Getting Over It (15 page)

“I’ll pay you for the tape,” I tell Lizzy. I can’t bring myself to speak the words “Yes, I’d adore a copy of
Gregorian Moods
” aloud.

“I can’t wait to tell Tina,” says Lizzy happily.

“One word and the feng shui plant gets it,” I reply sweetly.

I have rescued Luke from my mother and we are trotting down the hall toward the front door when Marcus emerges from his room wearing a small white towel round his trim waist. His face falls when he sees a grown-up. “Hi,” he stammers. “I just, er, got out the shower.”

My mother ogles him, I’m ashamed to say, like a bird eyeing a plump worm. “We heard,” I say chirpily as I push my gawking mother out of the flat. “A fifteen minute shower—must be a record!” The recall of his speechless fury keeps me smiling all the way to the Peugeot.

Chapter 20

W
HEN
I
STARTED WORK AT
GirlTime,
I suffered from an affliction known as Fone Fear. Every time I had to make a call, I’d put it off and put it off until it was 6
P.M.
and the person I needed to speak to had left the office. My illness lasted approximately three days before a verbal thrashing from Laetitia scared it out of me. Alas, the virus was cowed but not defeated. Because this morning I rang my mother’s boss at the brisk hour of seven to tell her about her little relapse, and it took me from 3:13 to 4:36
A.M.
to perfect my lines, and another forty-five minutes to summon the courage to dial the number (I started lifting and replacing the receiver at 6:17
A.M.
).

Mrs. Armstrong’s first overt concern was for my mother’s health. “Shocking news… rest and recuperation… best wishes for a speedy recovery… spring back to her old self.” Yet the undercurrent of strained patience and fretful guilt soon burst—gasping for atonement—to the surface.

Only last week, it emerged, Mrs. Armstrong had “had a quiet word” with Cecelia about “organization.” Not a reprimand, goodness no, just a reminder that the Christmas concert was fast bearing down upon us and the program, rehearsals, costumes, scripts, and timetable ought really to be well underway. She hoped Cecelia hadn’t taken this suggestion as a slight. Cecelia was an excellent teacher, a true professional. Only that if one staff member wasn’t firing from all cylinders, it placed a burden—no, wrong word—rather, it affected everyone.

I reassured Mrs. Armstrong that her “quiet word” had in no way prompted my mother to slash her wrists, although privately I bloody well thought it had. I told Mrs. Armstrong I’d report back on an approximate date for my mother’s return to work (again) after consultation with the hospital. But from Mrs. Armstrong’s artful response—“It’s easier for us to plan if we know someone is going to be absent for a while, than if we expect them to be there and they’re not”—I suspected that Mrs. Armstrong would prefer to rely on alternative cover until Christmas at least. For the sake of her own sanity, if not her budget.

At 8:30
A.M.
—after a long hot shower that I’d have happily stood in for the rest of my life—I wake my mother with a cup of tea. And not by throwing the cup at her head. She rubs her eyes, does a little double take on seeing her bandaged wrists, and slowly, gingerly heaves herself upright. “How are you feeling?” I say.

“I don’t know,” she replies flatly.

Damn. “Mum,” I say, “I’ve got to leave for work in three minutes or I’ll be out of a job. But I’ve spoken to Mrs. Armstrong, and she sends you her best and says don’t hurry back until you’re ‘right as rain.’ Now what are you going to do today? Shall I ring Vivienne and ask her to come round? Would you like to meet me for lunch? What would you prefer?”

My mother wrinkles her nose and says, “Vivienne has her batik class on Tuesdays.”

Inwardly, I’m starting to panic. I can’t leave her alone already—blowing about aimlessly like a wisp of tumbleweed! She’s got a great cavernous yawn of a day stretching endlessly before her! She might have another pop! An unwelcome idea begins to form in my head. I don’t want to voice it. I’d rather ignore it until it retreats. Unfortunately it is now 8:33 and I have precisely no minutes to think of an alternative plan. “Mum,” I blurt, “I know you don’t see each other that much, but what if I call Nana Flo?” The mere chattery sound of her name sends an ugly dart of remorse shooting to the pit of my stomach.

The truth is that since the funeral day I’ve spoken to her twice. Once, on discovering my mother had become Miss Havisham. It occurred to me that, for all I knew, my grandmother had turned into Darth Vader and it was my duty to investigate. Her woolly stream of phone messages increased my trepidation. It took me four days to approach the telephone. When I explained that my mother hadn’t returned any of her calls because she was—according to her GP—“suffering from grief, resulting in a depressive illness,” Nana Flo was silent. Then she said, “Ah well, gotta get on!” I was about to argue, my point being that when you have a depressive illness you can’t get on, but realized I’d be banging my head against a seventy-eight-year-old brick wall. And then it occurred to me—if Nana Flo was so rigidly in favor of getting on why ring my mother every other day for an entire month, bleating like a small lamb lost on a mountainside?

So I said, cleverly, “Talking of which, how are you getting on, Nana?” She replied, “I’m managing.” At this point, I was ready to let it go. But—spurred on by the real live spectre of my closest relatives dying or zombifying one by one—I blundered on: “You have been calling Mum a lot, er, recently. Are you lonely at all?” Nana Flo gave a mirthless bark and retorted in an unpleasant tone, “ ‘Lonely’ she says! ‘Lonely!’ ” Then in a snitty one, “Your mother always did like to play helpless.” What could I say to that? After a stunned pause, I said, “I’ll get Mummy to call you when the doctor says she’s strong enough.”

The second time I spoke to Nana Flo was when I actually saw her—the day probate was granted. After work I drove round to see my mother, and my grandmother was sitting in the kitchen reading the
TV Times
through a magnifying glass which distorted her eye and made her look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. We had a short, civil conversation about her blood pressure (“can’t complain”) and that was about it. Since then we haven’t exchanged one word. And, not wishing to overdramatize my feelings on the situation, I’d rather jump off the top of the Empire State Building than speak to her now.

Although if I know my mother, I suspect she’ll feel the same way and I won’t have to. I am incredulous when my mother says, “You go to work, I’ll call her.” At first, I don’t believe her.

“Really?” I say shrilly, “But you never call her!”

My mother shoots me a snide look. “And what do you know?” she says rudely.

“I know,” I say huffily, “that you call Nana Flo about as often as I call Nana Flo.”

My mother regards me haughtily and replies, “Then you obviously call her at least twice a week.”

Do I believe my ears? “Mummy, you’re joking,” I say. My mother looks as smug as it’s possible to look when you’ve recently tried to unhand yourself with a razor blade.

She says, “We see each other every Thursday. She’s not that bad when you get to know her. Actually she’s good company—for a grouchy old crone!” I am so delighted I smack my mother’s leg playfully through the bedclothes. It’s only as I’m puffing down Long Acre toward the office that it strikes me: I’ve been squandering about sixteen hours a week with my mother for the last five months. Why the hell didn’t she tell me before? Needless to say, I skid into work ten minutes late for the supplement meeting.

When I slink out of the supplement meeting exhausted but relieved (having winged it—or is it wung it?), there is an illegal copy of
Gregorian Moods
sitting on my desk and a note from Lizzy: “Lunch?” She’s so sweet, but I know she’ll expect a gritty account of my mother’s progress, and today I’m not up to sharing with the group. My head is swirling. Why didn’t Mum tell me about her and Nana Flo? Her concealment is as offensive as Tina’s sudden, hypocritical refusal to divulge intimate juicy details about her sex life with Adrian. When Lizzy and I are her closest friends!

I make my excuses, then pounce on the phone and ring my mother. She picks up and I rattle off about fifty questions: “How are you? How are you feeling? Is Nana with you? What have you been doing?” My mother, to my infinite relief, is calm. She’s “tired but feels better than yesterday.”
Christ, I should think so, with all those jollifying drugs inside you.
My mother also tells me that Nana Flo came round, although she only arrived at 11:30 because she took the bus. Nana Flo has been showing her pictures of Morrie as a small boy. He looked serious in all of them.

While I am impressed that Nana Flo is—for the first time in her life—doing the old person thing and hoicking about dreary aged photographs, I suspect my mother is keeping something from me. I can hear it in her voice. I ask a very stupid question: “Mum, are you okay?”

She chirps, “Fine! Nana Flo is moving in for a while.”

At first I don’t believe her. I’d find it easier to believe that Santa Claus is shacking up with the Tooth Fairy. “You’re kidding!” I squeak. But she isn’t. “But why?” I say.

“Because Dr. Collins said I need a support system,” she retorts.

“Well, that’s great,” I say slowly. “So you won’t need me to stay over, then.”

My mother replies happily, “No.”

This news should delight me, but it doesn’t. It makes me growly for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time I get home to the flat I’m feeling as snappy as a shark with a tooth infection. I slam the door and am promptly assaulted by a gutteral cacophany: “Uuuuh! Uuuh! Uuuuh!” and “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Please, not again! It’s obscene. I hurl a frenzied volley of V-signs toward Marcus’ room, then blow a long loud raspberry.
Bastard bastard bastard.
The anger pulsates. Every grunt and moan is a personal affront. I stomp to the kitchen, viciously grinding my heels into the carpet. (A typical Marcus refrain: “Can you take off your shoes in the house, please? That carpet cost £24.95 per square meter.”)

I yank a baguette out of the freezer and wish I was a certified psychopath so I could burst into Marcus’s room and beat him about the head with it and not be sent to prison. Hey, maybe I could bribe my mother to do it. I shove the baguette into the oven, thunder back to my room, and flop onto the bed. Normally I’d play the Beastie Boys to reinforce my wrath, but this mood is too dark and malevolent for tunes. It demands silence. Abruptly, I’m gripped by a surge of hate so vivid I can taste its sour potency. Suddenly I’m thumping and pummelling my pillow—
bam! bam! bam!
—and my fists are bashing Marcus’s face to a pulp and I’m screaming and screaming. No words, just a long shrill blast of sound.

I only stop screaming when Luke, Marcus, and Michelle burst into my room on the assumption that I’m being murdered. Luke is blinkily anxious while Marcus and Michelle are as breathless and pink-faced as I am. Michelle is wrapped in Marcus’s red velvet dressing gown and Marcus is wearing black silk boxer shorts.

“Bad day at work,” I explain, forcing a smile.

Marcus glares at me. Michelle affects concern and croons, “You’ve burst a blood vessel under your eye—loads of funny red dots! Do you want me to get you some ice?”

I sit on my hands to stop them clawing her face. “I’m fine, thank you,” I say, although my voice is now as hoarse as a stallion. “You can all go away now.”

Marcus treats me to one last glance of disdain before exiting. Michelle curls her fingers in a queenly wave and follows, shutting the door behind her. Luke remains, his arms dangling awkwardly. He scratches his head and says, “Do you want a hug?”

I don’t, but it would seem churlish to refuse, so I say, “Yes, please.” Luke clumsily clasps me to him. My nose is squashed into his armpit which makes it difficult—and probably unwise—to breathe in. Eventually, I am forced to snuffle loudly for air. Luke obviously mistakes the snuffle for a sniffle, because he kisses my hair, pats my back (nearly winding me), and exclaims, “Don’t cry!”

I disentangle myself and croak, “I’m not!” Then I add gruffly, “Thanks for, um, worrying, though.”

Luke beams and says, “What happened at work, then?”

I consider telling him the truth, then decide against it. He’d blurt it out to Marcus by mistake. “I got told off for being late this morning,” I whisper.

“Maybe you should set your alarm earlier,” says Luke immediately.

“Mm,” I say, trying to hide my irritation. I’ve already lectured him on offering solutions where they’re not wanted. There is a silence which is cut short by a distant roar. We stare at each other, intrigued.

“Maybe Marcus had a bad day at work today too,” says Luke. I do hope so.

We jump up and run into the kitchen, where Marcus is dancing from toe to toe like a hobgoblin and frenziedly flapping at the oven with a dishcloth. The room is thick with gray smoke. I peer into the haze and see the baguette burning to death.

“Shit! I forgot about that,” I say, carefully avoiding any mention of the word “sorry.” Marcus speeds across the room, holding the baguette—a blackened corpse with glowing red innards—at arm’s length. He drops it into the sink, twists the cold tap, and the charred remains of my dinner hiss and sizzle.

Michelle coughs pointedly. Luke watches, mouth agape, entranced by the spectacle of Marcus in a tizz. I suck in my cheeks to stop myself laughing but don’t entirely succeed. Marcus hurls the dishcloth to the floor like a gauntlet, and shrieks, “My Poggenpohl is a ruin! I am so sick of you and your slovenly ways, you, you, you slut!”

I have never been so insulted, not even by Jasper. “Takes one to know one,” I reply, and stalk out. Before running into my room, I yell from the hallway, “And if I were a bloke with a Poggenpohl like yours, I’d bloody well keep quiet about it!” Childish, I admit, but the best I can do at short notice.

Chapter 21

B
RITISH WEATHER IS FAMED
for its sneakiness, but this year, throughout August, it disgraced itself. The entire month, I’d pull open the curtains at 8:15 to the sophorific sight of a baby blue sky. I’d scurry to the station in t-shirt, flimsy trousers, and open-toed sandals, and feel the sun shine seductively warm on my skin. Before starting work, I’d flap around exclaiming to colleagues, “Isn’t it hot!” Then at 12:45, I’d glance out of the window, wondering whether to get lasagne or a baked potato for lunch (answer: whichever looked bigger in the shop) and behold a monsoon!

The sky would loom as dark and baleful as doomsday and someone would inevitably rush in, shake the cold droplets from her hair, brush off her thin cotton shift dress, and proclaim it “freezing outside.” This climatic spite would persist until the day I’d painstakingly haul in a raincoat and extra sweater. Then there’d be a twenty-four-hour heatwave. The only consolation was, everyone got caught out. Except Lizzy.

“Are you telepathic or something?” I grumbled one lunchtime, huddling under her umbrella to save my hair from water damage.

“No,” she replied, “I watch the weather forecast before I go to bed.”

Despite the rain, I stopped in the street. “By God, you’re a genius!” I exclaimed. “What a brilliant, brilliant, novel idea!” But while admiring her guile, I knew I’d never have the patience to follow her example.

So I got wet. I always do. I’m like Fatboy in this respect—I regard forward planning as a yawn. (Fatboy’s favorite pastime is to creep into Marcus’s newly washed duvet as it dries over a chair, even though he always gets lost and trapped in it. But he’d rather embark on the duvet adventure now, and meow piteously for help later.) I also rarely think ahead, then suffer the consequences.

And so, it never in a trillion years occurred to me that my mother and Nana Flo might be driven to pal up, and that I’d feel spurned and foolish and jealous when they did. Lizzy, though, has more foresight than I do and has realized—in retrospect—that their friendship was a certainty.

I tell her all about it over lunch on Friday, as by then I am able to sound nonchalant. She nods wisely and sips at her Evian. “I suppose they have your father in common, if nothing else,” she says.

“Yes, but they’ve always had my father in common,” I say, with my mouth full of tuna mayonnaise, “and it made bugger all difference.”

I pause, fascinated, as Lizzy daintily extracts the capers from her olive pasta sauce and lines them up neatly at the side of her plate. “Why didn’t they get on?” she asks. I frown. “Don’t frown, you’ll get wrinkles!” she cries.

“Sorry,” I say. I try to think without frowning. “I get the impression Nana Flo disapproved of my mother.”

Lizzy gasps. “Why? Your mother’s lovely!” I shrug.

“Well, although Nana worked herself, Nana doesn’t really approve of women working. Not married ones.”

Lizzy rolls her eyes. I add, “Less time to devote to my dad. And she was never a great housewife.”

Lizzy giggles. “So that’s where you get it from,” she says.

“I have other talents,” I grin. “Speaking of sex, how is Brian?” (I still think the man’s a berk , but for Lizzy’s sake I’ll feign interest. Anyway, I am interested. In a repulsed sort of way.)

Lizzy blushes. “Really well. We’re getting on brilliantly.”

I widen my eyes and lean toward her: “Specify.”

Lizzy beams. “We were chatting recently and I happened to mention that I liked fresh figs but they’re really expensive. And last night he came round to see me and he’d bought me a great big bagful! In November!” Not being a massive fruit fanatic, I am unappreciative of the lengths one has to go to in order to obtain fresh figs in November. Don’t you just walk into a shop?

Lizzy misreads the dim expression on my face and adds, humbly, “He’s not traditionally romantic, like Adrian is to Tina—all those bouquets—but I’ve never really cared about flowers. Not that it isn’t lovely for Tina, of course. But the figs! I was so touched. It was such a thoughtful gesture.”

I jump to correct her. “Oh, no, I didn’t think anything bad, it was a lovely thing for him to do… if you want your girlfriend farting away all night like a foghorn.” Lizzy reddens again and giggles.

Suddenly she stops laughing, and taps the table as if to redirect our attention to the business of the day. She says, “So how come Nana Flo approves of your mother now?”

I have no idea. “I have no idea,” I say. “I don’t even know if she does approve of her.”

Lizzy replies, “But she must, if they’ve started meeting up all of a sudden!”

God knows. “She’s weird,” I say. “I think she’s never taken to my mother but she’s always tried to be friendly.”

Lizzy nods. “For your father’s sake?”

I nod, too. “Yes, I suppose.”

Lizzy pauses. “So maybe, now your father has… passed on, she’s still being friendly for his sake.”

I wonder. “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Maybe it’s because he’s no longer there to fight over. But I think
it’s
down to my mum, too. She never needed Nana Flo. And now, perhaps, she does.”

Lizzy looks excited. “And maybe,” she exclaims in a breathy I-love-it-when-a-plan-comes-together whisper, “now Nana Flo has lost a son, she needs a daughter! Now I think about it, it makes perfect sense!”

Blimey, I wouldn’t go that far. “Nana Flo,” I say, “is the least maternal woman I’ve ever met, apart from my mother. She’s not what you’d call sympathetic. She didn’t stop my mum slashing her wrists, did she?”

Lizzy purses her lips. “No, but that’s not what I’m saying. How could she stop her? No one could.”

I say, “Except my father bouncing back from the grave, alive and well and not a ghost, shouting ‘tricked you!’ ”

Lizzy turns down the corners of her mouth, dismayed at my irreverence. “Oh, Helen,” she says, “no one can replace your father. But even if your grandmother isn’t sympathetic—I’m sure she cares.”

That’s the problem with Lizzy. She thinks everyone is as goodly as she is. Even me. I sigh and say, “Yeah. I suppose Nana’s better than nothing.” I think of my efforts to care for my mother and a small defensive voice inside me says,
But you weren’t nothing. You were something. Your cooking was vile but you weren’t nothing.
Aloud, I say cautiously, “Funny how my mum didn’t tell me about seeing my grandmother, don’t you think?”

Lizzy tilts her glossy head to one side and considers. Then she says, “Maybe she forgot.” And maybe the earth is flat and the moon is a large piece of cheese. Time to change the subject. The conversation has turned maudlin, and frankly, after Monday I’ve had maudlin up to my eyeballs.

“You know when you do that body brushing thing?” I ask slyly.

“Yes,” says Lizzy, sitting to attention.

“I always forget—you brush toward your hands and feet, don’t you?”

Lizzy looks aghast. “Oh, heavens, no! You brush toward your heart! It’s essential!” She embarks on a ten-minute lecture about exfoliation and friction and massage and on a deeper level improving microcirculation and removing toxins and excess fluid—and Nana Flo is forgotten. Mission accomplished. I am relieved that when we next convene for lunch, Tina deigns to join us and therefore serious conversation is banned. In fact, almost all conversation is banned. I start off on what I assume is a safe topic: Adrian.

M
E
: [jokily] “So, Tina, how’s loverboy?”

T
INA
: [coldly] “What do you mean by that?”

L
IZZY
: [diplomatically] “She, Helen, means Adrian—he seems mad about you. We wondered how he was.”

T
INA
: [shiftily] “Well, thank you.”

M
E
: [offended] “I don’t see why you’re so touchy about a simple question. It’s not like I asked the size of his dick.” [Thinking:
Anyway, back when this relationship wasn’t such a holy relic, you told me, so I know anyway.
]

T
INA
: [snappish] “Some things are private. We’re not fucking fifteen.”

M
E
: [goading] “What’s wrong, are you premenstrual?”

L
IZZY
: [hurriedly] “I’m sure Tina isn’t, but I’ve got some Evening Primrose Oil if she is. It’s superb, really effective. I swear by it.”

T
INA
: [furious] “I haven’t got PMT! Bloody hell! You wouldn’t ask a man that! And don’t give me that flower oil crap! I swear by it, too—it’s fucking shite!

L
IZZY
: [shocked] “Tina, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

M
E
: [sullen] “Me neither.”

We fall silent. Lizzy fiddles nervously with her steamed noodles, I prod sulkily at my baked potato, and Tina scowls at her baked beans on toast. I chant: “Beans, beans, good for the heart, the more you eat the more you f—”

Tina slams down her fork and roars: “Shut it!” If you ask me, she’s been watching too many reruns of
The Sweeney.

And this may sound contrary, but the snarlier Tina becomes, the keener I am to annoy her. So I move away from flatulence jokes and on to personal jibes. Tina has a scabby cold sore by the side of her mouth. I rip off a piece of brown potato skin and stick it on my lower lip: “Who’s this?” Lizzy stifles a giggle. I catch Tina’s stricken expression and collapse. I am wheezing with laughter at my own gag when Tina leaps up, scraping her chair, and rushes out.

I freeze. “Do you think she’s okay?” I ask Lizzy.

Lizzy looks peturbed. “I’m not sure,” she says. I sigh and throw down my napkin. My potato is as hard as granite and as tasty. “Wait here,” I say. “It’s my fault. You finish your noodles.”

But we both run out of the cafe and chase after Tina. “Tina! Stop! I’m sorry!” I shout. But she keeps running. Happily, she is encumbered by her Prada shoes and pencil skirt and we soon catch her up. It takes four minutes of five-star groveling before she agrees to let us buy her a coffee. This time, Lizzy and I restrict the conversation to our love lives. Or, in my case, lack of one.

L
IZZY
: [shyly] “I’d love you both to meet Brian properly. Are either of you free tomorrow night?”

T
INA
: [stiffly] “Thanks for the offer, but I’m busy I’m afraid.”

M
E
: [proudly] “Me, too.”

L
IZZY
: [after consideration] “Oh. What are you doing, Helen?”

M
E
: [coy] “I’m seeing Tom, actually. You know, the vet. You remember Tom, Tina?”

T
INA
: [more relaxed] “I certainly do, Tequila Girl!”

M
E
: [suddenly keen to change subject] “Anyway, Lizzy, let’s arrange to meet Brian another time.”

T
INA
: [getting even] “So! Tom is on again, is he? I didn’t realize he was into watersports.”

M
E
: [incensed] “Shut up! Don’t be disgusting!”

L
IZZY
: [clueless] “What? I don’t get it.”

M
E
: [quickly] “Never mind. Where are you going with Brian tomorrow, then?”

T
INA
: [butting in] “So, Helen, tell us more about Tom. How far have you got?”

M
E
: [glaring at Tina] “It’s not like that. Anyway, ‘some things are private.’ ”

T
INA
: [spitefully] “In other words, you’ve got nowhere.”

M
E
: [defensive] “Who said I wanted to get anywhere anyway?”

T
INA
: [sarcastic] “So it’s platonic? Oh, I believe you.”

M
E
: [angrily] “I only split up with Jasper about a minute ago! Why do I always have to be shagging someone?”

T
INA
: [nastily] “You tell me.”

M
E
: [hurt] “Thanks for that.”

T
INA
: [not that sorry] “I’m sorry, Helen, but you’re always splitting up with Jasper.”

L
IZZY
: [finally able to get a word in] “We just want the best for you. That’s all. And Jasper, well, Jasper isn’t always that thoughtful.”

M
E
: [embarrassed] “Blah blah blah. Leave Jasper out of it.”

T
INA
: [triumphantly] “We did until you brought him into it!”

L
IZZY
: [desperate] “Why don’t we all go out later in the week? I’ll bring Brian, and you two can bring whoever you like, or it can just be the four of us? How about Friday?

M
E
: [subdued] “Okay. But it’ll probably be me on my own.”

T
INA
: [rubbing it in] “I’ll see if Adrian has any plans.”

Between the two of them I am relieved to get back to the office. Which is a first. Laetitia promptly sends me out again to buy her some non-perfumed deodorant. “As you wish!” I chirrup and rush off. When I return, Laetitia asks me to call an expert for a quote on “domestic violence” and I start ringing around immediately. Usually I procrastinate by scrunching up bits of paper on my desk for at least half an hour in preparation. I know Laetitia is impressed by this afternoon’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm because when I cry “Done it!” ten minutes later, she replies, “Good.”

She’s only ever said “good” to me twice before (the first time when I passed on the message that the
GirlTime
astrologer was threatening to resign and the second time when I told her that someone called Oliver Braithwaite had called “re the hunting weekend”). I beam and reply, “My pleasure.” I need every Brownie point I can scrape. I am also trying to distract myself from dwelling on the fact that on Thursday morning my mother has her first appointment with the Nut Nurse. (The nurse is coming to the house as my mother refused to go to the clinic.)