Me and You

Byrne & Sacetti is one of those Italian eateries that never seem to close, ever. They start with brekkie at dawn, lunch from twelve, afternoon teas, coffees, cakes, etc. in the food hall throughout the rest of the day, the evening restaurant proper opens at six, while wine is available downstairs in cellar bar till closing time. Gold mine, in other words. Even in the depths of recession, this place is still pulling ’em in.

Kitty’s been working here for close to two years now, but still, in all the many, many times I’ve met her here after her shift before she’d drag me off for a night out, I’ve never seen it quite this jammed. Like the bleeding last days of Rome in here. Christmas revellers, already half-cut from too much daytime boozing, are staggering and clattering downstairs from the restaurant, while in the food hall section, last-minute shoppers panicking about tomorrow’s dinner are nearly arm-wrestling each other over the last of the Panettones.

Gonna get ugly before too long, I can just feel it in the air.

12.22 p.m.

Still wandering round Byrne & Sacetti, one level at a time. I’m snooping round the basement wine bar now, weaving round stuffed-to-the-gills tables of Xmas boozers, trying not to trip over their abandoned shopping bags. There’s a big gang of the ladies-who-lunch brigade in, all dressed in fashionable nude colours with nude, Kate Middleton heels to match and all looking like human Elastoplasts, if you ask me. All of them unanimously shoot irritated looks at me, as I almost stumble over expensive-looking handbags, abandoned carelessly at well-heeled feet.

Apologise, but don’t really mean it. I’m only here on the off-chance I get lucky and chance on some waiter pal of Kitty’s who might know something; anything. I would have met a good selection of her buddies from work, including a lot of the Sacetti family, from a few nights on the razz that Kitty’s dragged me along to over the past few years. With karaoke nights featuring v. large; the Irish-Italians are very fond of their karaoke, it seems.

No joy, though. Can only see Xmas revellers starting the celebrations early, laying into their celebratory glasses of Prosecco and antipasti platters.

Mine is the only stressed-looking face; everyone else is having a rare old time, like the whole world has clocked off for the holidays.

Even Kitty.

12.45 p.m.

Finally … success!

I’m just nosing around the packed function room on the very top floor now, weaving in and out of groups of invitees clutching champagne flutes and trying not to look like I’m out to gatecrash a private Christmas party, when suddenly I hear my own name being yelled out loud and clear.

‘Angie? Angie Blennerhasset? That you?’

Delighted, I turn round to see Joyce Byrne, part-owner here and a good pal of Kitty’s. Married to Stephano Sacetti, other half of the Business Empire. Hardest working couple I think I’ve ever met in my entire life. Lovely, perpetually smiley, happy Joyce, still radiating Xmasy good cheer in spite of the fact she’s probably been slaving away and on her feet since sometime before I went to bed last night.

I give her a big hug and fill her in.

‘You mean Kitty just never turned up at the Sanctuary this morning?’ says Joyce, horrified, and, I swear, the shock in her voice is almost reassuring. See? Proves I’m not mad, for one thing. I’m on the right track. Something awful must have happened.

‘You’re kidding me! She was so looking forward to it! She was full of chat about the whole thing; you should have seen the girl! She was all excited …’

‘You mean … Kitty’s definitely not here now, then? Hasn’t been moved to work in the kitchen or anything?’

‘No, definitely not. If she were, I’d know. Been here since the crack of dawn. Besides, I was only just thinking how quiet the staff room was without her.’

‘And the last time you saw her was …?’

Starting to feel v. Hercule Poirot-ish now.

‘God, let me think. It was definitely last night, seriously late, I think it must have been well after one in the morning. She was just finishing up after a party in the restaurant and I was doing the till. She gave me a lovely bottle of wine for Christmas, said she’d see me soon, then bounced out of here, all excited about seeing you. And, of course, going off on holidays with gorgeous fella of hers.’

Hard to put into words the feeling of total deflation. I was so hopeful Kitty might have been here all along and just through some complete fluke, I hadn’t spotted her yet.

‘So where do you think she might be?’ Joyce asks me, worriedly.

‘Well, let’s work it out. You last saw her at around one o’clock this morning. And she’s definitely not at home now, but her car is there …’

‘Yeah …’

‘So wherever she is, chances are she hasn’t gone too far …’

Oh God. Sudden shock goes through me like I’ve just been electrocuted. Suppose Kitty was on her way home from work, and then got abducted by some sick, pervy sociopath who now has her locked up in a cellar somewhere?

Joyce really must be a mind-reader. She immediately grips my arm, quickly grabs a glass of still water from a passing waiter and makes me gulp down a few mouthfuls.

‘Angie, the worst thing you can do is let your imagination run away with you. Trust me, there’s some perfectly innocent explanation for all this. Have you spoken to her boyfriend?’

‘No, he’s not answering his mobile either. I can’t get a hold of him at all …’

‘Oh, that’s right, of course. Kitty told me he’s gone home to his folks down the country for Christmas and that she wouldn’t be seeing him till Stephen’s Day.’

‘Unless …’

‘Unless what?’

And there it is, the simple bloody answer to all this! Been staring me in the face all this time. Why didn’t I think of it before now?

‘Maybe there was some emergency with … well, with her foster mother? Something so urgent that Kitty just had to drop everything and run?’

The sudden relief at saying it aloud is almost overwhelming. Of course that’s what must have happened. Explains away everything, doesn’t it? I was an utter gobshite not to have guessed earlier!

It’s a v., v. long and complex story, but the brief potted summary is that Kitty has no family to speak of, never even knew her dad, and her birth mother passed away when she was just a baby. She grew up in one foster home after another but says none of them ever really worked out and she just drifted around from Billy to Jack, rootless. Then when she was about fifteen, she was placed with an older, widowed lady called Mrs Kennedy and the pair of them just idolised and adored each other right from the word go. To this day, Kitty considers Mrs K., as she affectionately calls her, to be the only real family she ever had, even though she was only homed with her for over a year.

But when Kitty was only about sixteen, the poor woman started to become seriously ill with Alzheimer’s, followed by a series of strokes. Awful for her and just as bad for Kitty too, though she never let on. Instead, she just did what Kitty always does: tried to keep the show on the road single-handedly for as long as she could.

Anyway, it got to stage when authorities decided Mrs K. couldn’t care for herself any more, never mind a sixteen-year-old, so on what Kitty calls the most Dickensian day of her life, they broke them up and packed Mrs K. off to the best-equipped care home going, for someone with her condition. Meanwhile, Kitty was sent off to yet another foster family, and from that point on, she just completely clams up whenever I gently probe her for more about her back-story.

Mrs K. is being well looked after, though, and to this day, Kitty still visits her at the care home every chance she gets. Only trouble is, it’s just outside Limerick, a bloody two-and-a-half-hour journey from here. Kitty’s amazing though; drives down to see her every day off that she can. I’ve even gone with her a few times, but find it all just sad beyond belief. There are days when Mrs K. doesn’t even recognise Kitty; confuses her with one of staff nurses in care home and for some reason keeps calling her Jean.

Also, I’m just not a born natural round ill people, like Kitty is. Kitty will laugh and joke and even bounce round other wards to visit all Mrs K.’s pals; you can always tell what room she’s in by the loud sound of guffaws that follow her about everywhere. Like a one-woman Broadway show. Whereas I never know what to say or do, just sit tongue-tied in corner, then end up coming out with weak, useless crap along the lines of, ‘Well, she’s certainly looking a whole lot better, isn’t she?’

Even worse, the days when Mrs K. doesn’t know us are lately becoming the good days; sometimes she won’t talk to us at all, just sits rocking away to self and singing theme tunes from TV shows, bird-happy, away in own little world. Keeps confusing me with one of the tea ladies called Maureen, and every now and then will screech at me, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Maureen? I hate bloody egg and onion sandwiches!’

Heartbreaking. My own family may not exactly be the Waltons, but Kitty’s story at least makes me appreciate what I have that bit more.

So maybe I’m finally on the money here. Because if something did happen to Mrs K., I just know in my waters Kitty wouldn’t think twice about hotfooting it all way to Limerick, would she? And she couldn’t phone me to explain on account of … well, maybe there being no mobile signal down there?

Has to have been what happened. And the only reason it didn’t occur to me before now is that for past few years, although Mrs K.’s mental state is deteriorating fast, she’s been so physically strong that not even Kitty was worried about her for the longest time.

‘Joyce, I think I should call the care home. Now.’

‘Of course,’ she says firmly. ‘You can use the phone from my office; you’ll have a bit more privacy. It’s just off the kitchens. Come on, I’ll show you.’

Obediently I follow her and the pair of us weave our way through the Christmas boozers, worry now vom-making in my throat. Don’t know what Kitty will do if anything’s happened to Mrs K. Especially not now, at Christmas. She’s the only person in the whole world that Kitty considers family; it would just be too bloody unfair by far.

Joyce efficiently brings up number of Foxborough House care home on her computer and even dials for me. Hands trembling nervously now as the number starts to ring.

‘Foxborough House, how may I help you?’ comes a polite, breezy, unstressed voice.

‘Hi, there, I was wondering if I could enquire after Mrs Kathleen Kennedy? She’s in room three eleven on the ground floor.’

‘May I ask if you’re a family member?’

Gulp to myself, stomach clenched, somehow sensing bad news. The worst.

‘Family friend.’

‘Well, I’m happy to tell you that Mrs Kennedy is absolutely fine, just ate a hearty dinner, in fact.’

‘Sorry, you mean … She’s OK then? There’s no emergency with her?’

‘No, none at all.’

‘And, well … I was just wondering if Kitty Hope had been to see her at all today? She’s my best friend and—’

Receptionist’s voice instantly brightens tenfold at the very mention of Kitty’s name.

‘Oh, yes, I know Kitty well! Such a fantastic, lively girl, isn’t she? We all love it so much when she comes to visit, she really cheers up everyone’s day round here. But you know, the last time I saw her was about a week ago. I remember distinctly, because she mentioned that she’d be away for Christmas, but that she’d be in to see her mum as soon as she got back. At New Year, I think she told us.’

Joyce looks hopefully at me and I shake my head. So, no emergency, then.

Kitty’s still gone AWOL.

1.05 p.m.

Right then. I’ve been in Byrne & Sacetti for ages now, can’t loiter round any longer. Also, it’s not fair to delay poor old Joyce any more, not when it’s like Armageddon in here. So I hug her goodbye and she smiles her warm, confident smile and tells me not to worry a bit. That Kitty will turn up safe and well and we’ll all look back on this and have a good laugh.

Attempt to give watery grin back at her, but I’m an appallingly unconvincing actress.

1.08 p.m.

Then, just as I’m facing back out into the snowy street outside, my mobile suddenly rings.

Check to see who it is, hoping against hope … Not it’s not Kitty, but it’s the next best thing! Her boyfriend, Simon! He HAS to have news, just has to …

I dip into the doorway of a fairly quiet pub, away from the noisy street and the blaring sound of Christmas Eve traffic before answering.

‘Simon! Can you hear me?’

‘Hey, Angie, how are you?! I’m sorry about the delay in getting back to you, but I’m back at home, plus I’d to take a whole clatter of nieces and nephews to see Santa today and to buy all their Xmas presents. Bloody mayhem in Smyth’s toy store, there were near riots over the last of the Lalaloopsy Silly Hair Dolls. Tell you something, I’ve never needed a stiff drink so badly in my life!’

Such a relief to hear his soft Galway accent. Strong. Reassuring. Bit like a pilot making an announcement on an Aer Lingus flight. For first time today, I feel safe. Calm. Somehow, it’s all going to be OK. I’m far too stressed out to cop why he’s on about Lalaloopsy Dolls, then remind myself: Simon comes from a massive family with approximately fifteen nieces and nephews, or whatever it was at last count.

‘Simon,’ I interrupt, a bit rudely, ‘is Kitty with you?’

‘With me? What are you talking about?’

Stomach instantly shrivels to the size of a sultana.

‘You mean … you don’t know where she is then?’

‘No, isn’t she with you? I thought you pair were having your lovely, relaxing, girlie treat day today? That I’ve been explicitly banned from, and told not to even call till hours later, when you’re both roaring drunk on champagne?’

Fill him in. On everything, on how I’ve been everywhere and phoned just about everyone, looking for her. I even tell him bit about cops, who all but laughed at me and politely told me to bugger off the phone.

Long, long silence. Not a good sign. Starting to get weak-kneed and a bit nauseous now.

‘Last time I saw her,’ he says slowly, ‘was yesterday morning, just as I was leaving the house to get on the road to Galway …’

‘Yesterday morning?’

No, no, no, no, no. This not good news. Not good at all.

‘Yeah. I came down here as early as I could, to try and beat the holiday traffic. Then I called her at about lunchtime to say I’d arrived safely and that both my parents were asking after her and are dying to see her as soon as we get back from holidays.’

No surprise here. For some reason, people don’t just idolise Kitty: they want to carry her shoulder high through villages. Simon always says from very first time he took her to the West to meet his folks, they instantly preferred her to him. She’s just one of those people that absolutely everyone adores, even people she’s only met for five minutes, like barmen, taxi drivers, etc. You even see hard-nosed, intransigent dole officers eating out of her hand, after just a few minutes in her company. V. hard not to. Kitty’s the mad, bad, dangerous-to-know type, totally magnetic and just the best fun you can possibly imagine. Kinda gal you meet for a few drinks, then end up the following morning in Holyhead. (Actual true story. Happened to us the night of her thirtieth birthday.)

‘She was on her way into work,’ Simon goes on, ‘and couldn’t really talk, so I told her I’d call her back later on. But when I did, she didn’t answer her phone. I wasn’t particularly worried, though; there wouldn’t be anything unusual in that if she was working late. So I just left a message and said we’d catch up this evening, after her spa day with you.’

‘So where do you think she’s got to?’ I ask, voice now sounding weak as a kitten’s. The image of a sick perv locking her up in cellar suddenly now very real in my mind’s eye.

‘Well, she can’t just have vanished into thin air,’ says Simon confidently. ‘Leave it with me, will you? Let me make a few phone calls. Maybe she just crashed out in another pal’s house last night after a few Christmas drinks? I mean, you know what she’s like!’

‘OK then,’ I tell him, trying my v., v. best to sound reassured. ‘Well, you know I’m back living with my parents now, so you’ll know where to find me if there’s any news.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll call you the minute I hear from her.’

Am just about to hang up when he says, ‘Oh, and by the way, Angie?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Happy birthday!’

My birthday.

It had totally gone out of my head.

Chapter Two

Christmas Day, 9.30 a.m.

Hardly slept a wink. Keep waking in the middle of the night to check my phone, in case there might be some message from Kitty. But nothing, still absolutely nada. Tried doing an early morning ring-round of all our mutual buddies yet again, but of course, the morning that’s in it no one’s even thinking about answering their phone. Course they’re not; what was I thinking? My married pal is doing Santa Claus stuff with the kids, my single pals are all still in bed.

On the plus side, I’ve had three texts from Simon so far. One to tell me there’s no news as of yet, but that I’m still to relax and try to enjoy a family Christmas. (Yeah, right. Only someone who hasn’t actually met my family could ever possibly come out with a statement like that.) Second text is to say he’s still with a big gangload of his relations now, and can’t talk, but will call soon as he can. Third says if there’s still no sight or sign of Kitty by tonight, he’s coming straight back to Dublin, as soon as he can reasonably get away.

All three messages stress that I’m to keep nice and calm, that she’ll turn up safe and well. This he promises.

’Course, that doesn’t do anything to stop the sickening worry, but still, v. reassuring to know someone else is taking the whole thing as seriously as I am. Plus, I keep reminding myself Simon works as a trend forecaster. Which is a bit like weather forecasting, according to Kitty, except it’s all about economic projections, ERSI figures, etc. He’s part of the team that waved red flags, wagged fingers and warned us we’d all end up broke, and stay broke, barefoot and living off tins of Heinz beans, till sometime after our great-great-grandchildren all end up emigrating in coffin ships.

(Apparently there’s v. big money in predicting bad news, but then, unlike horoscopes that say you’ll have an utterly magical day, people are far more likely to believe you if you tell them that nothing but horrors and destitution await. Myself included.)

So Simon’s basic job is telling the future.

So if he says Kitty will turn up and all will be well, then somehow, I trust him.

I’ve no choice.

11.35 a.m.

Right then, time to meet the Kardashians. Namely, the annual Xmas Day ordeal chez la famille Blennerhasset. My usual survival plan involves turning up as late as possible without incurring the wrath of Mother Blennerhasset, busying myself in the kitchen under the guise of ‘helping’, then skedaddling the minute the last Quality Street has been gulped down, to get back home in time for a nice juicy Xmas blockbuster movie. (So I’m free to watch it in the comfort and peace of my own flat.)

Except not this year. My usual escape hatch has now been totally sealed off. The official story to the rest of my extended family is that I’m ‘temporarily crashing out with my parents, as I’m in between leases on two apartments.’ Which I thought made me sound like a reasonably together person, not a twenty-eight-year-old no-hoper, newly unemployed, broke and forced into a humiliating crawl home with my tail between legs, etc. The inner circle, however, (Mum, Dad, older brother and sister,) all know the shameful truth, and in the case of my beloved sister, Madeline, rarely miss the golden chance to score a point.

Decide to time her, to see how long she lasts without managing to get a dig in. Just for the crack.

Midday

Mother Blennerhasset’s annual Xmas midday drinkies for aunties, uncles, cousins, friends of parents, freeloading neighbours, etc. Drawing room’s completely thronged. Everyone v. successfully and politely avoiding questions about my jobless state. But you can always rely on Madeline.

Ah, Madeline. Older than me by just two years, but already following in the family footsteps by working for a top law firm and making more money than I’ve ever seen in my whole life; with a mortgage, a pension and a flash-git style Mercedes fully paid off. Weighs approximately same as her coat and keys put together. (And just as an aside, as you’ll see, the whole family have P. G. Wodehouse names. Which has to be borderline child abuse. Who in their right mind lumbers kids with names like Madeline, Toby and Angela when you’re unfortunate enough to have a surname like Blennerhasset?)

‘So, Angie,’ she coos, wafting up to me with a glass of Prosecco in one hand and mobile clamped to the other. (Claims she’s a very busy and important person who’s still working. On Xmas Day. I know, I know.)

Then in full earshot of Mrs Higgins, Mother Blennerhasset’s most competitive friend, with a v. successful daughter exactly my age already running her own business, fires her opener.

‘Any prospects of gainful employment coming your way in the New Year?’

And, ladies and gents, we have a new record. Not ten minutes into the drinks do and already her inner bitch is out of the traps. And yes, Madeline really does talk like this. Like some Victorian matron in a bonnet-y, corset-y, Dickensian drama.

‘Gimme a second, I just want to put out some more of these,’ I smile weakly, indicating a near-empty tray of vegetarian vol-au-vents that I’m trying to squeeze my way back to the kitchen, to replenish.

She follows me though; clearly seeing this as green light to have a go at me. Angie-baiting being what she excels at, like an evil cat toying with a defenceless mouse. Bloody expert at it. Started when we were kids, when she’d go out of her way to make me the butt of her gags just for the laugh, but now that we’re older, it’s somehow got nastier. Then my brother Toby wafts in after two of us, wanting nothing more than grub and to make an escape from the arse-numbing tedium of the party, knowing him. Both come after me into the kitchen and slam the door shut.

‘Come on then, answer the question, Angie, don’t obfuscate the issue,’ Madeline persists, instinctively knowing she’s hit on my weak spot. And now that she has, she’ll keep on and on at it till she’s drawn blood. ‘Are there or aren’t there any jobs coming your way, sometime this century?’

‘I just have to get these into the oven …’ I mutter vaguely.

‘Stop changing the subject,’ she says, perching up on the kitchen table now and elegantly picking at a single grape from corner of cheese platter. Probably all she’ll eat for the entire day. ‘Because sooner or later you’ve got to get yourself back out there into the jobs market. Got to up your game a bit. So you’ve had a few knocks – who hasn’t? Pointless hiding out at home, lazing around the house all day, just passively waiting on work to come to you.’

Look appealingly over to Toby, who’s sitting in an armchair by my mother’s Aga, flicking through yesterday’s Times and stuffing his face with a large batch of cheese frittatas. Toby’s generally far more humane than Madeline. Will tease me to tears, then surprise me at the oddest times by actually sticking up for me.

‘Toby, tell her to back the feck off,’ I say pleadingly to him.

‘Aah, don’t be so touchy,’ he says, mouth stuffed, far more interested in the TV listings than in what’s going on over his head. ‘Mads just wants you to get a bit of work for yourself, that’s all.’ Then he thoughtfully adds, ‘But you know, in all fairness, sis, she does have a point. The longer a gap any potential employer sees on your CV, the less attractive you become in their eyes.’

‘Gee, thanks so much, Toby. “Et tu, Brute”, and all that,’ I hiss over at him, with what I hope is withering scorn.

‘All I’m trying to impress on you,’ Madeline drones on in that affected nasal whine that grates on my nerves so much, ‘is that you’ve just got to get up off your backside, get out there and make it happen. Can’t keep scrounging off the Aged Ps for ever, now can you?’

I’ve been trying v., v. hard not to rise to the bait, but at that, the saliva in my mouth suddenly turns to battery acid. Is this honestly what this one thinks I’ve been at? Arsing round watching daytime soaps, when in fact I’ve practically been hammering doors down trying to get some work? Any kind of work?

Oh, to hell with her anyway. I snap up from the oven, where I was shoving in yet another fresh batch of mini beef Wellingtons.

‘Excuse me,’ I tell her v. firmly, hands on hips, like a character out of a spaghetti western. ‘I’ve already had a job interview this week, I’ll have you know, thanks very much.’

‘Oh, really? What for?’ she scoffs. Can practically sense her getting riled up to test out what she thinks is her rapier wit on me.

‘For … a position. A really good one, as it happens. Something secure, just till I get back on my feet again.’

‘Where?’

‘Never you mind where.’

I turn and bury my face deep in the fridge-freezer to avoid eye contact, pretending to rummage round back of it. Needless to say there’s absolutely no offer of help from Madeline, but then because she’s a lawyer, she clearly considers herself a cut above menial labour. Whereas, in her eyes, I may as well be the hired help with an apron on, saying ‘Just hand me a broom and call me Daisy from Downton Abbey.’

‘Stop avoiding my question, Angie, and just spit it out!’

‘No, now go away and leave me alone. The mini pizzas won’t defrost themselves, now will they? Toby? Call her off, will you?’

‘Jesus, I came in here for a bit of peace,’ Toby mutters disinterestedly, this time between gobfuls of mini gherkins. ‘So for feck’s sake, just tell Mads what your big interview was for and then the pair of you can shut up. Besides, bar you applied for a job as an exotic dancer, what’s the big deal anyway?’

Deep sigh. Because he’s right: I know only too well that Madeline won’t let up with the third-degree questioning till I come clean. She’s worse than the KGB like that. I fully realise from years of dealing with her that it’s easier just to let her have all the jibes she wants at my expense, and get it over with. Quicker in long run.

‘Right then, have it your way. The job I applied for is in a catering company, if you must know.’

‘A catering company?’

Then a short, two-second time delay while Madeline puts two and two together. ‘Oh my God, don’t tell me you mean like, buttering batch loaves in one of the sandwich bars your friend Sarah runs!’

If I’d said the interview was for a job scrubbing public toilets and that the main perk was that after two years I’d be issued with my own brush and a bottle of Domestos, Madeline couldn’t possibly sound like she’s enjoying this any more. She guffaws at me, like an Ugly Sister from Cinderella as I look pleadingly over to Toby for back-up, but no such luck. He’s far more interested in the sports pages now, not to mention the plateful of mince pies he’s devouring.

Thank Christ, am saved from further torture by Mum briskly swishing in, all swingy scarf, big, bosomy tweed suit and sensible shoes, looking even more like Ann Widdecombe than Ann Widdecombe herself. In she breezes, not a scrap of make-up on her, despite having a houseful of visitors to entertain. But then, Mum’s proudest boast is that she hasn’t put on foundation for minimum of forty years. No time.

As usual, her eyes are like hawks, taking in everything in one quick up-and-down glance.

‘So here you three are!’ she eye-rolls at us. ‘Now come on, girls, stop all your bickering. I need some help. Chief Justice Henderson has just arrived; Toby, would you be a pet and entertain him? And, Madeline, I know Douglas McGettigan has to be the single most boring man in the Northern Hemisphere, but he’s sitting all alone; anyone that’s actually met him before won’t go within six feet of him. Can you look after him for me, please? Chat to him about his golf handicap, he enjoys that.’

As the other pair scarper, I get thrown a familiar, vaguely exasperated look.

‘Angela, you let your sister goad you, and you really shouldn’t, you know. You just got to stop rising to the bait every single time. How often do I have to tell you?’

I mumble something vague into dishwasher along the lines of Madeline being a back-knifing cow and Toby being worse than useless, but Mum swishes off, too much in distracted hostess mode to pay much attention.

The minute she’s out door, I pour myself a very large glass of Prosecco and knock it back in a single gulp.

Then check that there’s plenty more bottles in fridge. If I’m to survive today, I’ll be needing lots, lots more where that came from.

Dining room chez Blennerhasset, 3.45 p.m.

Dinner served. Determined somehow to survive and live to tell the tale. Mum and I jointly cooked, but then we’re the only ones round here who eat normally and still gain weight. The other three are like bleeding rakes.

3.55 p.m.

Conversation turns to a personal injury case Dad presided over in the District Court few months back, where Toby was a junior counsel for plaintiff. Toby won, record settlement. Got in the papers and everything, one or two scuzzy tabloids even lapping up the whole father/son thing. Dad was utterly mortified by all the fuss, but I’m prepared to bet good money Toby still has all press cuttings framed and mounted in his downstairs loo. Strongly suspect he thinks it’ll boost his chances of landing a quick shag.