To my horror Mum had got there before me – and not just her, either. A large crowd of journalists had gathered outside her house, awaiting the return of the Mallets' new manager, and only after I had run the gauntlet of a thousand 'no comments' did I catch her, just as she was putting her key in the front door.
'Hello, Mother,' I said, somewhat breathlessly.
'Hello, daughter.'
'Going inside?'
'That's what I usually do when I get home.'
'Not thinking of going shopping?' I suggested.
'What are you hiding?'
'Nothing.'
'Good.'
She pushed the key into the lock and opened the door, giving me a funny look. I ran past her into the living room, where Melanie was asleep on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table with Friday snoring happily on her chest. I quickly shut the door.
'He's sleeping!' I hissed to my mother.
'The little lamb! Let's have a look.'
'No, better let him be. He's a very light sleeper.'
'I can look very quietly.'
'Maybe not quietly enough.'
'I'll look through the serving hatch, then.'
'No—!'
Why not?'
'It's jammed. Stuck fast. Meant to tell you this morning but it slipped my mind. Remember how Anton and I used to climb through it? Got any oil?'
'The serving hatch has never been stuck—'
'How about tea?' I asked brightly, attempting a form of misdirection that I knew my mother would find irresistible. 'I want to talk to you about an emotional problem – that you might be able to help me with!'
Sadly she knew me only too well.
'Now I know you're hiding something. Let me in—!'
She attempted to push past, but I had a brainwave.
'No, Mother, you'll embarrass them – and yourself.'
She stopped.
'What do you mean?'
'It's Emma.'
'Emma? What about her?'
'Emma . . . and Hamlet.'