Every Woman For Herself: This hilarious romantic comedy from the Sunday Times Bestseller is the perfect spring read. Trisha Ashley
deserted except for Frost, who lifted his head and gave Flossie a leer.
Walter was in the small front room, watching TV and carving a walking stick. He grinned, but didn’t say anything. His wig, never worn, occupied its usual place of honour on the mantelpiece, draped carefully over a polystyrene head.
Father’s study door was shut with his ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on it, though if anyone was already disturbed it was Father.
There was no sign of the Treacle Tart, and the children must be at school, but the sound of hoovering was still audible from above, where Gloria Mundi was singing Gilbert and Sullivan in a falsetto.
She was the very model of a modern major-general.
I found Em eventually in the sitting room, the curtains half drawn, which is why I was well into the room before I saw that she had company.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know you were entertaining, Em. I was just going to tell you I was off to the garden centre.’
‘That’s OK – you know Xanthe, don’t you?’
Xanthe nodded graciously at me; she did look vaguely familiar from her days as Father’s Flavour of the Month.
‘And this is Lilith Tupman and Freya Frogget.’
Lilith looked like she’d been blanched under a pot. Freya was large and clad in billowing white, like over-exuberant ectoplasm.
‘I’ll leave you to it, but let me open the curtains first,’ I offered, taking hold of the heavy velvet drapes.
There was a gasp from Lilith, who held her hands to her temples and exclaimed hysterically, ‘No! No! The light must not touch my face!’
I hastily unloosed the curtains. ‘Sorry.’
Maybe she was a vampire? But then, how had she got here?
‘Would you like me to make you some coffee or something before I go?’ I offered in atonement.
‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Em said. ‘There’s a tray ready in the kitchen – just fill the pot with boiling water and bring it in, will you?’
‘You could join us,’ said Lilith, recovering. ‘If you wished?’
‘No, no, her aura is blue!’ Xanthe cried. ‘I cannot have blue near me … it drains my psychic energy.’
If Father hadn’t managed to drain her powers, I couldn’t see how my blue aura would.
‘Ice, I must have ice!’ gasped Freya, in a parched voice.
‘A bowl of ice from the freezer, too, please,’ said Em. ‘Do you want a hand?’
What, the Hand of Death? The Hand Of Glory? The Hand of the Baskerv—
‘No, that’s OK,’ I assured her, backing out, and starting to puzzle over the ice. Still, Em’s friends all appeared to be women of a certain age: Freya might be having a hot flush of mega proportions.
I brought the tray, which contained all sorts of home-baked goodies, plus a pot of some disgusting-smelling herbal brew reminiscent of Gloria’s best, then left them to it.
Flossie was now snuggled up to Frost, the hussy, and showed no interest in accompanying me, to the garden centre or anywhere else.
Tips for Southern Visitors, No. 1
It is possible to have any variety of Northern accent in conjunction with an intellect.
At dinner it emerged that Father had also inadvertently crashed Em’s tea party, barely escaping without being ravished by Freya, Lilith and Xanthe (well, that was his version, anyway).
‘Congratulations, Em,’ he said through a mouthful of home-made chicken pie. ‘Not one of your friends is normal.’
‘Speaking of normal,’ Em said coolly, ‘your son is coming home tomorrow for a rest.’
Jessica helped herself to a lettuce leaf, looked at it doubtfully, and put half back again in the bowl. ‘I haven’t met Branwell yet,’ she said. ‘Is he as dishy as you, darling?’
The two little girls, who were doing full justice to the despised stodge, giggled.
‘He’s nothing like me,’ Father said tersely. ‘Charlie’s nothing like me, either.’
‘I’m like Mother, though, and I expect Bran takes after his.’
‘Your mother’s very famous, isn’t she?’ Jessica asked. ‘Big in America. But I do think all this writing books and talking about feminism does more harm than good, don’t you?’
‘Someone’s got to speak out, especially when men are trying to claim great works of women’s fiction as their own,’ Em commented pointedly, but Father refused to rise to the bait.
‘Yes, wasn’t Elizabeth Barrett Browning lucky, having such a clever husband to write her work for her?’ I said innocently. ‘I wonder how on earth she managed before he came along? Perhaps one of her brothers?’
‘You mustn’t tease,’ Jessica said earnestly. ‘Ran researches very thoroughly. He works very hard.’
‘He has to research thoroughly to find scraps of evidence that can be twisted into proving what he wants,’ Em said.
‘And you, of course, are a great writer and know all about it?’ he said sarcastically. ‘My dear Em, I don’t think writing doggerel for greeting-card manufacturers quite qualifies you as a literary critic.’
‘No, but I don’t just write for greeting cards – I’m also Serafina Shane.’
While this was a bit of a damp squib as far as Father and myself were concerned, Jessica laid down her fork and stared.
‘What, Serafina Shane out of Women Live! magazine? Womanly Wicca Words of Spiritual Comfort? I’ve ordered the book!’
‘Advance orders have been very brisk,’ Em said complacently, and bestowed a slightly warmer gaze on Jessica than I had ever seen before. She might just live, after all.
‘Well done, Em,’ I said. ‘If I’d known I’d have read them, but I never buy women’s mags – they’re all New Woman, and Never Admit You’re Forty Woman, and Rich Bored Bitchy Woman, when all I ever wanted was something like Skint Old Northern Woman.’
‘You’re right,’ Em said. ‘Weren’t you going to start one?’
‘Yes, in fact my hobby during the last few weeks has been writing articles for the sort of magazine I’d really like to find. I’ve got quite a lot.’
‘Do I understand, Emily,’ Father broke in, ‘that you’ve been writing your ghastly doggerel for a women’s magazine, and it’s now coming out as a book?’
‘Yes – inspirational verse and prose. I’m very popular.’
‘Serafina what?’ I asked.
‘Shane.’
‘At least it isn’t Rhymer!’ Father said.
‘Well done, Em!’ I enthused.
‘So what were you plotting with your abnormal friends when I came in this morning?’ enquired Father.
‘We were trying various means to discover where Anne is. There’s something the matter with her, and I can’t get any reply from her flat. Xanthe tried the crystal pendulum.’
‘And Xanthe knows everything?’ He frowned. ‘And why does she look so familiar?’
Em ignored this. ‘The crystal showed us where she was – somewhere near her flat. Then Freya did a reading, and discovered that Anne’s had an operation, but she’ll be here soon to recuperate.’
‘I