Summer Holiday. Penny Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ During the complicated explanation he had given, in which he had blamed dark forces and a boy who was swotty, spotty, blond and a bed-wetter, he had discovered an aptitude for lying. It was standing him in good stead now, but what he needed were the books his mother had given him and which he had mixed up with two yards of leatherbound dictionaries bought in a drunken moment from Sotheby’s.

      When Miranda turned on her mobile phone on Monday, there were several texts and voicemail messages, at least half of which related to the books. ‘Pesky blighter,’ she said aloud, making an avocado, cottage cheese and tomato sandwich for breakfast – she’d had no dinner the night before. There was also a message from Alex, suggesting dinner on Wednesday at Zuma, a very smart restaurant in Knightsbridge. That struck her as odd because he didn’t look the type who would know its name, even less frequent it.

      Was he expecting her to pay? Or go halves? Well, if that was the price of hanging out with younger men, she supposed she’d have to bite the bullet.

      The trouble was that she had recently put what was left of her cash into a copper-bottomed scheme that Lucy had organised. It had been paying such rich dividends that she had taken out a mortgage on the house and piled in more. She envisaged it growing year by year into a kind of enormous, bouncy pension that she could lie around on in her old age – but it left her very short for day-to-day expenses. That was one major disadvantage in not having Nigel to sort out the finances. And the reason she needed a job.

      She composed a text, saying she would love to have dinner with him, then hesitated over whether to put an ‘x’ at the end of the message. She put it on, took it off and put it on. Then took it off just before she pressed send. A date. With a man who was only a bit older than her daughter. Or thereabouts, since she didn’t know for certain how old he was. If he was thirty, he was thirteen years younger, therefore two-thirds her age. Or was that three-quarters? Her maths had always been a bit foggy, particularly round fractions.

      She finished her breakfast, and put the items in the dishwasher. Oh dear. Is that one of those non-eco things I shouldn’t be doing, like brushing my teeth without using water? Or was it okay as long as the dishwasher was full? But that meant there would be bits of dried food mouldering away in it, smelling like a teenager’s bedroom.

      After a quick shower (saves on water), Miranda threw on an orange and cream Diane von Furstenburg dress and carefully put on her makeup. She had a hair appointment at eleven thirty, which would leave her with just enough time to get to the Lanesborough, near Hyde Park Corner, which did a very fine pot of loose-leaf tea. There she would do battle with her mother. It was a ritual she felt sure neither enjoyed much, but it had become so entrenched in their lives that it would be difficult for them to back out now.

      Her mother. Where to start? She had got to that age where every action was accompanied by an equal and inapposite reaction. Bending resulted in a little exhalation, a ‘pah’ of effort. Sitting down occasionally concluded with a full-blown ‘aaaah’. Was it legitimate, she wondered, to say that she loved her mother but didn’t like her very much? That seemed churlish when Miranda knew how much effort it took to raise a child.

      A few hours later, in the unforgiving daylight of the glass-domed room, her hair newly highlighted and blow-dried (such a treat after two days of it being sweaty and itchy), she watched as her mother ever so slightly touched her tongue to the cup while sipping the Lady Grey. It was just one of the habits that irritated her. Mothers. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t shoot them. Although there were those who did, obviously. Her parents had loved Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em – if Miranda ran the BBC (or was it ITV?), she would commission a show called Some Children Do ’Ave ’Em. It would feature a mother who was constantly at you about everything and a father who forgot your name but remembered the hamster’s.

      She had a forlorn hope that she would never look like her mother, but was very aware that at some stage she probably would. In which case, she was heading for a mouth like a sucked lemon and long earlobes.

      Nigel had cloyingly called her mother a stunner, and it was true that photographs from her youth showed some similarity to Diana Dors. But for half a century she had been married to a philandering workaholic and the stress had left her features crabby and disappointed.

      ‘What are you going to do with that boy of yours?’ her mother asked, reaching for the pot of clotted cream.

      ‘Jack is perfectly all right, Mum. He phoned me the other day from Indonesia. He’s on his way to Borneo and I think he said he was volunteering to help at an orang-utan centre. It sounds like he’s having a great time and getting work experience,’ she lied.

      Her mother spread a large dollop of strawberry jam on her creamed scone and then consumed half of it. At least I’ll have inherited excellent teeth and digestion, thought Miranda.

      ‘He needs a sense of direction,’ said her mother. ‘If you hadn’t got divorced, he might have stayed on the straight and narrow. Been working in the City now and saving for a house.’

      Miranda listened to the well-trodden rant and continued to sip her tea. Thank goodness for Jack. Weird how Lucy had become so like her father. She had been such a sweet child. Rather like a stuffed squid when she was going through the terrible twos, with dimpled arms and legs that didn’t seem to bend in the middle, but she had turned into a pretty little girl.

      ‘Did I ever have a comfort blanket, Mum?’ she suddenly asked.

      Her mother looked disgruntled at being interrupted just as she was getting into her stride about feckless youth, but finally said, ‘No, not a blanket. There was that stuffed polecat you had from Uncle Ben. You used to suck its ears and scream like a banshee if we didn’t have it with us. Why?’

      ‘I was remembering how Jack used to take a funny little bear everywhere until he was about eleven. And Lucy had that pink satin blanket from a doll’s cot. I found it the other day when I unpacked a box of odds and sods that’d been in the cupboard under the stairs. She must have lobbed it in there years ago – terrible reek of mothballs. I think I’ve finally found her sentimental streak.’

      ‘She’s a wonderful girl, Lucy …’

      Before her mother could begin a new strand involving her beloved granddaughter, Miranda cut her off by enquiring sweetly if she wanted a top-up because she was definitely having more Darjeeling, and waved over a waiter.

      ‘Did you have a good weekend?’ asked her mother, searching for a neutral topic.

      ‘Er, yes, actually. I did some volunteer work at a canal in Oxfordshire,’ she said, clasping her hands together and giving her mother a challenging look.

      ‘Did you?’ her mother asked, horrified.

      ‘Uh-huh. It was really good fun. Thought I needed to get out more – do something constructive. It’s a precursor to getting a job. Yes. After all these years. And before you ask, no, I don’t think it will be in the acting world – I’m far too long in the tooth. I don’t know what kind of job, except it won’t be lap-dancing, circus work or anything else that will embarrass the children. Although I quite fancy burlesque … Mum, you should see your face! Anyway, I went to Oxfordshire and met some very nice people.’ Not a total lie. One of them was very nice.

      ‘Really?’ her mother asked in disbelief.

      ‘Yes, Mum. They were. Perhaps not the sort of people you’d meet at the Rotary Club, but good sorts.’ What on earth was she saying? She’d be using expressions like ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk’ next.

      She pressed on, ‘I enjoyed it so СКАЧАТЬ