"You're back early, Ronan," chirps Mother. "Had you no dental appointments today?"

"I had my secretary cancel them."

"Are you not feeling well?" she asks.

He turns to me: "Julie, let's talk about this inside."

"Don't mind little old me," says Mother, determined not to miss an opportunity like this.

"It's not you, Gertrude, it's just that"

"That's okay, then," she interrupts, pouring out a cup of tea. "Sit down, here's a cup of tea."

"No thanks."

She gives it to me instead.

"Thank you, Mother."

"You're welcome, dear."

"Julie, my Porsche is missing," he snaps. "Where is it?"

"What makes you think I took it?"

"A few reasons." He pauses, glancing at Mother. "For one thing, you obviously imagine I've been seeing another woman."

"Ah," I observe. "Motive."

Mother chuckles to herself, stirring sugar into her tea. When Mother chuckles like this I read it as a warning signal. I do not want Ronan to see her dark side. There are dimensions to her personality he hasn't even dreamt about.

"Ronan, your car has obviously been stolen."

"Obviously."

"I think you should call the police," I cunningly add.

"Against my wife?"

I look up at him, feigning amazement. "You don't seriously think I stole your car?"

"Confiscated, borrowed, hid...it's all the same."

"Only a non-lawyer could say something like that."

"Well? Did you?"

"I most certainly did not steal your car."

I sold sold it: important technical difference here. it: important technical difference here.

Mother: "Ronandon't be at Julie. She's had a hard week."

Ronan makes this sound: not quite a snigger, not quite a sigh.

"I'd never have suspected herbut for one thing."

"What?"

I am insanely curious, flipping through my microchip memory, certain that I did not carelessly deposit so much as one microbe of evidence connecting me to the evil deed.

"Yesterday I was rooting in the kitchen press," he begins.

"As husbands tend to do," is my little filler.

"And I discovered the stopper of our wine decanter."

Christ, the wine decanter. Sometimes my mind works even more quickly than I give it credit for. Like brilliant lightning, I flash back at him, "Really? " "

"It had bits of yellow paint stuck to it."

I swallow.

He eyes me inquisitorially, sucking away my defences like a monster octopus.

"How on earth did they get there?"

"I'll tell you how they got there: somebody used the stopper to smash my Porsche last Thursday evening in the car park."

"And you think it was me?" I cry.

I am utterly incredulous now, frowning at Mother, shrugging in bafflement, my whole being a pious offering to integrity, a shamelessly poker-faced bonanza of moral rectitude. Right now, in other words, I'm playing a blinder. I am that desperate for Mother to think of me as a well-behaved, well-raised little daughter.

And Ronan knows it. "You look surprised, Julie." He smiles.

I hate him. He sees through me. "I thought the gurriers did that to your car?"

"Gurriers did did do it, only not the ones I thought." do it, only not the ones I thought."

"I'll thank you not to refer to my daughter as a gurrier; I think I brought her up exceptionally well."

"Yes you did, Mother," I reassure her, secretly wondering what she would think of me if she actually knew what I did to cars and art books and living-rooms and paintings and living things, and things in between like bucket-suffocating tropical fish.

"But there's something else," he resumes, stroking his chin.

This reminds me of the headmistress going through my annual school report. "What now?"

"Somebody recently penetrated my surgery."

"Penetrated," I comment, taking a panic bite of toast. "A good word."

"Have you anything to say about that?"

"Certainly wasn't me."

"You're lying," he says with contempt.

"You're right; lying is wrong."

"Children! What happened in your surgery, Ronan? Was there a robbery?"

I pour myself some more tea, splashing, trembling.

"The intruder grilled cheese on toast."

He examines me with limpid eyes.

Smirking.

Real-time brick-shitting panic now. They found the cheese-on-toast remains I left in the surgery kitchen. But what makes them think it wasn't Harry?

I glance at Mother, shrugging helplessly at her.

"That doesn't seem such a terrible crime to me, Ronan," she says.

Me (tentatively): "I dare say the thief was hungry."

He straightens up, leaning back further, and strokes his chin some more. "Certain people are not into cheese on toast..." he says mysteriously.

"This is true," says I.

He adds: "And certain people are are."

Oh, I get it. He must be referring to Harry. Harry must detest cheese. This crosses him off the suspect list. MeI adore cheese on toast.

They're on to me.

"Stop being so abstruse, Ronan."

But he ignores me. "Furthermore, toasted cheese was not all the intruder grilled."

Whatever can he mean?

Again, I glance at Mother, perplexed.

"Do you remember the painting in my office, Julie?" he asks.

"Which one?"

"There was only one."

"Oh, you mean that lovely one of the goldfish."

"You think it was lovely."

Pause.

"Well...it was interesting anyway. I feel sure it had a hidden meaning, even if I could never detect it."

"Would you like to know what happened to it?"

"I'd love to."

"The so-called intruder burnt it under the grill."

Right now, I'm pouring Mother some tea, although her cup is already full. It seems to be a law of nature: when you're in dire straits, you run out of decent options.

"He burnt it under the grill?"

I eye Mother and she eyes me.

"It was a valuable painting, Julie."

"Maybe that was its hidden meaning."

"Doesn't it strike you as a slightly strange thing for your average intruder to do to a painting?"

"You get all types out there."

Mother: "Perhaps the gurrier in question ran out of toast?"

I can't help it: I explode in uproarous laughter. Immediately I apologize for my inappropriate reaction and offer my sympathies in respect of the sad loss of his dear artwork.

"I don't know you any more, Julie," says Ronan, darkening.

"Try spending more time at home," I reply.

He's not smiling.

"Oh, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud," Mother teases.

"She destroyed a work of art!" he yells.

"There's no need to accuse my daughter of vandalism."

"Thank you, Mother."

I mean, it's a scandalous accusation.