I stared wildly round the kitchen, crazed at the thought of the different worlds that would berevealed by playing back people's answerphone tapes. Maybe someone should do it as an installation at the Saatchi Gallery. Mum was clattering about in the cupboards then dialled a number. "Margo. Pam. I've got a sponge ring tin if that's any good? Well, why don't you use a Yorkshire pudding tin and just line the bottom with a bit of greaseproof paper?"
"Hello, hello, bomdibombom,, said Dad, pottering into the kitchen. "Does anybody know the postcode for Barton Seagrave? Do you think it's KT4 HS or L? Ah, Bridget, welcome to the trenches, World War Three in the kitchen, Mau Mau in the garden."
"Colin, will you tip that oil out of the chip pan?" said Mum. "Geoffrey says when you've brought it up to a high temperature ten times it should be thrown away. By the way, Bridget, I've bought You some talc." She handed me a lilac Yardley's bottle with a gold top.
"Er, why?" I said, taking hold of it gingerly. "Well! It keeps you nice and fresh, doesn't it?"
Grrr. Grrrr. The whole thought-groove was just so transparent. Mark had gone out with Rebecca because ... "Are you saying I smell?" I said.
"No, darling." She paused. "It's always nice to keep nice and fresh, though, isn't it?"
"Afternoon, Bridget!" It was Una appearing as if from nowhere with a plate of boiled eggs. "Pam! I forgot to tell you, Bill's trying to get the council to skim his drive because they didn't grate the top off it and that's why they've got potholes, so Eileen said will you tell them the water used to run down from your drive until they put a grate in?"
Was all gibberish. Gibberish. Felt like a patient in a coma whom nobody thought could hear anything.
"Come on, Colin, where's that Spam? They're going to be here in a moment."
"Who?" I said suspiciously.
"The Darcys. Una, pop some salad cream and paprika on those eggs, will you?"
"The Darcys? Mark's parents? Now? Why?"
Just then, the doorbell - which plays the entire tune of a town-hall clock - started chiming out.
"We are the elders of the tribe!" twinkled Mum, taking off her pinny. "Come on, everyone, galvanize!"
"Where's Wellington?" I hissed at Mum.
"Oh, he's out in the garden practising his football! He doesn't like these sit-down lunches having to yaketty yak to us all."
Mum and Una dashed off and Dad patted my arm. "Forward to the breach," he said.
Followed him into the swirly-carpet-and-ornamentland of the lounge, wondering whether I had the strength and control of my limbs to bolt and deciding I didn't. Mark's mum and dad and Una and Geoffrey were standing in an awkward circle each holding a glass of sherry. "OK, love," said Dad. "Let's get you a drink."
"Have you met ... ?" He gestured to Elaine. "Do you know, my dear, I am sorry, I've known you for thirty years and I've completely forgotten your name."
"So how's that son of yours?" Una bludgeoned in.
"My son! Well, he's getting married, you know!" said Admiral Darcy, a genial bellower. The room suddenly went blotchy. Getting married?
"Getting married?" said Dad, holding my arm, as I tried to control my breathing.
"Oh I know, I know," said Admiral Darcy cheerily. "There's no keeping up with any of these young ones any more: married to someone one minute, off with someone else the next! Isn't that right, m'dear?" he said, patting Mark's mother on the bottom.
"I think Una was asking about Mark, not Peter, darling," she said, with a flash of understanding in my direction. "Peter is our other son out in Hong Kong. He's getting married in June. Now come along, can't one of you chaps find Bridget a drink? They're all mouth and no trousers, aren't they?" she said, with a sympathetic look.
Somebody get me out of here, I thought. I don't want to be tortured. I want to lie on the bathroom floor with my head near the toilet bowl like normal people.
"Would you like one of these?" said Elaine, holding out a silver case full of Black Sobranies. "I'm sure they're death on a stick but I'm still here at sixty-five."
"Right, come along and sit down, everyone!" said Mum, swirling in with a plate of liver sausage, "Oof." She made a great show of coughing and fanning the air and said icily, "No smoking at table, Elaine."
I followed her into the dining room where beyond the French windows Wellington was playing an astonishingly accomplished game of keepy-uppy in a sweatshirt and a pair of blue silky shorts.
"There he goes. Keep it up, lad," chortled Geoffrey, looking out of the window, jiggling his hands up and down in his pockets. "Keep it up."
We all sat down and stared at each other awkwardly. It was like a pre-wedding get-together for the happy couple and both sets of parents except that the groom had run off with someone else two nights before.