their coats and shoes, and head into the kitchen, where the table is laid. (I’ve finally got Mummy to give up trying to entertain us in the dining room when we have the girls with us.) And the minute I enter the room, I draw breath sharply. Oh, for God’s sake. What is she up to?
Mummy, of course, is playing completely innocent.
‘Have some crudités, Sylvie!’ she says in that bright sparkly voice that used to be real – she had everything to sparkle about – and now sounds just a little hollow. ‘Girls, you like carrots, don’t you? Look at these ones. Aren’t they fun?’
There are four huge platters on the kitchen counter, all covered in strangely shaped vegetables. There are courgette batons, etched with a criss-cross design. Discs of cucumber with scalloped edges. Carrot stars. Radish hearts. (They do look super-cute, I must admit). And as the pièce de résistance, a pineapple carved into a flower.
I meet eyes with Dan. We both know how this is going to go. And half of me is tempted to harden my heart, be brutal, not even mention the extraordinarily shaped vegetables. But I can’t. I have to play along.
‘Wow!’ I say, dutifully. ‘Those are incredible.’
‘I did them all myself,’ says Mummy in triumph. ‘It took me half an hour, if that.’
‘Half an hour?’ I echo, feeling like the second presenter on a QVC show. ‘Goodness. How on earth did you manage that?’
‘Well.’ Mummy’s face lights up. ‘I’ve bought this rather wonderful machine! Girls, do you want to see how Granny’s new machine works?’
‘Yes!’ cry Tessa and Anna, who are so easily persuaded into new ventures, it’s ridiculous. I know if I said to them, ‘Do you want to study QUANTUM PHYSICS?’ in the right tone of voice, they’d both yell, ‘Yes!’ Then they’d fight over who was going to be first to study quantum physics. Then I’d say, ‘Do you know what quantum physics is?’ and Anna would look blank, while Tessa would say defiantly, ‘It is like Paddington Bear,’ because she always has to have an answer.
As Mummy hurries out, Dan shoots me an ominous look. ‘Whatever it is, we’re not buying it,’ he says in a low voice.
‘OK, but don’t …’ I gesture with my hands.
‘What?’
‘Be negative.’
‘I’m not being negative!’ retorts Dan – totally lying, as he couldn’t look more negative. ‘But nor am I spending any more money on your mother’s—’
‘Ssh!’ I intervene.
‘—crap,’ he finishes. ‘That apple-sauce maker …’
‘I know, I know.’ I wince. ‘It was a mistake. I’ve admitted it.’
Don’t get me wrong: I’m as big a fan of the heavyweight retro American-style gadget as the next person. But that bloody ‘traditional apple-sauce maker’ is huge. And we hardly ever eat apple sauce. Nor do we use it for ‘all those handy purees’ that Mummy kept on about in her sales pitch. (As for the ‘liquid spice’ sachets … It’s best to cast a veil.)
Everyone works through grief in their own way. I get that. My way was to have a meltdown. Mummy’s way is to blink furiously. And her other way is to sell one weird product after another to her friends and family.
When she started holding jewellery parties, I was delighted. I thought it would be a fun hobby, and distract her from all the sadness. I went along, I sipped champagne with all her friends and I bought a choker and a bracelet. There was a second jewellery party which I couldn’t make, but apparently it went well.
Then she held an essential oils party and I bought Christmas presents for all Dan’s family, so that was fine. The Spanishware party was OK, too. I bought tapas bowls and I’ve used them maybe once.
Then there was the Trendieware party.
Oh God. Just the memory makes me shudder. Trendieware is a company that makes garments out of stretchy fabric in ‘modern, vibrant’ (vile) prints. You can wear each item about sixteen different ways, and you have to choose your personality (I was Spring Fresh Extrovert) and then the saleswoman (Mummy) tries to persuade you to throw out all your old clothes and only wear Trendieware.
It was horrendous. Mummy has a sylphlike figure for her age, so of course she can wear a stretchy tube as a skirt. But her friends? Hello? The place was full of ladies in their sixties, glumly trying to wrap a lurid pink stretchy top over their sensible bra or work out the Three-Way Jacket (you’d need a thesis in mechanics), or else flatly