Every Woman For Herself: This hilarious romantic comedy from the Sunday Times Bestseller is the perfect spring read. Trisha Ashley
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Tips for Southern Visitors, No. 1
It is possible to have any variety of Northern accent in conjunction with an intellect.
At dinner it emerged that Father had also inadvertently crashed Em’s tea party, barely escaping without being ravished by Freya, Lilith and Xanthe (well, that was his version, anyway).
‘Congratulations, Em,’ he said through a mouthful of home-made chicken pie. ‘Not one of your friends is normal.’
‘Speaking of normal,’ Em said coolly, ‘your son is coming home tomorrow for a rest.’
Jessica helped herself to a lettuce leaf, looked at it doubtfully, and put half back again in the bowl. ‘I haven’t met Branwell yet,’ she said. ‘Is he as dishy as you, darling?’
The two little girls, who were doing full justice to the despised stodge, giggled.
‘He’s nothing like me,’ Father said tersely. ‘Charlie’s nothing like me, either.’
‘I’m like Mother, though, and I expect Bran takes after his.’
‘Your mother’s very famous, isn’t she?’ Jessica asked. ‘Big in America. But I do think all this writing books and talking about feminism does more harm than good, don’t you?’
‘Someone’s got to speak out, especially when men are trying to claim great works of women’s fiction as their own,’ Em commented pointedly, but Father refused to rise to the bait.
‘Yes, wasn’t Elizabeth Barrett Browning lucky, having such a clever husband to write her work for her?’ I said innocently. ‘I wonder how on earth she managed before he came along? Perhaps one of her brothers?’
‘You mustn’t tease,’ Jessica said earnestly. ‘Ran researches very thoroughly. He works very hard.’
‘He has to research thoroughly to find scraps of evidence that can be twisted into proving what he wants,’ Em said.
‘And you, of course, are a great writer and know all about it?’ he said sarcastically. ‘My dear Em, I don’t think writing doggerel for greeting-card manufacturers quite qualifies you as a literary critic.’
‘No, but I don’t just write for greeting cards – I’m also Serafina Shane.’
While this was a bit of a damp squib as far as Father and myself were concerned, Jessica laid down her fork and stared.
‘What, Serafina Shane out of Women Live! magazine? Womanly Wicca Words of Spiritual Comfort? I’ve ordered the book!’
‘Advance orders have been very brisk,’ Em said complacently, and bestowed a slightly warmer gaze on Jessica than I had ever seen before. She might just live, after all.
‘Well done, Em,’ I said. ‘If I’d known I’d have read them, but I never buy women’s mags – they’re all New Woman, and Never Admit You’re Forty Woman, and Rich Bored Bitchy Woman, when all I ever wanted was something like Skint Old Northern Woman.’
‘You’re right,’ Em said. ‘Weren’t you going to start one?’
‘Yes, in fact my hobby during the last few weeks has been writing articles for the sort of magazine I’d really like to find. I’ve got quite a lot.’
‘Do I understand, Emily,’ Father broke in, ‘that you’ve been writing your ghastly doggerel for a women’s magazine, and it’s now coming out as a book?’
‘Yes – inspirational verse and prose. I’m very popular.’
‘Serafina what?’ I asked.
‘Shane.’
‘At least it isn’t Rhymer!’ Father said.
‘Well done, Em!’ I enthused.
‘So what were you plotting with your abnormal friends when I came in this morning?’ enquired Father.
‘We were trying various means to discover where Anne is. There’s something the matter with her, and I can’t get any reply from her flat. Xanthe tried the crystal pendulum.’
‘And Xanthe knows everything?’ He frowned. ‘And why does she look so familiar?’
Em ignored this. ‘The crystal showed us where she was – somewhere near her flat. Then Freya did a reading, and discovered that Anne’s had an operation, but she’ll be here soon to recuperate.’
‘I suppose you know this because Anne’s phoned,’ he said sceptically.
‘No. You know Anne, she’ll phone when she’s nearly here. Gloria Mundi’s turning out her room, now she’s finished Bran’s.’
‘What makes you think the Three Witches got it right?’
‘They always get it right. That’s why I’m joining their coven. I’ve been pussyfooting round the mealy-mouthed edges for long enough, and now I’m going to wholeheartedly embrace the Ancient Arts.’
‘Prostitution?’ suggested Ran. ‘I hear it’s very well paid.’
Em gave him a look. ‘The Ancient Black Arts,’ she said.
Jessica gasped, her eyes widening in alarm. ‘You mean – black magic? Oh, my God! The children!’
But the little girls, bored with the conversation, had crept away unnoticed. One of the dishes of meringues from the sideboard had gone too.
‘Oh, Emily – promise you won’t say anything about it in front of the girls! Don’t they sacrifice little children, and sell their souls to the Devil?’
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