Virtue by Serena Mackesy Read Free Book Online Page B

Dom and Mel live together. As a couple. As one of those couply couples who not only look alike – masses of chestnut curls, wide, honest eyes – but seem to know, most of the time, what the other is thinking.
    I love them, but my heart sinks. Oh, God. Does this woman never sleep? We’ve been up for well over twenty-four hours and I feel that every bit of me is flaking off. I twist a smile onto my face.
    Suddenly, Harriet looks concerned.
    ‘Oh, God, sorry, Annie. I thought it would be okay if it was those two. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’ll call her back …’
    I shake my head. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m just tired.’
    She cons my face. ‘You look awful.’
    ‘Thanks.’ I boot the computer up.
    ‘What are you up to?’ she asks.
    I hand her the fax. ‘I thought I’d better answer this before she comes round in person.’
    Harriet reads it properly for the first time. Perches on the edge of the table, frowning. ‘Does she have any other tone than commanding, your mother?’
    ‘Not to me, no. I’ve sometimes seen her talking to people as though they were almost her equal, but that’s only other Nobel winners and profs and things. And I think most people are quite grateful never to have to see her social face again once they’ve seen it the first time.’
    ‘No!’ Harriet lifts her eyes from the paper. ‘All these years I’ve known you and you never told me she had a social face! I’ve never seen it!’
    Harriet has met my mother three times in the ten years we’ve been friends. On the first meeting, my mother treated her to the bug-under-microscope thing. Since then, it’s been strictly Immigration Officer. Grace isn’t stupid, after all; she knew almost immediately – probably before I did – that her grip had weakened when Harriet came on the scene. I don’t think, though, that she knows just how much.
    I demonstrate. Open my eyes as wide as they can go, draw my upper lip up towards my nose so that my front teeth are exposed, tilt my head slightly to one side and, in a tone both bored and patronising, I say, ‘ Really ?’.
    ‘Jesus Christ!’ Harriet actually starts back for a second and lets out a little shriek.
    I’ve practised my mother’s social face in the mirror, so I know that I look like the bastard progeny of a mechanical midnight coupling between Margaret Thatcher and Nosferatu, but even I am unprepared for the strength of her reaction. Then she bursts into a laugh. ‘Your mother,’ she declares, ‘is the scariest woman in the world. Holy cow, I thought you were going to eat me.’
    I return the smile, turn back to the screen and click ‘compose message’ with the mouse. Begin to type my mother’s address until the address book clicks in and completes it for me. There are eight messages from Grace in the inbox, all sent in the past twelve hours, with a noticeable gap between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m. her time. She’s not changed her sleeping habits, then. It was only after I had the fifth twelve-hour lie-in of my life, at the age of eighteen, that I discovered that my perpetual tiredness was actually related to chronic sleep deprivation. Before then, I had never woken without an alarm or a shaking in my life.
    ‘So how often does she do that, then?’ asks Harriet.
    I type ‘Sunday week’ in the subject box. ‘Not often. But we’ll probably be seeing a bit of it after the lecture. There’s a reception.’
    ‘Ooh,’ says Harriet. ‘Ooh. Can I come? Let me come! Please let me come. Please! You didn’t tell me there was going to be a party.’
    ‘No.’
    I type:
    Sorry. Didn’t log on for twelve hours. Thank you for the invitation for Sunday week at University College. I will be there at 18.45 prompt .
    There’s no point in holding back on the irony when writing to Grace, as it all goes straight over her head anyway.
    ‘Oh, pleeease ,’ says Harriet again. ‘You know how I love eating cheese on sticks with a load of academics. Go on. I promise I’ll be