eyes and allow the never-stopping, never-easing shimmering magic to work. He doesn’t mess about and I crest quickly.

He licks up the juices, replaces the material over my slit, and comes up, lips wet and smiling. Wonderfully warm and glowing, I stretch languorously and smile up at him mistily.

‘Now that’s how a girl should be sent to see her mother-in-law.’

‘Blake?’

‘What?’

‘What if she doesn’t like me?’

He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘And so what? You’re not married to her.’

‘She’s not going to like me, is she?’

‘Why do you need her to like you?’

‘I don’t know. I just thought it might be nice. Nobody wants their mother-in-law to hate them.’

‘Well, my darling, just remember what I told you. The less you try to placate her, the more chances you have of being “liked” by her.’

‘Do you think this dress makes me look like a municipal flower bed?’

He smiles. ‘You look like a prize-winning mixed seed packet blooming in summer.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘You bet it is,’ he says and opening the door gently pushes me into the corridor.

Nine

I ring the bell of her suite and a woman in a mannish suit and a brisk efficient air opens the door. She invites me into the suite with a professional smile and introduces herself as Ann Rivers, Helena’s personal assistant. The air conditioning has been turned up so high I shiver slightly. She leads me into the dining room. A Thai waitress waiting by the sideboard bows from the neck and puts her palms together as if in prayer.

I return the gesture and look around me to a table that has been set to the nines. There are all kinds of cutlery and all kinds of food that I don’t recognize. There is also a sideboard full of dishes in covered stainless steel warmers. I bite my lip with consternation.

Of all the settings Helena could have picked, this I consider the most intimidating. As I am standing there she walks in from the opposite doorway. She has timed it brilliantly and I look at her with some awe. There is something very commanding about this beautiful woman. She has what my mother called star quality. As soon as she walks into a room she dominates it utterly, the way a full moon dominates the entire night sky.

She is wearing a classic tan and black hounds tooth suit over a black turtleneck sweater, and her hair and face are immaculate. Her choice of a turtleneck sweater in this climate surprises me a bit. She smiles at me. The smile carries genuine warmth in it, and I smile back. Maybe this will turn out all right. Ann retreats unobtrusively.

‘Do have a seat,’ she invites and points to a chair at one end of the table. The table is large enough to seat six. Helena then takes her place at the head of the table.

The Thai waitress pushes the chair in as I sit down, and whipping a napkin open, lays it expertly across my lap.

As the waitress does the same with Helena I look nervously at the utensils around me. Why on earth did I imagine that this was meant to be a casual tea, some finger sandwiches, warm scones and a few slices of cake?

‘Well, this is nice,’ I say. My voice sounds higher than normal.

‘Yes, quite. I thought we should get to know one another,’ Helena tells me. Her voice is soft and friendly, far more so than yesterday. ‘I want to know all about you and how you met Blake.’

Oh no, you don’t, I think, but I smile politely. ‘We met through a mutual acquaintance.’

‘Ah, of course. Who was it?’

‘Rupert Lothian.’

She tries to frown, but the Botox stands in the way. ‘Never heard of him. Who is he?’

‘I…er…worked for him.’

She looks at me. ‘That’s nice.’ There is an expression in her eyes that makes me suspect she knows exactly who Rupert is, and exactly how I met Blake.

She picks up a small white jar that is near her right hand. I notice that I, too, have a similar jar to my right hand. Mine contains milk. I watch her pour the milk in her jar into what I had assumed was a fingerbowl. She fills it to one-third and looks at me. Her expression is almost quizzical. She smiles, as if she can’t understand why I am not doing the same.

I smile back, and, quickly lifting my jar, copy her. I cannot imagine how the milk will be used. Perhaps we will be dipping something into it.

When I look at her again, she is still smiling, but her smile is cold and hard. You are not one of us, no matter what you do, wear, et cetera—we will sniff you out, her eyes tell me. She bends and puts the bowl of milk on the floor. Straightening and meeting my eyes, hers shining with malice, she calls out, ‘Constable, here, boy. Milk.’

Fiery heat rushes up my neck and cheeks. For a second, I am frozen with horror at the vindictiveness with which she has deliberately tricked me. Blake was right. I should never have tried to be accepted by her. And then I straighten my shoulders and smile, the kind of smile I never thought I would be able to accomplish. Coldly. Their kind of smile. Something changes in her eyes. How quick she is to recognize a worthy opponent.

Constable, a small, white handbag dog, is noisily lapping up the milk. For a little while there is only the sound it makes and the low hum of the air conditioning.

Then, I reach for a tiny morsel of food. It is round and blue. I do not recognize it, and I do not care. I pick it up with my fingers and daintily pop it into my mouth. Beyond the first impression of it being warm and soft with some sweet filling, I do not register anything else. Chewing steadily, I meet Helena’s eyes, and hers are surprised and slightly horrified by my uncouth manners. Oh, but, I’m not finished yet, Helena. I turn to the woman in the starched outfit standing by the sideboard.

‘Oh, hello,’ I say cheerfully. ‘What’s your name?’

Her dark, almond eyes widen with surprise, perhaps even alarm. No doubt they teach her what they used to tell the African American slaves– A room with you in it must seem empty.

‘My name is Somchai,’ she says, bowing her head deferentially. Her voice is barely a whisper.

‘Come and try this, Somchai. I’d like you to taste it and tell me what is in it,’ I invite expansively.

She looks confused and shoots a worried glance at Helena.

‘Oh! Don’t worry about Helena. She won’t mind,’ I dismiss airily. ‘I’m sure she wants to know what she is eating too.’

Somchai comes forward timidly. ‘I don’t need to taste. I can tell you what all the different dishes are.’

‘Oh, that will be nice. Do, please.’

‘What you have just eaten is a coconut hotcake. It is like a mini pancake with different sweet fillings.’ She points to the dish not with her forefinger but with her hand made into a small fist and the thumb jutting out to form a polite pointer. ‘And this one here is fried shrimp with glutinous rice. This one is taro root mixed with flour and turned into balls. That over there is called golden threads. They are strings of egg yolk quickly, quickly boiled in sugar syrup. Next to it is grass jelly. That one there is money bags: crispy, deep fried pastry purses filled with minced pork, dried shrimp and corn wrapped in cha phlu leaves.’

I nod as if I am fascinated by her descriptions while she works her way down the table and starts on the covered dishes warming on the sideboard. Rice field crab cakes served with green papaya salad, salt beef dumplings, fermented pork neck sausages with ginger, tiny banana leaf cups filled with ant and chicken eggs, grilled cuttlefish stuffed inside jackfruit, and yuck… Fried silk worm pupae.

‘Wow! What a feast,’ I cry, my voice unnaturally shrill and bright. ‘There is too much here for two. Would you like to join us, Somchai?’ Without giving her the chance to answer, I instruct genially. ‘Come on. Pull up a chair beside me.’

Helena gasps, which gladdens my heart no end, but poor Somchai suddenly looks terrified. A small animal getting crushed in the middle of two fighting elephants.

She shakes her head slightly. ‘Thank you very much. It is too kind of you, but I have already eaten.’

I take pity on her. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. Never mind then. Maybe next time.’

Somchai shoots another nervous glance at Helena.

And Helena takes that opportunity to take control of the situation. ‘That will be all. You can go now,’ she dismisses coldly.

I turn to look at her. Her mouth is a thin, disapproving line.

Somchai bows from the neck first in Helena’s direction and then in mine. Then she scuttles away as quickly as she can, never to be seen again. As soon as the door closes, Helena looks at me.

‘Are you quite finished?’ she seethes quietly.

‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ I say, and sweep upward regally.

‘Sit down, Lana,’ Helena grates. ‘You’ve made your point. There is no point in carrying on with this childishness.’

It occurs to me that she started it, but I obey. She is right. Some kind of truce needs to be declared.

‘How do you have your tea?’

Now that Somchai has been dismissed, I realize that we are going to have to serve ourselves if we are going to eat and drink. I stand, and picking up the teapot, take it over to her. Carefully, I fill her tea cup while she steadfastly keeps her eyes on the tea pouring into her cup. I can smell her hairspray.

‘Thank you,’ she says, and I cease pouring.

‘Sugar?’

She shakes her head.

‘Milk?’ I enquire innocently.

She looks up at me then, her eyes sharp, cunning as a crocodile. ‘Thank you.’

I glance at the empty jug stationed beside her beringed hand and watch her hand spasm into a fist. Returning to my side, I fill my cup silently with tea and put two sugars into it. Then I return the milk from the bowl back into the jug, and taking it over to her and positioning the jug above her cup of tea begin pouring. She raises her hand to indicate when she has had enough. I take the jug back to my end of the table and sitting down pour some milk into my cup. Silently I stir my milk.

‘I have an issue to take up with you.’

I raise an eyebrow.

‘I’m not happy about that creature you have taking care of my grandson.’

My mouth hangs open with astonishment. I snap it shut, as mad as a cut snake. Now she has gone where she definitely shouldn’t have. ‘That creature happens to be my best friend, and I will thank you not to refer to her as such again in my presence.’

‘That woman with a neck that looks like a public lavatory wall is your best friend?’

The arrogance and snobbery is breathtaking. I take a deep and cleansing breath before I dream of answering her. ‘Has she done anything that makes you believe she is unfit to care for your grandson?’

Her eyes flicker insolently. She has done that on purpose to provoke me. The white, perfectly manicured fingers of her right hand are resting delicately on the table top. The air conditioning hums like a lazy insect. It is actually too cold in this room. I’m starting to get chicken skin on my arms and legs. I wonder if she has turned it up on purpose. No wonder she is wearing a turtleneck sweater.

I come to the conclusion that one of the things I detest and deeply resent most is being in a freezing hotel room with my mother-in-law.

‘Well,’ I say quietly, ‘I’d rather be her than a bloodline snob, any day.’

She smiles cynically. ‘Are you sure? You seem to have done everything in your power to…catch a bloodline snob in your net.’

‘By some quirk of fate I find myself married to one, but I can assure you I wouldn’t want to be one of you.’