I input the phone and scream: "Look, I'm sick to death of you! What the hell do you want now?" What the hell do you want now?"

Pause.

"Have you been drinking again, Julie?"

It's Mother.

34 34.

The front door bangs.

Seconds later Mother appears in the kitchen where Sylvana and I are seated. Ignoring me, she passes through to the sink and washes her hands. I observe her in silence.

"That was a nice way to talk to your mother," she says.

When she turns round again to dry her hands, she's wearing this mischievous smile, which proves she actually enjoyed being shouted at like that.

"Just think of it, Sylvana," she says. "You ring your own daughter to say you'll be a bit late, and she tells you she's sick to death of you."

Sylvana giggles. "How did the bridge go, Gertrude?"

"She doesn't go there for the bridge, Sylvana."

"No," Mother confirms, taking a packet of chocolate Hobnobs from her shopping bag, cutting the top with a sharp knife and putting one in her mouth. "I go for the men."

She puts on the kettle.

"Anyone nice today?" I ask her.

"Yes, but they're all single."

"Why should that be a problem?"

"Married men are much more fun," she replies.

"I love your mother," cackles Sylvana.

"You don't know her like I do."

"Anyway, Julie, where have you been?" inquires Mother, munching her cookie. "I haven't seen you since Saturday last."

"I'm fine, thanks," I reply, grinning at my friend.

"I didn't ask you how you were, I asked you where you were."

"Like I told you, I've been staying with Sylvana. There's this guy she's trying to shake off and she wants me to stay over with her because she thinks I will repel him."

Mother: "Now there's a vote of confidence."

"Anyway, I'm fine," I lie.

"You're feeling better after your bath, then?"

"Somewhat."

"And I presume His Lordship will be home soon?" she asks, pouring boiling water into the pot and carrying it over to the table and sitting down.

"So I'm told."

"He's been behaving strangely for the last few days," she says, pouring out the tea.

Sylvana: "The last few days? " "

"I don't think he wants me staying here."

"That's only because you steal his Danish pastries," I observe.

"He has this terrible long expression on him. He's very humourless at the moment."

"It's a genetic character trait, Gertrude."

"And now that the piano is here, he seems to want to play it whenever I watch TV. He does it to annoy me, I know he does..."

I'm laughing at this point. Sylvana isn't.

"He thinks he's musical. You should hear him on Chopin. He destroys the poor man, if the Master only suspected."

"He acquired the Chopin disease in Paris," I say. "It's endemic."

"Well, it's certainly not contagious."

"Chopin," mocks Sylvana. "God! Who does he think he is? is? I mean, what's his I mean, what's his problem? problem? " "

Mother grins happily at us. "Am I stirring it up? I love living here. There's so much variety."

She announces that it's spaghetti for everyone, including Ronan whenever he returns. She fills a huge cauldron with water and puts it on the hob, turns on the switch, then takes out the spaghetti, the tomato puree and a tub of Parmesan cheese from the press, and puts them on the sideboard. "There's something all women should know," she intones.

"What's that, Gertrude?"

"There are three remedies for unhappiness. Eating well."

She pulls out a fistful of spaghetti.

"And...?" prods Sylvana.

"Sleeping well."

She falls silent.

"Yes, Mother?"

She breaks the fistful of spaghetti in half, then turns round to address us.

"And castrating him," she says.

Right now, Sylvana has forgotten the meaning of self-control.

One hour later Ronan walks in the door.

"You're just in time for some supper, Ronan," says Mother.

"Thank youI'm fine," he says, defridging a beer, butting the door shut with his knee in a movement that tries to be cool and actually succeeds.

"It's spaghetti and a special sauce, although I'm sure the girls would prefer tomato pureeit's more slimming. Sit down there beside Julie."

"Well, if there's enough to spare."

Ronan always has to be the gentleman. "So, you've joined us?" he says in Sylvana's general direction, as he sits down.

My friend's visage, right now, constitutes one glowing highlighted text. It reads: you're such an asshole you'd need a forest of trees to wipe you off the face of the earth.

Sylvana: "Seems more like you've joined us us."

"We're getting daring." He grins. "Is life treating you well?"

"Wonderful."

"How is your nice little business coming along?"

Neither of us has bothered explaining to him that Sylvana no longer owns and runs a single Whole-Self Shop. No, she owns and runs a chain of them, which is now receiving valuable international orders. Basically, she's about to be a millionaire. And when Ronan discovers the fact, she wants to be there to watch his face fall at the bad news.

"How's your decay-prevention business?" she counters mildly.

"Superb. And the dieting?"

He slides a murky eye over her figure before returning it to base.

"Shut up, Ronan."

He mulls this over, as if I've just made an interesting point.

Why can a woman be attractive only if she's slim? Sylvana is extremely attractive. Why else would men (mostly rich and older) be tripping over one another's spare tyres to get near her? She's so popular with the foul sex that she's ended up being a kind of fly-swatter on automatic pilot.

"And how's the love life treating you, Ronan?" she returns, smirking as she chews an ageing Ryvita snack.

Beaming, he revolves his head over to me. "Sylvana wants to know how you've been treating me, darling."

"Exceedingly well, I think."

"How are you, anyway?"

"Non-existent."

"Where have you been these last few nights?"

"Wherever," I reply, eyeing my friend.

He butters his bread, pokes it into his mouth and slowly bites.

Mother has taken a bowl of pasta from the oven. Now she produces another bowl: a familiar glass one. As soon as she removes the tin foil, a strange scent hits my nostrils. This must be the pasta mix Mother was referring to. It has a distinctly fishy smell.

It doesn't take me too long to realize what it is.

Without a word I stand up, leave the kitchen and go into the lounge and pace up and down for a few minutes, every so often glancing over at the aquarium.

Mother has been baking Tropical Marine Fish Mousseline.

I didn't intend for this to happen. Not really. Oh Jesus.

Is Mother doing this in full knowledge? Coolly aware that the mousseline planted by myself in a bowl in the fridge originated in our aquarium and took a slight deviation via our Moulinex mixer?

If so, her hatred of Ronan must be Slavic Slavic.

Or perhaps she did it in all innocence?

Either way, do I go in and raise the alarm?

At this late stage?

I go back inside and sit down and keep my mouth shut.

Mother opens the window and begins stirring the contents of the glass bowl. I am so glad I strained out the eyes and the fins and unwanted pieces of bone. You can choke on shit like that.

Ronan is watching Mother, curious about what's on offer. I can tell he's going to ask her something about it.

"Ronan, dear?"

"Yes?"

"I think I might have left my bracelet in your surgery that time."

"What time was this?"

"You know...that time." time."

"Oh'he grins'that time." time."

Sylvana raises her eyes sarcastically.