would you, before he tears the whole garden up.’
Simon knew better than to try and answer any of his sister’s questions. If she actually wanted an answer to any of them she would ask again later. He kissed the cheek that Arabella offered, and then bent down towards the small girl who stood next to her.
‘Hi, pops,’ he said.
‘Hello Simon,’ said Sophy. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Bit sore, but apart from that I’m OK.’
‘Was it a really nasty one?’ asked Sophy.
‘What?’
‘The fart,’ said Sophy.
‘Oh. Yes, I suppose it was pretty nasty.’
Sophy thought for a moment. ‘Was it eggy?’ she asked.
‘Sophy,’ said Arabella sharply. ‘That’s quite enough, thank you.’
Sophy pulled a face. ‘Just asking,’ she said.
‘How are you, anyway?’ asked Simon. ‘Mum behaving herself?’
‘She’s been all right,’ replied Sophy.
‘Gee, thanks,’ said Arabella to her daughter. ‘Right, then. Sophy, you fetch Daniel. Simon, you come in and have a drink and talk to me while I check the moussaka.’
Sophy set off down the steps to look for the dog. Simon followed his sister into the house. In the kitchen Arabella opened the fridge and extracted a bottle of beer.
‘So when did this happen?’ asked Arabella as she rummaged through a drawer for a bottle opener.
‘Last night,’ replied Simon. ‘I went to a dinner party in the upstairs flat.’
‘And how did this man farting cause you to do that to your wrist? I’m intrigued.’
Simon explained what had happened the previous evening.
‘Twister,’ mused Arabella when he had finished. ‘Wow. Remind me how old you are again?’
Before Simon could respond Sophy ran into the kitchen, followed by a springer spaniel, who hurtled into the room and performed a quick tour of everyone’s ankles before settling down on a faded square of carpet in the corner of the room.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Arabella.
‘I think so,’ said Sophy.
‘Is Daniel still trying to escape?’ asked Simon.
Arabella was crouching down to inspect the contents of the oven. ‘Yes, the ungrateful beast. I can’t understand it. Anyone would think we never fed him.’
Daniel looked up and thumped his tail happily against the floor. Daniel the Spaniel. Possibly, thought Simon, the stupidest dog in London.
‘Where are the cats?’ he asked.
‘Oh, off tormenting some of the other dogs in the neighbourhood,’ replied Arabella. Her domestic menagerie also included Botticelli and Pissarro, two beautiful Persian cats of uncommon intelligence, elegant creatures who regarded the rest of the animal kingdom, humans included, with an aloof disdain. Whenever they were bored they would tease Daniel mercilessly. Daniel was too good-natured and too stupid to keep the cats amused for long, though, and so in the evenings they would go on forays to find other unsuspecting canine victims. When Sophy was younger she had been unable to pronounce the cats’ exotic foreign names, and these had gradually transmogrified into ‘Botty’ and ‘Pissy’ – names which were finally adopted by the whole family, to the cats’ obvious chagrin.
‘Can I go and practise?’ asked Sophy.
‘Of course,’ said her mother. ‘I’ll call you when supper’s ready.’ Sophy ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
‘Practise?’ asked Simon once Sophy had gone.
‘She’s got a new trick for you.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘She’s been working on it very hard,’ said Bella. ‘Keeps her occupied. That and looking after Thorald.’
Simon frowned. ‘Who’s Thorald?’
‘Her new pet. He’s a woodlouse.’ Seeing her brother’s blank look, Bella explained further. ‘Sophy wanted a pet of her own. So we got her a woodlouse. He lives in a jar in her bedroom.’
‘OK,’ said Simon uncertainly.
‘Problem is, these woodlouses – or is woodlice? – keep dying. Well, to be fair, Sophy killed the first one all by herself. She thought he might be thirsty, and so she tipped a cupful of water into the bottom of the jar. Result – one drowned woodlouse.’
‘Oops,’ said Simon.
‘Quite. So anyway, each time one dies we have to find another one and then we substitute the old dead Thorald for a new, alive version while she’s asleep.’
‘And she has no idea about this?’
‘Not a clue.’
Brother and sister sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Arabella poured herself a glass of wine from an open bottle that sat on the kitchen table.
Finally Simon said, ‘No Michael?’
‘No,’ said Arabella. ‘No Michael.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Working. As usual. He said he’d try and get back for eight, but didn’t sound too hopeful. So don’t hold your breath.’
Simon wouldn’t. He knew how much time Michael spent at the office. During the week, he rarely returned home much before nine or ten o’clock in the evening, and invariably had to work on one, if not both, days of the weekend. Simon knew that lawyers, particularly rich and successful ones, did work extremely long hours, but he couldn’t believe that Michael could possibly spend all that time at the office. He had a theory – partly engendered, he couldn’t deny, by the mutual antipathy that the two men had for each other – that Michael spent at least some of his time away from home not working, but having affairs.
Simon couldn’t point to anything that proved that his hypothesis might have even the remotest grounding in fact, but that of course had been no bar to its development from vague suspicion to entrenched and ardent belief. Simon was convinced that Michael was a slimy, low-life lothario. In such circumstances, the absence of evidence was irrelevant. Simon didn’t need evidence. He had the courage of his convictions.
Simon had never mentioned his suspicions to his sister. She seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that Michael was never there, and always working. Simon, though, was biding his time, waiting to uncover proof that he had been right all along.
‘So, anyway,’ said Bella, happily unaware of Simon’s dark thoughts. ‘Apart from your escapades playing Twister, what else have you been up to? What’s new in your world?’
Simon thought. ‘Very little to report, really,’ he said.
Bella looked at him thoughtfully. ‘As bad as that?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Afraid so. I actually met a beautiful girl at dinner last night, but got farted at before I had a chance to get her number.’ He thought about Joe’s theory that there was no shame in trying to chat people up at parties. It was an attractive theory, but Simon was not convinced. Even on those rare occasions in the past when he had succeeded in securing a telephone number or a promise of another rendezvous, there had always been another excuse made – the loan of a book, a professed shared interest in a particular playwright, the usual nonsense that gets peddled at parties. The idea of an honest approach – Look, can I see you again? I think you’re gorgeous – filled Simon with apprehension. He respected women, yes, but not to the extent of telling them the truth.
‘Well,’