how well that one came off, before she tripped up the stairs to gaze at herself in admiration.
Grusha's visit had been urged by the Dunphys because Gorosuv had been offered a post at the College, and Tom Platkin, their next door neighbour, was selling to move to MIT. The reason for Gorosuv's appointment to the College was also the reason that he could suddenly afford to buy Tom's house. Grace and Cloudmere considered the childless Gorosuvs as family—a feeling shared by Grusha and Irena. The idea had seemed perfect. But Hyperica's bile mortified Grusha and he hid in Cloudmere's study. In his still somewhat tattered state (no money had come through yet), he looked as if his socks might smell, but he was, in actuality, just poor and more interested in numbers, theories, hothouse tomatoes, and his beloved wife of twenty years.
Grusha's visit ended at the airport with tears and indecision. Grace and Cloudmere hurt for him and for themselves at the thought that their wish to have their beloved friends next door was probably lost forever by their fiend of a daughter. They, as usual, had no control whatsoever over her actions, and were slaves at home to her demands. "To keep the peace", they cowardly maintained.
On coming home, they crunched through the red and gold leaves to the hothouse and gorged themselves on a huge bowl of apple crumble made with Eldon pippins from their own garden. The steamy heat and loamy smell comforted, but not enough.
"She's practicing for the Nobel in December, you know," Grace said to her husband, her tears salting the brimming spoon.
Cloudmere turned the colour of blanched asparagus. " ... at me and Grusha?"
"No. I think she has bigger ideas. The King of Norway when he presents your prize."
Cloudmere's last swallow of heavenly mess churned in his stomach. "We'll have to leave her home," he announced, but with not a speck of firmness in his manner.
"If only we could. The house ... and who—"
"... else could stomach her," Cloudmere finished the sentence. No, Hyperica wouldn't be above burning the house down. And as for having her stay with ... there was not a soul who hadn't been burnt by her tongue within minutes of her company. If she were a dog, she would have been banned by every kennel in the land, except the pound as a candidate for instant incineration.
Cloudmere took his wife's face in his hands and kissed her cinnamon-scented lips. "She'll grow up." It was meant as a reassurance, but once said, resonated with the comfort of the poorhouse bell to an 1800's pauper.
"Dear, she's bloody nineteen now, and doing buggerall," Grace uttered, and the crudeness shocked both of them.
The next day, with Cloudmere at the College and Hyperica out somewhere, Mrs. Dunphy cleaned the house. On emptying the rubbish, she saw one of Hyperica's beauty magazines, a discard from a huge library paid for by Hyperica's allowance (for doing nothing), and generous self-helpings from Mrs. Dunphy's purse. In a depressed curiosity, Grace sat at the kitchen table and flipped through the magazine. The models were the same vapid types Hyperica aped, and were of no interest to the naturally pretty, but totally unartificed Mrs. Dunphy. The ads in the back of the magazine, however, had a sort of low-class appeal.
One didn't read such things.
Lady Lydia's International Network of Psychics: Lady Lydia's knowledge and powers have been passed on for centuries ... Regular guidance is sought by high profile TV and radio personalities, royalty and business leaders from around the world. Lady Lydia, was over-made-up, as Grace expected they all are. In the next column, an even more fancifully painted "Esmerelda" smiled cryptically. Ask me anything! I have assisted police in investigations and correctly predicted events and natural disasters—even picking winning lottery numbers for years. A sixth generation psychic with a lifetime of experience. I have made many fortunes. Sought out by well known politicians and celebrities
James - Jack Swyteck ss Grippando