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“You know, brown’s really not your shade, darling,” Alexia shot back, looking at Roxie’s drab Next dress. No one was going to ruin this triumph for her, especially not her spoiled, self-centered daughter. “It makes you look like even more of a wet weekend than you usually do. Try a spot of color, next time. It might brighten you up. God knows you could use it.”
Roxie flushed with anger and embarrassment but said nothing.
Eager to avoid further confrontation, Michael De Vere raised his glass.
“Congratulations, Home Secretary!”
Leaning forward, Michael helped himself to a mountain of beef. Bad news should never be broken on an empty stomach.
“Thank you, darling.” Alexia beamed at her son. “You are sweet.”
“Were you surprised they appointed you? I mean, it did come rather out of the blue.”
“Nonsense,” Teddy said loyally. “Your mother was the obvious choice for the job. After all her sterling work with the prison reforms.”
“You’re sweet, darling, but Michael’s quite right. It was a complete shock. I mean, the PM and I do get along well on a personal level . . .”
“Yes, yes. As you’ve told us a thousand times,” sniped Roxie, earning herself twin pleading looks from Teddy and Michael.
“But I never expected a promotion on this scale,” Alexia went on regardless. “I don’t think anybody else did either. It’s ruffled quite a few feathers in the party, I can tell you. But then why be boring and play things by the book? You’ve got to take life’s opportunities where you find them. Grab the bull by the horns and all that. And of course, if I can be of service to the country, then so much the better.”
This was too much for Roxie. She knew she’d promised her father, but really. Service?
“Oh, please, Mother. At least have the decency to admit that this isn’t about service. It’s ambition that got you the job. Personal ambition. We’re not journalists, we’re your family. You don’t have to lie to us, just because you lie to everybody else.”
Teddy said reprovingly, “Roxie, love, steady on.”
Alexia’s chest tightened into a familiar ball of anger. Steady on? Was that all Teddy had to say? Why did he never stick up for her properly? Why did he kowtow to Roxie’s victim complex by treading on eggshells all the damn time? The girl used that damn wheelchair like a weapon, and Alexia for one was sick of it.
“Speaking of taking opportunities and grabbing bulls and . . . things,” Michael began uncertainly. “I, er . . . I have some news.”
“Don’t tell us you’ve finally found a nice girl and are going to get married?” Teddy teased. “I thought we’d agreed. No weddings until you’ve finished Oxford.”
“Don’t worry,” said Michael. “No weddings. At least none where I’m the groom. But I, er . . . well, that’s the news. Part of it, anyway. I have finished Oxford.”
Complete silence. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
Alexia spoke first.
“What do you mean you’ve finished, Michael? You’ve only just started.”
Michael looked at his mother plaintively. “Uni’s not for me, Mum. Really.”
“Not for you? Why on earth not?”
“Honestly? I’m bored.”
“Bored?” Teddy erupted. “At Balliol? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Michael plowed on. “You remember Kingsmere Events, the company I started last year with Tommy?”
Tommy Lyon was Michael’s oldest friend. The two boys had met at prep school and always remained close.
“Not really.”
“Yes, you do. We threw a thirtieth birthday party for that Russian chap on a yacht in Saint-Tropez last summer?”
“Vaguely.” Alexia looked at Teddy, whose usually jovial features were set like thunder.
