A Murder of Magpies by Judith Flanders Read Free Book Online Page A

scenario usually wins out. My mother has been with the same City law firm forever. She made partner outrageously young, in her twenties. She had shown her fitness early: When she was twenty-two she took three days off work to have me, and has never really let me forget it, mostly by looking amazed whenever I am ill, as if to say, You’re staying home for that ? She is at the office by seven every morning, and she never leaves before seven in the evening. So what I can’t work out is how she has also managed to see every play in town, go to concerts and opera regularly, have dinner with friends regularly—even worse, give her own dinner parties regularly—read all the latest novels, see all the latest films. She also walks three miles every morning before work, and has a large and close circle of friends. As I say, two people. Maybe three.
    So when I say she left a message asking me to dinner, I don’t want to give the impression she’s some little old lady waiting only for a visit from her daughter to cast a ray of sunshine into her otherwise desolate existence.
    One of her more irritating characteristics is that I always get her right away on the phone. Dammit, she’s a lawyer. Why do my meetings spread over my days like ectoplasm, but not hers? “Never too busy, darling, to talk to you,” she trills. I’d like to ask why not, but I know the answer. Martian.
    â€œSorry not to get back to you yesterday. Nightmare day at the office.”
    She doesn’t have nightmare days, so she didn’t bite. Instead, “I wanted to know, darling, if you’d like to come for dinner tomorrow. There’s that nice judge I wanted you to meet, and possibly those two actors from Chichester.” Mother’s friends are always incredibly glamorous. “That nice judge” is never a part-time magistrate in Slough. He’ll probably turn out to be a Law Lord, or the American Attorney General. The actors from Chichester won’t be two struggling kids just out of drama school, but some Hollywood stars beefing up their credentials by doing a short-run stint in Britain—or, if they are just out of drama school, by the time dessert arrives they’ll have had Steven Spielberg on the phone, begging them to let him direct them in his newest production.
    It’s not that my mother is a starfucker. Everyone genuinely likes her, she genuinely likes them. I like her, too. She’s interested, interesting, good company. I’d go to her dinner parties with pleasure if she’d met me somewhere and asked me. As her daughter, though, I just feel everyone sitting there comparing us all the time. No, not comparing us. I feel them sitting there awed into silent astonishment that we could be even distantly related.
    She moved on. “Have you seen the new show at the Tate? It’s marvelous—do go. But go early, once the reviews come out it will get crowded.”
    â€œMmm. I will.” No I won’t. The day after it finishes I’ll finally find time. “And yes, thanks, I’d love to come for dinner. Eight?”
    â€œEight thirty. I won’t get home until after eight. I haven’t spoken to you in days. What’s up?”
    â€œUp? Nothing. The same. You know nothing’s ever up with me.”
    â€œI do. I’m just not sure why not. You need to get out more.”
    â€œMother. I have five manuscripts, all of which have to be read by tomorrow. I can only read after work because I’ve got meetings all afternoon. I’m supposed to have my detailed editorial comments to two authors about their books by tomorrow, and I’ll need to do that after work, too.”
    Silence. She doesn’t understand why I can’t go to a play, then have dinner with friends, then do the work. But she doesn’t want to say so, because she thinks it’s so obvious that there must be something I’m not telling her.
    I gave up. She gave up. We