Courting Trouble (38 page)

‘Oy! Youse lot!’ Phyllis bellowed from the kitchen. Portia, back to her normal, obliging self, sprang to her feet. Chantelle, who had left school to take a cookery course on the other side of London, was already in the kitchen, working as sous chef. The two teenagers began carting steaming vats of aromatic gourmet delights to the table. Portia was beaming ear from ear at the sight of all the people she most cared about exclaiming joyfully over the feast. Soon, we were all bobbing about in a comforting broth of warm emotions. We cosied up under a thick blanket of relaxed chatter. If you’d glimpsed us through the window, it would have looked for a brief moment as though we were playing happy families.

But, of course, as one of the Countess’s beloved Russian writers would no doubt note (though it would take nine hundred turgid pages to say it), the family that eats together . . . gets indigestion.

Danny suddenly tapped his knife on the side of his wine glass, tearing a hole in the conversation. He rose to his feet. ‘The thing is, when you’re out there, all alone, lost in some jungle, behind enemy lines, you get the chance to do a lot of thinking. And what I finally realized is that love is all that really matters. And a soulmate. Which is why this old gypsy dog has decided that it really is time I settled down and got hitched. I’ve waited so damn long, there are cobwebs between these fingers.’ He waggled his calloused digits for all to see. ‘So, what I want to say is – and this time I’m sober enough to do it properly – will you marry me, Roxy? At our age, there’s not so much pressure on the till death do us part, part, right?’ He then fell to his knees on the floor beside my mother, pulled a diamond ring from his ironed-jeans pocket and presented it to her with a flourish.

Roxy looked at him, dumbfounded. The silence was palpable.

‘So, what do you say?’ Danny persisted. ‘Shall we try to raise a little mortgage together?’ All eyes were on my mother, who sat stiff and stony-faced. The silence in the conversation was now big enough to drive a truck through. ‘Stop saying nothing in such an aggressive voice,’ he teased her, as the tension mounted.

‘From what I’ve gleaned,’ Roxy finally said, ‘marriage is like being dead, except you still feel the urge to go shoe shopping.’

‘Well, if
she
won’t marry you,
I
will . . . As long as you can keep me in the tax band to which I’ve become accustomed.’ We all swivelled, to see Countess Flirtalotsky, who was standing in the hall doorway, Louis Vuitton suitcase in hand, having let herself in with her key.

‘I keep telling Roxy that she loves me, but the damn fool won’t listen,’ Danny told her, before turning his full attention back to my mother. ‘I adore you, woman, always have, always will.’ Danny lifted Roxy’s hand and placed it on his cheek. He pushed his face against her palm and kissed it with great and very grave tenderness. ‘What is it you don’t like about me? Whatever it is, I’ll change. Is it the snoring?’ he joshed.

‘It’s not the snoring I mind, it’s the talking noise you make during the day.’ Roxy snatched her hand back from his grasp. ‘I can’t abide people who can’t tell the difference between talking and saying something. I mean, this proposal is preposterous. I still don’t know anything about you. Like who you really are, exactly. Or where you grew up. I mean, I don’t even know how old you really are . . .’

‘I’m about 6,400 in dog years,’ Danny said, patting Roxy’s rescue canines, which were licking his face and fingers. ‘I don’t know about camel years or lemur years’ – he grinned sheepishly – ‘but it’s old enough to know what I want, anyway.’

‘How can I marry a man whose name I don’t even bloody well know?’

‘Um . . . that’s classified information.’ Danny leapt to his feet defensively. ‘You don’t really want to know that.’

My mother folded her arms and gave a stern stare.

‘. . . Fergus,’ he mumbled reluctantly.

‘Christ, no wonder you changed it!’ The Countess snorted with laughter. She poured herself a glass of wine and squeezed in around the table.

‘Fergus! Fergus!’ Roxy was hooting. ‘You silly bugger.’

Jack noted Fergus’s hangdog expression and rallied on his behalf. ‘There’s nothing wrong with changing your name. After all, the British Royal family provoked the First World War merely to enable them to change their name from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor.’

‘Don’t defend him, Jack,’ Roxy snapped. ‘It’s just so typical that you men would stick together.’

‘Jesus, woman! I’ve apologized a gazillion times for my past. But, despite all the shit that’s gone down, we still love each other, Roxy,’ Danny declared. ‘You know we do. Look how well we work together. We proved that yesterday. Which is why we’re getting married. One of us had to make the decision, and I’ve decided that it’s me.’

Roxy’s face slammed shut. Her eyes narrowed into slits. ‘Funny, because I’ve decided that I don’t like men deciding things for me. The truth is, Danny, we don’t need men. That’s why we set up Pandora’s.’

‘But that’s all changing now,’ Jack said. ‘Matilda’s just asked if she can join my Chambers. So perhaps Danny could become your collaborator. Tilly’s told me all about your latest escapade. And you and Danny clearly do work so well together.’

‘You really have agreed to join Jack’s Chambers?’ Roxy asked me, crestfallen.

‘Yep. And I’ve accepted her offer . . .’ Jack answered for me. ‘Although there’s one proviso that I’m still to negotiate. You must go on another date with me, Tilly. I’ve taken Rohypnol, so you can have your way with me,’ he joked.

Roxy speared him with a reproachful glare. ‘Have you no bloody sensitivity at all? How can you joke about that, Jack, after what Matilda’s been through?’

‘How can I
not
? Truth is, Tilly, you’re a lovely, kooky, quirky, clever bookworm of a girl, far too gentle for this big, bad world. At least when you’re in my Chambers, I can take care of you and protect you and keep you out of harm’s way. And Roxy, despite all your bluster and bravado, you need protecting, too. As Danny proved yesterday, by all accounts.’

A cold silence fell like a snowdrift on to the room.

My mother pushed up slowly to her high-heeled feet, pepper grinder in hand. ‘I’m not sure if this thing’s on . . .’ She tapped the grinder, then spoke into it as though it were a microphone. ‘On this day, the second anniversary of Pandora’s, I’d just like to say that I was never sure if this venture of ours, the world’s first two-person, mother–daughter, solicitor–barrister, boutique feminist law firm, created to fight for women’s rights, would survive . . . I was not sure at times if our family would survive . . . But survive we have. And with a lot of adventure, fun and frivolity en route. Plus, some victories for women. And I couldn’t have had a better partner in crime – well, a better partner in
fighting
crime – than my darling daughter, Matilda.’ A look of fondness spilled and rippled over her face. ‘But it’s never going to be easy. And I totally understand and respect any decision you make about changing your life and finding a more conventional law practice, Tilly. Because I’m way too old to change.’

It must have been the wine speaking or chronic chocolate withdrawal, because I then heard myself say ‘And I wouldn’t change one thing about you, Mum . . . Except maybe those pink go-go boots.’ I smiled.

Portia pushed her way between us and wrapped her arms around our necks. ‘Well, I’d like to leave both you bonkers women . . . only I just can’t think of anyone I’d want to leave you for. It was sooooooo boring at Amelia’s! I’m just so glad things are back to normal. Well, as abnormal as that is.’

My mother and I exchanged a melty look. The cute-o-meter had just gone off the scale – but neither of us cared at all.

Phyllis now emerged from the kitchen, staggering under the weight of a huge chocolate cake in the shape of a glittering casket, candles blazing. It had been iced pink by Chantelle and simply read – ‘Pandora’s’.

‘Jeepers. That cake would feed one hundred Frenchwomen,’ the Countess declared, as Roxy gouged out a huge hunk with a knife and devoured it whole.

‘Oh, I so much prefer a woman with appetites,’ Danny flirted, gazing at Roxy hungrily.

‘By the way, I stole Petronella’s Facebook details from Steve’s computer and have posted them on a fetish dating site for geriatric kinky singles,’ the Countess informed us.

‘Excellent!’ Roxy laughed, eating another huge hunk of cake. ‘Now
that’s
what I call “just desserts”.’

As I sank my teeth into a giant slice of soft chocolate sponge, nothing was needed to enhance my mood of utter contentment. I felt along my veins a tingling happiness, almost frightening in its physicality.

‘. . . I’ve been thinking about that man who’s suing his wife because he didn’t know she’d had cosmetic surgery and so wasn’t expecting an ugly baby . . . I think we should fight it on the grounds of facial prejudice – a discrimination suffered only by women,’ I said to Roxy.

‘Ah yes, show me a woman who is happy with her looks and I’ll show you the electroconvulsive-therapy scorch-marks,’ Roxy replied.

‘What? Don’t be ridiculous,’ Jack scoffed. ‘The woman clearly deceived her husband. It’s a clear-cut case of fraud.’

‘Roxy’s right. It’s just so typical of you, always to take the man’s side, Jack,’ I said crossly.

Jack smirked. ‘Phew. I was worried we hadn’t had a disagreement all night. I thought you were perhaps seeing someone else? . . . After all, fighting is foreplay for us . . . I suppose a little tiff before bed would be out of the question?’

I slit my eyes in Jack’s direction, suddenly losing the urge to remove the word ‘bastard’ from his resumé.

‘I could get some undercover info on the hubby of the cosmetically enhanced bride . . .’ Danny volunteered. ‘See if he’s having any affairs . . .’

It was Roxy’s turn to slit her eyes and level a suspicious glance at Danny. ‘I thought you’d given up undercover work! See? . . . You haven’t changed at all.’

‘Crikey,’ Phyllis rasped to Chantelle, ‘I think we’d better get back to the estate, pet, where things are quieter and more civilized.’

Chantelle giggled. It was the first time I’d heard her laugh since the trial.

‘Anyway, Matilda,’ Jack remonstrated, ‘you’ve just agreed to join my Chambers and I’m sorry, but we don’t do pro bono work. I mean who really needs a halo? It’s just one more thing to clean, right?’

My mother glowered judgementally at Jack, then raised her brows in my direction.

‘I made that rash comment about joining your Chambers in my youth, Jack. People say wild things when they’re young.’

‘But you made that comment only an hour or so ago, Tilly,’ he said.

‘Kids!’ I smiled at my mother and shrugged. ‘They grow up fast.’

When my mother beamed back at me, Jack let out an irritated moan. ‘Jesus. Where did I put those bloody cigars? I have never needed a smoke so badly.’

When the doorbell rang, the adults were too busy arguing to move from the table, so Portia answered it. She returned five minutes later and tapped her fork on the side of the glass, as Danny had done, looking grave. When we still didn’t simmer down, she picked up the pepper grinder and spoke loudly into it.

‘Attention! Um, sorry to interrupt the squabbling, but I have an enquiry for Pandora’s.’

We all turned as one to face my darling daughter.

‘There’s a woman at the door whose marriage might have suffered a slight setback.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Well, she’s holding her husband’s penis . . . but, unfortunately – um – he’s not there . . .’

‘Oh!’ we pretty much said in unison. Followed by ‘Eugghhhhh!’

‘Well, show her into Pandora’s,’ Roxy boomed, squeezing my hand. ‘Where we think inside, on top of, under, over and outside the bloody box.’

To be continued . . .

Thank you to all my legal eagles, who cast their beady barrister eyes over my prose, especially Helena Kennedy, QC, Geoffrey Robertson, QC, and Kirsty Brimelow, QC.

Much love and thanks also go to my three darling sisters, Cara, Liz and Jenny, who endure my first drafts with patience, good humour and only minimal alcoholic bribery.

Thanks also to my perspicacious publisher, Larry Finlay, and editorial goddess Linda Evans, and all the team at Transworld, plus Brett Osmond, Karen Reid and Co. at Random House.

Thanks also to my agents Ed Victor and Maggie Phillips, as ever.

Detective Carol Davison’s advice on police procedure and Mark Stephen’s top beekeeping tips were also invaluable.

A special thanks to my mum, Val, for the mental aerobics of our daily crossword. To Patrick Cook and Doc for comedic inspiration. And to all my girlfriends, who keep me entertained and buoyant. But the biggest thanks of all go, as always, to my children, Georgie and Jules, who have promised to visit me in prison if Helena can’t get me off (see
dedication
).

Kathy Lette
is a celebrated and outspoken comic writer who has an inimitable take on serious current issues. She is one of the pioneering voices of contemporary feminism, paving the way for Caitlin Moran and Lena Dunham.

She first achieved
succès de scandale
as a teenager with the novel
Puberty Blues
, which was made into a major film and a TV mini-series. After several years as a newspaper columnist and TV sitcom writer in America and Australia, she has written eleven international bestsellers in her characteristic witty voice, including
Mad Cows
,
How to Kill Your Husband (and Other Handy Household Hints)
and
The Boy Who Fell to Earth
. She is known for her regular appearances on BBC and Sky news programmes. She is an ambassador for Women and Children First, Plan International, the White Ribbon Alliance and the National Autistic Society.

Kathy Lette lives in London with her husband and two children, and can often be found at The Savoy drinking a cocktail named after her. Kathy is an autodidact (a word she taught herself), but in 2010 received an honorary doctorate from Southampton Solent University.

Visit her website at
www.kathylette.com
to read her irreverent blog, and find her on Twitter
@KathyLette
and
Facebook/KathyLetteAuthor