idea that I was being stalked by a spider.
Gail scuttled off to get the spider trap – a gleaming chrome thing that I had never seen actually catch anything except lint – and Mum brushed down her little black dress and turned to me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. As if I had even the slightest choice in the matter. “I’ve invited two of the young people who’ve been campaigning to help us pass the amendments to the budget. I’d like you to look after them this evening.”
Oh good. Young Conservatives.
I’m sure there are young Tories who are nice, thoughtful people who want to get into politics to make a positive difference to other people. There are, I’m vaguely aware, young Tories who are sweet, polite, non-white, even female.
Those are just not the ones my mum invites to parties.
She looked me up and down again, and smiled in her stretched-out, thin-lipped way. “Please... try to be a good hostess. If they empty their glasses and you can’t see the staff, volunteer to get them a new one yourself. Try not to let them feel as if you’re not paying them attention. They’re our guests, and they’re boys, so let them do most of the talking and try not to insult them.”
Sometimes I wonder how my mother got to be a successful career politician and yet still had parts of her brain hardwired straight into the 1950s.
She was straightening the flowers on the mantelpiece now, still talking, but in a thoughtful way, almost to herself.
“They’re both charming young men. I’m sure they’ll like you. They’re both at Cambridge, you should ask them about their colleges. I’m sure they’d be happy to show you around. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She turned and looked at me again, and gave a miniscule nod of approval.
I suppressed a shiver. If my mother approved of me, something must be up.
The party was one of Mum’s political schmoozing affairs. A gang of black-shirted waiters emerged from the kitchen, as neat and regimented as if Hilde had just unpacked them from a plastic box at the back of a cupboard. They passed out glasses of wine to the guests as they arrived, and circled the room with little gourmet nibbles on square black plates.
The guests were mostly politicians; friends and collaborators of Mum’s. Ministers chortled over their glasses at lobbyists. A few of Dad’s colleagues and clients turned up too, and stood in the corner of the room, chomping on little green pastries and talking about furniture and concrete cores and Qatari finance. They were mostly white men in suits, but eventually they were joined by a woman. I couldn’t help staring a bit as she walked in. She was black, and wearing a peacock-coloured dress, her hair thickly braided and shimmering under a sprinkling of gold glitter. She was overdressed for the occasion, and I caught Mum giving her a doubtful side-eye, but somehow she carried it off with such panache that she made everyone else in the room look underdressed. I found it hard to believe my Dad knew anyone that interesting.
I lurked by the window, very slowly drinking the lemonade one of the waiters had pressed into my hand and staring at the pointy porcelain ornaments on the windowsill while I listened in to their conversation. It was disappointing: the woman joined right in with Dad’s talk of steel, land deals and billion pound loans. I was willing to bet she was disgustingly rich, just from the way they all seemed to fall over themselves to agree with everything she said, but I couldn’t make out what it was she actually did. I was focused on the polite chatter, trying to catch the woman’s name, when I suddenly heard loud voices on the front step. I peered out of the window, trying to see who was there. I could make out two shadowy figures, but not much detail. They were braying with laughter, like posh donkeys. Mum disappeared to open the door and halloooed them down the hall and into the drawing room.
“Margaret,” she cut across the room
Gail scuttled off to get the spider trap – a gleaming chrome thing that I had never seen actually catch anything except lint – and Mum brushed down her little black dress and turned to me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. As if I had even the slightest choice in the matter. “I’ve invited two of the young people who’ve been campaigning to help us pass the amendments to the budget. I’d like you to look after them this evening.”
Oh good. Young Conservatives.
I’m sure there are young Tories who are nice, thoughtful people who want to get into politics to make a positive difference to other people. There are, I’m vaguely aware, young Tories who are sweet, polite, non-white, even female.
Those are just not the ones my mum invites to parties.
She looked me up and down again, and smiled in her stretched-out, thin-lipped way. “Please... try to be a good hostess. If they empty their glasses and you can’t see the staff, volunteer to get them a new one yourself. Try not to let them feel as if you’re not paying them attention. They’re our guests, and they’re boys, so let them do most of the talking and try not to insult them.”
Sometimes I wonder how my mother got to be a successful career politician and yet still had parts of her brain hardwired straight into the 1950s.
She was straightening the flowers on the mantelpiece now, still talking, but in a thoughtful way, almost to herself.
“They’re both charming young men. I’m sure they’ll like you. They’re both at Cambridge, you should ask them about their colleges. I’m sure they’d be happy to show you around. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She turned and looked at me again, and gave a miniscule nod of approval.
I suppressed a shiver. If my mother approved of me, something must be up.
The party was one of Mum’s political schmoozing affairs. A gang of black-shirted waiters emerged from the kitchen, as neat and regimented as if Hilde had just unpacked them from a plastic box at the back of a cupboard. They passed out glasses of wine to the guests as they arrived, and circled the room with little gourmet nibbles on square black plates.
The guests were mostly politicians; friends and collaborators of Mum’s. Ministers chortled over their glasses at lobbyists. A few of Dad’s colleagues and clients turned up too, and stood in the corner of the room, chomping on little green pastries and talking about furniture and concrete cores and Qatari finance. They were mostly white men in suits, but eventually they were joined by a woman. I couldn’t help staring a bit as she walked in. She was black, and wearing a peacock-coloured dress, her hair thickly braided and shimmering under a sprinkling of gold glitter. She was overdressed for the occasion, and I caught Mum giving her a doubtful side-eye, but somehow she carried it off with such panache that she made everyone else in the room look underdressed. I found it hard to believe my Dad knew anyone that interesting.
I lurked by the window, very slowly drinking the lemonade one of the waiters had pressed into my hand and staring at the pointy porcelain ornaments on the windowsill while I listened in to their conversation. It was disappointing: the woman joined right in with Dad’s talk of steel, land deals and billion pound loans. I was willing to bet she was disgustingly rich, just from the way they all seemed to fall over themselves to agree with everything she said, but I couldn’t make out what it was she actually did. I was focused on the polite chatter, trying to catch the woman’s name, when I suddenly heard loud voices on the front step. I peered out of the window, trying to see who was there. I could make out two shadowy figures, but not much detail. They were braying with laughter, like posh donkeys. Mum disappeared to open the door and halloooed them down the hall and into the drawing room.
“Margaret,” she cut across the room
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