“Of course it’s not a problem.” Mum somehow managed to turn bof into a gesture. “I’ll pick the meat out in the kitchen.”

Judy shook her head. “Don’t be a ninny, Odile. That’s very disrespectful. What you should do is fish the vegetables out and serve them separately.”

“I assure you,” Oliver protested, “neither is necessary.”

Mum turned to me. “You see? Why are you making such a big fuss over nothing, Luc? You are embarrassing yourself.”

She barrelled off again. And Oliver, mouthing a “sorry” in my direction, trotted after her. I held out a tempting pay-attention-to-me hand to Eugenie, but all I got for my trouble was a disdainful glance before she scampered out in pursuit of Oliver.

Well, fine. My perfect fake boyfriend and the cute dog could go and play with my mother in the kitchen while I was stuck in the front room with a serial divorcee in her mideighties.

“Just us, eh?” Judy had that “I’m about to start a long anecdote, and there’s nothing you can do about it” look in her eye. “I never did tell you what happened with those bullocks, did I?”

I surrendered with as much grace as I could muster. Which, admittedly, wasn’t very much. “You didn’t. How were they?”

“Terrible disappointment. I went to see the chap, expecting him to have a nice, big healthy pair of bullocks for me to get my hands on. But when I got there, I found I’d been quite misled.”

“Yeah. It happens.”

“I know. We went all the way down to his paddock and he got them out for me, and frankly they were substandard. About half the size I’d expected. I mean, I think there was something wrong with them, to tell you the truth. The one on the left had this strange swelling, and the one on the right was listing most unfortunately.”

“It sounds,” I offered tentatively, “like you were better off leaving them alone.”

“That’s what I thought. Obviously I gave them a good once-over anyway just in case. Nice firm pat-down and all that. But in the end I had to tell the fellow ‘No, I’m sorry, but I will not be handling your oddly shaped bullocks.’”

To my tremendous relief, Mum, Oliver, and Eugenie came back in with the curry before Judy could explain how he’d gone on to try to interest her in his prize rooster. Oliver handed a bowl of curry to Judy, and then he, Mum, and I squidged onto the sofa like three not especially wise monkeys.

“Has this got banana in it?” I asked, prodding nervously at what I hesitated to call my dinner.

Mum shrugged. “They put bananas in curries all the time.”

“In specific curries. Curries where the rest of the ingredients are chosen to complement banana.”

“It’s like tofu or beef. It absorbs the flavour.”

“It’s delicious, Odile,” declared Judy, loyally. “Best one you’ve ever made.”

We fell silent as we grappled with Mum’s cooking. I wasn’t exactly a wizard in the kitchen myself, but I think Mum was an evil wizard in the kitchen. It took skill, and years of practice, to be as consistently and specifically terrible at food as she was.

“So.” Oliver could have been doing his social lube thing as usual or, maybe, he’d just realised that if he was talking, he didn’t have to be eating. His eyes were definitely watering. “Um. Is that your guitar?”

It was. And it usually lived in the attic. I’d like to think I would have noticed if I hadn’t been so distracted by, well, everything else.

“Ah oui. Luc’s father wants me to collaborate with him on a new album.”

I choked on curry. I mean, I’d been choking on curry already, but this time the reaction was emotional, rather than chemical. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me you had a fake boyfriend.”

“That’s different. Oliver didn’t walk out on us twenty-five years ago and isn’t a complete arsehole.”

“I’m not even sure I’m going to do it, mon caneton.” Mum forked up a curried banana with what appeared to be genuine relish. “I haven’t written in years. I think I’ve run out of things to say.”

Judy glanced up from her almost-empty bowl. No wonder the queen was still going—they clearly made the aristocracy out of concrete. “’Course you haven’t. Just need to get back on the horse, that’s all.”

“I’m not sure the horse is what I remember it being. Horses get old, too, you know. Sometimes, it’s kinder to leave them out in the field, eating the apples.”

“I can’t believe you’re even thinking about this.” I stopped slightly short of yelling. “Obviously, if you want to write music, that’s great. But why do you have to do it with Jon Fucking Fleming?”

“We always had something together. And this may be the last chance I get.”

I plonked what was left of my curry on the side table. This was a perfect excuse not to eat it, but I was also kind of too angry for food right now. “You mean, the last chance he’ll get. He’s blatantly using you.”

“So? I could use him back.”

“It’s true,” added Judy. “You’re never more popular than when you’re dead. Look at Diana.”

“Yeah but”—I accidentally elbowed Oliver in my effort to gesticulate—“you’ll have to spend time with him. He doesn’t deserve to spend time with you.”

“Luc, I decide who I spend time with. Not you.”

I opened my mouth. Then closed it again. “Sorry. I…just…sorry.”

“Don’t worry, mon cher. You don’t have to look after me.” She stood up decisively. “Now, shall we tidy away the dinner things and then gag on the fierce queens?”

Chapter 26

Partly out of a desire not to look like a terrible son and partly because I needed a change of scenery, I persuaded Mum to let me deal with the cleanup. It wasn’t until I got into the kitchen that I remembered quite what carnage my mum was capable of creating, especially when she was making the special curry.

“I can see where you get it from,” said Oliver, coming in behind me, with Eugenie trailing behind him.

I dumped the bowls next to the sink, which was full of other things that should in no way have been necessary to produce anything like what we’d just eaten. “I’m sorry.” I kept on staring at the washing up, too scared to look at Oliver, in case he was horrified or disappointed or confused or contemptuous. “This is awful, isn’t it?”