Don’t You Forget About Me(27)

‘Don’t wait for me then,’ is Nana Hogg’s version of ‘hello’ and ‘sorry I’m late’, when she sees the laden table.

‘Glad you could make it,’ Mark says, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. His modus operandi is to simply ignore her tone. And her words. And her behaviour.

She has her silver hair in tight roller curls and the sort of bust that rolls out like the swelling tide.

‘Hello!’ I say, with a small wave. ‘Nice to see you again.’

She doesn’t acknowledge me, though she might not have heard during the manoeuvres to get her seated.

‘Oh it’s beef? I can’t digest beef,’ she says, and Esther looks like she’s been tasered up the birth canal.

‘But we asked if …’

Mark puts his hand over Esther’s. ‘You can have lots of everything else. Geoff, if you’ll hand me the peas and carrots …’

‘We’ve met before, I’m Geoffrey,’ he says smarmily to Nana Hogg, getting up to offer his hand to shake across the roast, ‘Patsy’s husband.’

‘Yes I know who you are, I’m old but I’m not crackers,’ she says, ‘not seeing’ his hand, and I have to plug my mouth with a parsnip to stop myself from laughing. Why did I contemplate crying off this lunch? Carbs, more alcohol, hot gravy and Nana Hogg lols. It’s the perfect distraction from my distress.

‘Gog’s been sacked from the restaurant,’ Esther says, conversationally, throwing me to the wolves as distraction.

‘Oh no, Georgina!’ Mum says, putting her cutlery down with a bump, ‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything, the restaurant critic from The Star came in and complained and Tony the chef made a show of binning me. A sacrifice to the gods, to stop him from writing about the grim food.’

‘The vicissitudes of still being casual hire-and-fire labour,’ says Geoffrey, with evident pleasure, lifting a glass to his mouth. ‘So few rights, unfortunately.’

I almost pull a face at him. Geoff has been retired from vice presidency of a central heating firm since forever, on a giant pension.

‘It’s time to buck your ideas up. Go on a shorthand course and get yourself something in an office,’ Mum says.

‘I don’t think anyone cares about shorthand anymore, Mum. There’s no typing pool. There’s no bosses chasing secretaries around desks.’

‘Well you’re soon going to be past the age where you’re chased around anything anyway.’

Whump. Right in the solar plexus.

‘We called you “jail bait” in my day,’ Nana Hogg says to me, and Esther gets up abruptly to refill the gravy boat, which I know is an excuse because she’s fuming about inappropriate talk in front of her young son. What about the inappropriate talk in front of her younger sister.

‘Georgina’s not likely to land anyone in jail now,’ Geoffrey says, with what he imagines is a twinkly-eyed look. Creep.

‘There’s still plenty that’s illegal, Geoff, what with women no longer being property,’ I say, and Mum shushes: ‘Careful!’ with a sharp look towards Milo.

‘Oh yeah it’s my fault, I brought this stuff up.’

‘What was the restaurant called?’ Mark asks.

‘That’s Amore!. The Italian in Broomhill.’

‘I don’t like Italian food. I had a mushroom soup at an Italian restaurant once and it tasted like they’d put something in it,’ Nana Hogg says.

‘What had they put in it?’ Mum asks.

‘I don’t know. It tasted like there was something in it.’

‘That wasn’t mushrooms?’ Mum persists.

‘Yes. There was something in it. They’d put something in it.’

They is starting sound like a synonym for ‘The Illuminati’.

‘What sort of thing?’

Nana Hogg shakes her head.

‘Something. To make it taste stronger.’

‘And how did the job last night go, George?’ I could kiss Mark for trying to rescue me here. ‘I put George in touch with a friend who needed a capable pair of hands at short notice.’

‘Good, thanks so much for the recommendation,’ I say. I could still very likely be blocked by Lucas so I don’t want to sound too confident of Devlin’s job. ‘It’d be great if they’re recruiting for permanent positions but if not I was just glad to help out with the wake.’

‘It was a wake,’ Geoffrey says, stabbing at a miniature carrot with his fork. ‘I hope you were appropriately sombre.’

He winks at me. What a …

‘I pitched up in a glittery leotard, tooting a vuvuzela, was that not the right thing to do?’

‘Oh the chill wind of such withering sarcasm!’ says Geoffrey, whose funeral I could happily go to.

Esther returns with more gravy and there’s no way she didn’t hover in the kitchen counting backwards from fifty until she could be sure she wouldn’t throw it in anyone’s face.

‘The food is lovely,’ I say to her and she gives me a tight smile and says Mark did most of it.

‘Ahem, and the Yorkie pudding maestro here,’ Geoff says and everyone’s nice to him and choruses praise. I can’t bring myself to join in. There’s about nineteen things on this table, Geoff basically management consulted the oven temperature for one element and thinks he’s equally worthy of thanks. Argh.