whereby Sammy had no idea why a podgy hand had been thrust in his face.
He’s coming to stay at mine for a couple of weeks, just till he gets confident with the walking frame,
his daughter Laura said, finally looking up from her phone.
“We’re having a wee party to celebrate! You’re both invited, of course,” she added, somewhat less than enthusiastically.
She was staring at me. I didn’t mind. In fact, I actually prefer that to surreptitious, sneaky glances—
from her, I got a full and frank appraisal, filled with fascination, but with no trace of fear or disgust.
I brushed my hair off my face, so that she could get a better view.
“This Saturday?” I said. “Now, Eleanor, don’t you dare say you’re busy,” Sammy said.
“No excuses. I want you both there. End of.” “Who are we to argue?” Raymond said, smiling.
I thought about it. A party. The last party I’d been to—apart from that appalling wedding reception —
was on Judy Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. It had involved ice-skating and milkshakes, and hadn’t ended well.
Surely no one was likely to vomit or lose a finger at an elderly invalid’s welcome home celebration?
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