Bad Heir Day by Wendy Holden

something ?Do you have a nanny even?”
    Cassandra shook her head vigorously. “No,” she smiled. “No help at all.”
    “Why on earth not?”
    Because that stupid fat Anna girl had had the unbelievable cheek to practically beg for the job and then announce, cool as a Decleor face pack, that she’d think about it, Cassandra thought viciously whilst training a look of melting sincerity on the journalist. “I suppose I can’t bear to think of my child being brought up by anyone else but me,” she said silkily. “It would be desperately sad to miss these crucial years when his character is forming, don’t you think? He’s so independent, Zak. Such an amazing little personality already.”
    The journalist nodded sympathetically; this argument, Cassandra was gratified to see, went down much better with her than it did with Mrs. Gosschalk. For Zak had taken full advantage of the interregnum in nannies and had, besides the shoplifting, recently been conspicuous by his absence at school.
    The result was that the headmistress’s office had been on the phone again complaining about his behaviour. Cassandra’s blustering defence that it was proof of her son’s extraordinarily entrepreneurial outlook and incredible creative spirit had cut no ice with Mrs. Gosschalk, although she had conceded “extraordinary” and “incredible” were accurate descriptions.
    “And then of course,” said the journalist, “you’re half of a high-profile marriage.”
    Half ,thought Cassandra indignantly. If you were talking profile, she was a good two-thirds of it, thank you very much. What on earth had Jett done this side of the Boer War? She very much doubted the re-formed Solstice would be a stadium-filler. If the tepid press reaction their reunion had prompted so far was anything to go by, they’d be lucky to be a stocking filler.
    “Yes. Jett and I are truly blessed,” Cassandra cooed through gritted teeth, “because, apart from being lovers, we’re such good friends. We’re very close. There’s hardly ever a cross word…”
    The sound of the slammed front door interrupted her musings. “Sandra?” roared a voice. “Where the hell are you? You’ve got to get someone else to take that goddamn brat to school. He’s doing my goddamn head in.”
    The journalist stared in astonishment.
    “In here, darling,” trilled Cassandra, faking a sudden attack of coughing in the forlorn hope of drowning Jett’s yells. The journalist’s thin lips curved slowly upward.
    “Hang on, I’m getting a goddamn drink first,” yelled Jett, thundering down the stairs to the kitchen. “Zak made me park the goddamn Rolls round the corner again ,”he bellowed from below. “Said he was embarrassed in case the other kids saw it. And when I told him he should be goddamn pleased ,not embarrassed, that his father had achieved enough to have a Rolls,” Jett continued, his voice approaching up the kitchen stairs, accompanied by the rattling of ice cubes, “Zak said he was embarrassed because the Rolls was so uncool and all the other kids’ parents had groovy four-wheel drives .”
    Cassandra had now coughed so much her face was red and streaming. That her efforts had been utterly in vain was obvious from the way the journalist was checking the red Record button of her tape recorder and scribbling maniacally on her pad. As Jett’s raddled visage appeared round the sitting-room door, Cassandra was momentarily torn in deciding which of them she wanted to murder the most.
    “What’s going on?” he demanded, looking from Cassandra to the journalist. “Not another of your goddamn Mystic Meg sessions, for Christ’s sake.”
    “If you’re enquiring as to whether this is one of my metamor-phic technique lessons, then the answer is no,” said Cassandra, icily. “I’m being interviewed .”
    The revelation that he was in close proximity to a publicity opportunity had a more electric effect on Jett than the famous incident in Athens, Georgia,