“I’m not falling for that one,” she answers. “Last time you threatened to wash my mouth out with soap. Just so you know,” she says, turning to our guest, “there’s no swearing at the dinner table.”
“Most people aren’t heathens who need to be told that,” I point out.
“You must be Mimi,” Prim says, ignoring me. “Are your ears burning?”
“Hi, yes.” Mimi’s hands half lift to her ears before she catches herself. “I mean, no. Should they be burning?”
“Yeah, who’s talking about her?” I grumble.
“Everyone except Lavender. She’s talking to some boy on her phone.” Prim angles her head in the direction of the lounge.
Nosh jobs and Mimi? That had better not be the conversational flow in there.
“That thing will need surgically removing from her hand,” Polly mutters.
“Anyway, I’m Primrose,” she offers. “The sister whose personality is as sunny as her name.”
“And as you’ve probably guess, she issomodest,” I put in.
“The glue that keeps this family together,” she counteroffers, her arms held wide.
“We could use some of that glue for your mouth.”
True to her cheeky personality, Prim sticks out her tongue.
“Make yourself useful,” Mum says, swiping Mimi’s boxed bouquet up again. “Put these gorgeous flowers in Grandma’s vase.”
“That’svase,” I say, ducking my lips to Mimi’s ear. From the outside, I’m sure it looks like I’m teasing her about her accent, mainly because no one can see the way I have my hand on her arse. The way I’m squeezing it.
“Vase—vase,” she says, almost springing away.
“Why don’t you take Mimi into the living room and get her a drink?” Poll suggests. “Dinner won’t be long.”
“Can’t I help?” Mimi asks, almost springing from my hand.
“Want me to lay the table?” I ask, eyeing the mostly bare kitchen table.
“I already did it,” Primrose says. “We’re eating in the dining room today because we have a guest.” She dips an ironic curtsey.
“There’s just not enough room at the kitchen table,” Poll says, shooing us out of the door with her hands and into the darker hallway. “Go and open the wine or something.” With a weird flash of her teeth, she closes the kitchen door behind us.
“The dining room and wine. You should come more often.”
“I shouldn’t be here at all,” she says, trailing me into the formal dining room.
This time, I do make monkey noises, making her smile. She walks to the French doors overlooking the back garden as I decant a couple of bottles of Pinot Noir into the flat bottomed carafe. Mum has gone all out with the best china and silverware. The posh glasses she and dad bought at some French antique fair.
“You have a tree house.” Is it weird that I know she’s smiling?
“Technically, it’s a tree fort. Tree house was far too emasculating for our young minds.”
“Except you have sisters.”
“It became a house when they got their hands on it. They even hung curtains.”
“The height of domesticity,” she teases.
“Here.” She startles a little as I slide my hand to her jean-covered hip and hold out a glass for her in my other hand.
