“Crap,” says Suze robustly. “We feed egg yolks to our lambs and they’re perfectly healthy.”
Luke is pouring coffee for everyone, Suze is slathering marmalade on a slice of toast, and spirits have generally lifted.
“So.” Luke looks around the table. “I’ve had an invitation today. Who fancies coming to a gala benefit at the Beverly Hilton hotel?”
“Me!” Suze and I exclaim simultaneously.
“It’s for …” He squints at the letter. “Victims of discrimination. Some new charity.”
“I read about that!” says Suze in excitement. “Salma Hayek will be there! Can we really go?”
“Sage is asking us all to sit at her table, houseguests included.” Luke smiles at Suze. “You’re in.”
“Tarkie, did you hear that?” Suze leans across the table, brandishing her toast. “We’ve been invited to a real Hollywood party!”
“A party.” Tarquin looks as though he’s been told he has to have a tooth out. “Wonderful.”
“It’ll be fun,” says Suze. “You might meet Salma Hayek.”
“Ah.” He looks vague. “Marvelous.”
“You don’t know who Salma Hayek is, do you?” says Suze accusingly.
“Of course I do.” Tarkie looks trapped. “He’s … an actor. Jolly talented.”
“She! She’s jolly talented!” Suze sighs. “I’ll have to coach you before we go. Here, read this, for a start.” She passes him a copy of Us Weekly, just as Minnie and Wilfrid run in to the kitchen.
Having the Cleath-Stuarts to stay is brilliant for Minnie. I don’t think she’s ever had so much fun in her life. She’s wearing two baseball caps, one on top of the other, holding a shoehorn like a riding crop, and “riding” Wilfrid like a horse.
“Go, horsey!” she yells, and pulls on the “reins,” which consist of about six of Luke’s belts buckled together. The next minute, Clementine appears, “riding” Ernest.
“Let’s jump, Minnie!” she squeals. “Let’s jump over the sofas!”
“No!” says Suze. “Stop running about and come and have some breakfast. Who wants toast?”
I notice she’s diplomatically not even referring to the egg-white omelet. I think we’ll all just pretend it never existed.
As the children get settled into their seats, I suddenly notice that Minnie has reached out for my phone.
“Please phone,” she says promptly. “Pleeeeeease. Pleeeeeeeease!” She hugs it to her ear as though it’s her newborn infant and I’m Herod.
I’ve given Minnie about three plastic toy phones, but they don’t fool her for an instant. You have to admire her, really. So I always end up giving in and letting her hold my phone—even though I’m paranoid she’s going to drop it in her milk or something.
“All right,” I say. “Just for a minute.”
“Hello!” says Minnie into the phone, and beams at me. “Hello, Oraaaa!”
Ora? Ora Bitch Long-legs?
“Don’t talk to Ora, darling,” I say lightly. “Talk to someone else. Talk to Page. She’s a sweet little girl.”
“Talk Ora,” Minnie says stubbornly. “Love Ora.”
“You don’t love Ora!” I snap, before I can stop myself.
“Who’s Ora?” says Suze.
“Alicia’s daughter,” I mutter. “Of all the children in all the world for Minnie to become friends with.”
“Honestly, Bex!” retorts Suze. “You’re ridiculous. What is this, the Montagues and the Capulets?”
Minnie looks from Suze to me, then back again. Then she screws up her face for a scream.
“Love Oraaaaaaa!”
All this time, Luke has been tapping away on his BlackBerry. He has this almost mystical power to tune out his immediate surroundings when they consist of Minnie screeching. But now he raises his head.
“Who’s Ora?”
I can’t believe our entire breakfast table is discussing Alicia Bitch Long-legs’s daughter.
“No one,” I say. “Minnie, come here and help me do my toast.”
“Toast!” Her eyes light up with instant excitement, and I can’t help giving her a little kiss. Minnie thinks spreading butter on toast is the most fun activity in the world, except I have to dissuade her from adding marmalade and chocolate spread and peanut butter. (Luke always says, “Like mother like daughter,” which is absolute nonsense; I don’t know what he means.)
As I sip my coffee and try to stop Minnie from smearing butter all over her fingers, I find myself watching Luke. He’s gazing at his BlackBerry and there’s a vein pulsing in his neck. He’s stressed out about something. What?
“Luke?” I say cautiously. “Is something up?”
“No,” he says at once. “Nothing. Nothing.”
OK. That means it’s something.
“Luke?” I try again.
He meets my eye and exhales. “It’s an email from my mother’s lawyer. She’s having some kind of surgery. He thought I should know.”
“Right,” I say warily.
Luke is glowering at the screen again. Any stranger looking at him would simply see a man in a bad temper. But I can see the special, devastated overlay that appears whenever Luke’s thinking about his mother, and it makes my heart crunch. Luke just can’t find happiness with his mother. He used to worship her unreasonably; now he loathes her unreasonably. Elinor abandoned him to go and live in the States when he was a child, and I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven her. Especially now that he has Minnie, now that he knows what it is to be a parent.