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Authors: Sophie Kinsella
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sorts of things for us!” She looks slightly beleaguered. “Three garden benches . . . two bird tables . . . and now he’s working on a two-story summerhouse in the garden!”
“Wow!” I say politely. “That’s great!”
An oven timer suddenly starts pinging, and I look up in surprise. Has Mum taken to baking while we’ve been away?
“Are you cooking something?” I peer at the oven, which appears to be dead.
“No!” Mum gives a trill of laughter. “That’s to remind me to check eBay.”
“eBay?” I stare at her. “What do you mean, eBay?”
How would Mum know about eBay? She doesn’t know anything about computers. Two years ago I suggested she give Luke a new mouse mat for Christmas and she went to a pet shop.
“You know, darling! Internet shopping. I’m bidding on a Ken Hom wok, a pair of candlesticks”—she pulls a flowery notepad out of her pocket and consults it—“oh yes, and a hedge trimmer for Dad. Used only once!”
“eBay is marvelous!” chimes in Janice. “Such fun. Have you used it, Becky?”
“Well . . . no.”
“Oh, you’d love it,” says Mum at once. “Although I couldn’t get through last night to check on my Portmeirion plates.” She clicks her tongue. “I don’t know
what
was wrong.”
“The domain servers were probably down,” Janice says knowledgeably. “I’ve been having trouble with my modem all week. Biscuit, Becky?”
I cannot get my head round this. Mum? On eBay? Next she’ll be saying she’s up to level six on Tomb Raider.
“But . . . you haven’t even got a computer,” I say. “You hate modern technology.”
“Not anymore, love! Janice and I did a course. We’ve gone broadband!” She looks at me seriously. “Let me give you a word of advice, Becky. If you’re going broadband, I’d install a decent firewall.”
OK. This is all wrong. Parents are not supposed to know more about computers than their children. I nod carelessly and take a sip of coffee, trying to hide the fact that I don’t have a clue what a firewall is.
“Jane, it’s ten to twelve,” Janice says cautiously to Mum. “Are you going to . . .”
“I don’t think so,” Mum says. “You go on.”
“What is it?” I look from face to face. “Is something wrong?”
“Of course not!” says Mum, putting down her coffee cup. “It’s just we agreed to go to the Marshalls’ lunch party today, with Janice and Martin. But don’t worry. We’ll send our apologies.”
“Don’t be silly!” I say at once. “You must go. We don’t want to mess up your day.”
There’s a pause.
“Are you sure?” says Mum.
She wasn’t supposed to say that. She was supposed to say, “How could my precious daughter mess up my day?”
“Of course!” I say, in overbright tones. “You go to your lunch party and we’ll have a proper chat later.”
“Well, OK,” says Mum. “If you’re sure.”
“I’ll pop over and get ready,” says Janice. “Lovely to see you back, Becky!”
As she disappears through the kitchen door I look at Dad, who’s still staring out the window, brooding.
“Are you OK, Dad?” I say. “You’ve been really quiet.”
“Sorry,” he says, turning round with a quick smile. “I’m just a little distracted at the moment. Thinking about . . . a golf match I’ve got next week. Very important.” He mimes playing a putt.
“Right,” I say, trying to sound cheerful.
But inside I feel more and more uneasy. He’s not really thinking about golf. Why is he so cagey?
What is going on?
“So . . .” I say lightly. “Who was that I saw you with earlier? That woman you were with.”
It’s like I’ve let off a gunshot or something. Mum and Dad are both paralyzed. I can see their eyes darting toward each other, then looking away again. They both look totally panic-stricken.
“Woman?” says Mum at last. “I didn’t . . .” She looks at Dad. “Did you see a woman, Brian?”
“Maybe Becky means . . . that passerby,” he says in a stilted
“Wow!” I say politely. “That’s great!”
An oven timer suddenly starts pinging, and I look up in surprise. Has Mum taken to baking while we’ve been away?
“Are you cooking something?” I peer at the oven, which appears to be dead.
“No!” Mum gives a trill of laughter. “That’s to remind me to check eBay.”
“eBay?” I stare at her. “What do you mean, eBay?”
How would Mum know about eBay? She doesn’t know anything about computers. Two years ago I suggested she give Luke a new mouse mat for Christmas and she went to a pet shop.
“You know, darling! Internet shopping. I’m bidding on a Ken Hom wok, a pair of candlesticks”—she pulls a flowery notepad out of her pocket and consults it—“oh yes, and a hedge trimmer for Dad. Used only once!”
“eBay is marvelous!” chimes in Janice. “Such fun. Have you used it, Becky?”
“Well . . . no.”
“Oh, you’d love it,” says Mum at once. “Although I couldn’t get through last night to check on my Portmeirion plates.” She clicks her tongue. “I don’t know
what
was wrong.”
“The domain servers were probably down,” Janice says knowledgeably. “I’ve been having trouble with my modem all week. Biscuit, Becky?”
I cannot get my head round this. Mum? On eBay? Next she’ll be saying she’s up to level six on Tomb Raider.
“But . . . you haven’t even got a computer,” I say. “You hate modern technology.”
“Not anymore, love! Janice and I did a course. We’ve gone broadband!” She looks at me seriously. “Let me give you a word of advice, Becky. If you’re going broadband, I’d install a decent firewall.”
OK. This is all wrong. Parents are not supposed to know more about computers than their children. I nod carelessly and take a sip of coffee, trying to hide the fact that I don’t have a clue what a firewall is.
“Jane, it’s ten to twelve,” Janice says cautiously to Mum. “Are you going to . . .”
“I don’t think so,” Mum says. “You go on.”
“What is it?” I look from face to face. “Is something wrong?”
“Of course not!” says Mum, putting down her coffee cup. “It’s just we agreed to go to the Marshalls’ lunch party today, with Janice and Martin. But don’t worry. We’ll send our apologies.”
“Don’t be silly!” I say at once. “You must go. We don’t want to mess up your day.”
There’s a pause.
“Are you sure?” says Mum.
She wasn’t supposed to say that. She was supposed to say, “How could my precious daughter mess up my day?”
“Of course!” I say, in overbright tones. “You go to your lunch party and we’ll have a proper chat later.”
“Well, OK,” says Mum. “If you’re sure.”
“I’ll pop over and get ready,” says Janice. “Lovely to see you back, Becky!”
As she disappears through the kitchen door I look at Dad, who’s still staring out the window, brooding.
“Are you OK, Dad?” I say. “You’ve been really quiet.”
“Sorry,” he says, turning round with a quick smile. “I’m just a little distracted at the moment. Thinking about . . . a golf match I’ve got next week. Very important.” He mimes playing a putt.
“Right,” I say, trying to sound cheerful.
But inside I feel more and more uneasy. He’s not really thinking about golf. Why is he so cagey?
What is going on?
“So . . .” I say lightly. “Who was that I saw you with earlier? That woman you were with.”
It’s like I’ve let off a gunshot or something. Mum and Dad are both paralyzed. I can see their eyes darting toward each other, then looking away again. They both look totally panic-stricken.
“Woman?” says Mum at last. “I didn’t . . .” She looks at Dad. “Did you see a woman, Brian?”
“Maybe Becky means . . . that passerby,” he says in a stilted
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