The Graft by Martina Cole Page B

afforded her. This was all a far cry from Nick’s home when he was growing up. He had really made something of himself and Angela was proud of him, so very proud.
     
    She would defend him to the death, no matter what anyone else said. Not that anyone had said anything, of course, but if they did . . . well, she would be waiting for them.
     
    Her daughter-in-law was the bane of her life. Tammy had everything a woman could possibly want and yet still she wasn’t happy. She was man mad that one, and then she wondered why her husband didn’t have any time for her.
     
    The kids had been bundled off to that posh school and no one saw them from one end of the year to the other. And even when they came home Madam, as Angela secretly referred to Tammy, was never around. The poor nanny, an insipid-looking bitch if ever there was one, did all the donkey work with the kids.
     
    Sometimes Angela daydreamed that Tammy was gone. She was never specific as to how but occasionally a sumptuous funeral was included in the dream. After all, she was Nick’s wife and she deserved a good send off. And then Angela saw herself ruling the roost without interference.
     
    As she cleaned she listened to Radio 1 and sang snippets of the songs to herself. The kitchen was her domain. Madam never came in here unless she had to and yet it was gorgeous. A large Aga heated the place so it was warm as toast all the time. There were two double ovens and a large American fridge as well as countless other gadgets. It was a dream of a kitchen but Madam hated it with a vengeance.
     
    Still, that suited Angela. Sometimes she sat here until the early hours of the morning, knitting and listening to her radio. Sometimes she would have a drop of something to keep the cold out. There was a TV in here but she listened to the Sky music channels on it. Radio was so much more satisfying than television. With television you had to keep looking at the thing. She just liked to listen, liked the company it afforded her.
     
    Angela made herself a cup of tea and settled herself into the easy chair her son had provided for her against his wife’s wishes. It was old, and he had rescued it from her flat when she had moved in. Much to the annoyance of Tammy. Even though it had been re-covered she still thought it was riddled with fleas from Angela’s poor dead cat.
     
    She had nursed her son in this very chair, bared her breast and fed him his fill. Another thing Madam did not like to be reminded about.
     
    So Angela made a point of reminding her. Often. It was little things like that which made life worth living.
     
    As if her mother-in-law’s thoughts had conjured her up, Tammy burst into the kitchen like a gale-force wind.
     
    ‘I’m going out. Will you see to the dinner? I might be late.’
     
    It was a game they played, as if she was doing them a special favour by feeding them. Like it wasn’t what she did every day of the week.
     
    ‘Of course.’
     
    Angela let her eyes stray to the vegetables already peeled and the meat already seasoned and trussed ready to be cooked later in the day. She made eye contact and Tammy was the first to look away.
     
    ‘See you then.’
     
    Her voice was cheery and Angela smiled slowly and said quietly, ‘See you then.’
     
    Round one to her if she wasn’t mistaken. The slamming of the front door told her she was right about that much anyway and she smiled again.
     
     
Nick was inside his site office. He noticed that all the newspapers except for the sporting ones were missing. Usually they started the day with a discussion of the assets of the various women featured in the tabloids. Jordan was usually voted tops, though a few were die-hard natural tit men. Nick assumed, rightly, that he was still news.
     
    He sat at his desk and pondered the girlie pictures plastered everywhere. They did nothing to arouse him, he found them in your face and tacky. But he couldn’t say that. Not unless he wanted to come over as less