Conor’s grandma wore tailored trouser suits, dyed her hair to keep out the grey,
and said things that made no sense at all, like “Sixty is the new fifty” or “Classic cars need the most expensive polish.”
What did that even mean? She emailed birthday cards, would argue with waiters over wine, and still had a job.
Her house was even worse, filled with expensive old things you could never touch,
like a clock she wouldn’t even let the cleaning lady dust. Which was another thing. What kind of grandma had a cleaning lady?
“Two sugars, no milk,” she called from the sitting room as Conor made the tea. As if he didn’t know that from the last three thousand times she’d visited.
“Thank you, my boy,” his grandma said, when he brought in the tea.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mum said, smiling at him out of view of his grandma,
still inviting him to join with her against her mother. He couldn’t help himself. He smiled back a little.
“And how was school today, young man?” his grandma asked. “Fine,” Conor said.
It hadn’t really been fine. Lily was still fuming, Harry had put a marker pen with its cap off deep in his rucksack,
and Miss Kwan had pulled him aside to ask, with a serious look on her face, How He Was Holding Up.
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