Something Wicked. Sherry Ashworth

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      Julia was sitting on the sofa with Mum, holding both her hands. It made me feel a bit sick – jealous, even – and so I let a sarcastic comment out.

      “How’s your non-specific anxiety disorder, Julia?” This is what she claims to be suffering from. In plain English, that’s worrying needlessly.

      “Thank you for asking, honey. I’m making progress. I understand now that it comes from caring too much – it’s the result of a caring overload.”

      Oh, puh-lease!

      “Anna,” my mum said. “Can you make Julia a drink?”

      Grudgingly I asked the traditional questions. Tea? Coffee? Milk? Sugar?

      “Do you have anything herbal?” Julia asked. “Camomile would be a joy.”

      I was waiting for the kettle to boil when my ears picked up the tune of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On. I was puzzled for a moment or two, until I realised it was Julia’s mobile ringtone. I made a retching motion to myself. Then I heard her chatting to Geoff, her husband, confirming my suspicions. Julia’s voice was loud and brash, and it carried. When she finished the call, she carried on making my mum feel better.