She saw me; I could see her laughing. She pushed the window down and waved, and pointed to my groin and made a shocked expression as the cab started away. The driver saw me too and looked amused and shook his head. The cab drove off around the curbed terrace. I opened the window and leaned out, waving, and Ashley pushed the cab’s window right down and stuck her head and arms out and blew me kisses through her wildly waving, slip-streamed hair all the way until the cab rounded the corner and disappeared.
I sat down on the parquet, staring at the white gauziness of the huge net curtains, all my muscles complaining, my head pounding, my penis tingling, my flesh goose-pimpling against the cool wood of the floor. I shook my head. I collapsed back, banging my already internally abused head on a Persian rug. The carpet’s pile was luxuriously deep however, so it didn’t hurt as much as it might.
I looked up at the ornately carved wooden ceiling, not entirely sure what to think. Then I started to laugh, lying there in the enormous room, naked, tummy wobbling, laughing like an idiot and hoping the resemblance ended there.
‘Oh well,’ I said, laughing, to the ceiling. ‘Here’s hoping.’
‘Good; you’re getting sensible,’ mum said. She walked carefully towards me, the big blue sheet folding and drooping between us. She took the sheet’s other two corners from me.
‘Getting?’ I said indignantly.
Mum smiled, folded the sheet over twice more and put it on top of the tumble drier. I pulled another sheet down off the old clothes pulley that hung under the ceiling of the utility room. We took an end each, stood apart, pulled the sheet taut.
‘Mm-hmm,’ she said, tugging at the sheet again. ‘I think selling the Bentley is very sensible.’ She folded the sheet over, hand to hand; I did the same. We pulled it taut again. Mum looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe we should sell that ancient thing sitting in the garage out there, as well.’
‘The Lagonda?’ I said. We folded the sheet over again.
‘Yes,’ mum said, walking towards me again. ‘It’s just a waste of space at the moment.’
‘You mean you weren’t thinking of going in for classic car restoration after you’ve finished the harpischord?’
Mum smiled as she took the sheet from me. ‘Well, actually that had occurred to me, but ...’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘No; I don’t think so.’
‘Well, we won’t get much for it in the state it’s in at the moment.’ I pulled another sheet down.
‘I’m not bothered about the money,’ mum said. She folded the sheet away, shot me a mischievous look. ‘And besides, whose fault is it the car’s in the state it is, anyway?’
‘What?’ I said. I stood looking at her.
Mum took the sheet from me and put two of its corners in my hands as she backed off, pulling it tight. She smiled. ‘It was you who tipped the big dresser down onto it in the garage that time, wasn’t it?’
She pulled the sheet; it flew out of my fingers, billowing over the floor of the room like some slow motion wave. I ran after it, catching it. I retrieved the corners, untwisted the sheet and studied the amused expression on my mother’s face. She tugged the sheet again and I held onto it this time.
I’m ashamed to admit that it even occurred to me to deny it, albeit briefly. I grinned sheepishly as we folded the sheet over. ‘Yeah, guilty as charged, but it was an accident.’ I shook my head. ‘How did you work that out?’
She walked towards me, took the sheet from me. ‘Found a bit of broken glass in your underpants when I was washing them,’ she said, and gave a tiny laugh as she turned away to place the sheet on the drier.
I looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh dear,’ I said.
Mum turned round, standing there in her jeans and blouse, glowing with what might well have been self-satisfaction. She reached up and pulled a last sheet down off the pulley, handing one end to me. ‘Yes. Well, we’ll draw a discreet veil over that little incident, shall we?’
I nodded, pursed my lips. ‘Might be best,’ I agreed. I coughed, pulled the sheet taut with her, and with a textbook expression of interested interrogation, asked, ‘And how is the harpsichord-construction project going, anyway?’
‘Well -’
It didn’t end there, either. Nobody had thought to tell me, but obviously it was open season on Prentice’s ignorance. If you were