There was shouting in the background.
"I'm coming, I'm coming. Oh God. Look, I, I'm going to have to go sort this out. It sounds like he's trying to strangle her. Can I call you later?" - more shouting "Hang on, just ... Bridget, I'll call you in the morning."
Very confused. Wish could ring Jude or Shaz to find out if excuse is valid but is middle of night. Maybe I'll try to sleep.
9 a.m. Gaah! Gaah! Telephone. Hurrah! No! Doom! Have just remembered what happened.
9.30 a.m. Was not Mark but my mother. "D'you know, darling, I'm absolutely livid."
"Mum," I interrupted resolutely. "Do you mind if I ring you back on the mobile"'
It was all coming back to me in waves. I had to get her off the phone in case Mark was trying to call.
"Mobile, darling? Don't be silly - you haven't had one of those since you were two, Do you remember? With little fishes on? Oh. Daddy wants a word but ... Anyway, here he is."
I waited, looking frantically between the mobile and the clock.
"Hello, my dear," said Dad wearily. "She's not going to Kenya."
"Great, well done," I said, glad that at least one of us not in crisis. "What did vou do?"
"Nothing, Her passport's expired."
"Hah Brilliant. Don't tell her you can get new ones."
"Oh, she knows, she knows," he said. "The thing is, if you have a new one, you have to have a new photo. So it's not out of any respect for me, it's purely a matter of flirting with customs officials."
Mum grabbed the phone. "It's just completely ridiculous, darling. I had my photo taken and I look as old as the hills. Una said try it in a booth but it's worse. I'm keeping the old passport and that's an end of the matter. Anyway, how's Mark?"
"He's fine," I said, in a high, strangled voice, narrowly avoiding adding: he likes to sleep with oriental youths and fiddle with rabbits, isn't that fun?
"Well! Daddy and I thought you and Mark would like to come to lunch tomorrow. We haven't seen you both together. I thought I'd just stick a lasagne in the oven with some beans."
"Can I ring you back later? I'm late for ... yoga!" I said, inspired.
Managed to get free of her after a freakishly short fifteen-minute wind-down during which it became increasingly clear that the entire might of the British Passport Office was not going to be much of a match for Mum and the old photo, then fumbled for another Silk Cut, desolate and confused. Housekeeper? I mean I know he does have a housekeeper but ... And then all this stuff with Rebecca. And he votes Tory. Maybe will eat some cheese. Gaah! Telephone.
Was Shazzer.
"Oh Shaz," I said miserably, and started to blurt out the story.
"Stop right there," she said, before I'd even got as far as the oriental boy. "Stop. I'm going to say this once and I want you to listen."
What?" I said, thinking if there was one person in the world incapable of just saying something once - apart from my mother - it was Sharon.
"Get out."
"But . . ."
"Get out. You've had the warning sign, he votes Tory. Now get out before you get too involved."
"But wait, that's not . . ."
"Oh for God's sake," she growled. "He's got it every which way, hasn't he? He comes to your house, he has everything done for him. You turn up all dressed up to the nines for his ghastly Tory friends and what does he do? Flirts with Rebecca. Patronizes you. And votes Tory. It's all just manipulative, paternalistic..."
I glanced nervously at the clock. "Um, Shaz, can I ring you back on the mobile?"
"What! In case he rings you? No!" she exploded. Just then the mobile actually started ringing. "Shaz, I'm going to have to go. I'll call you later." Pressed OK eagerly on the mobile.