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in
London?
    Send her out with local friends and a
pocket full of your own hard earned money—because the girl wasn’t
looking prosperous.
    Or take her along to the
meeting?
    Eloise Thomas sighed with displeasure.
Of course it was lovely to see her. But it would have been good to
get some notice, instead of having a dreadlocked stranger arriving
on the doormat at dinner time, shouting ‘surprise!’
    She was a dear girl, really. But the
hair was a shock. Her glorious tumble of curls had been reduced to
a collection of frizzy matted sausages. And she wore the oddest
shoes, claiming they were the latest thing. Working for the Royal
Mail, if you please—out in all weathers delivering letters into
suburban letterboxes. So much for the brave words about big money
in the computer world of London...
    No, she could come to the meeting,
like it or lump it. Eloise’s bank balance was at an all-time low.
If Tigger had spent her postman’s wages on a fancy laptop and
airfares home, with no thought to supporting herself during her
holiday in New Zealand, well that was her look-out.
    Another gusty sigh followed
the first one. Did she think her long-suffering mother was made of
money? Plum parts were thin on the ground once an actress hit
forty. Of course Eloise had her regular radio commercials with Baz
and Pamela. But no juicy TV roles so far this year. And the stage
work paid nothing— nothing !
    She stubbed out her cigarette next to
the plughole in the kitchen sink, wrinkled her nose at the smell,
and turned the water on hard to swill the ash away.
    If only she could sell a novel or
two—with huge print runs, foreign language translations, heaps of
royalties—she’d be happy at last. Johnno’s wages as a woodwork
teacher hardly kept them in luxury.
    And he gave her no encouragement at
all.
    Other husbands were helpful when the
computer played up.
    And consoling when rejection slips
arrived.
    Not to mention physically
inspirational.
    Liz’s ex was an absolute hunk. If
someone like The Bastard wandered about the house semi clad and
sleepy eyed she’d have no trouble inventing sexy stable boys and
lusty lords and delightful dukes. Johnno Thomas was five foot nine
and fifteen stone these days. But she had to admit he was okay in
the dark—still had that heart-stopping deep suggestive voice that
had snared her in the first place. With the soft Welsh
persuasiveness. And the wicked sense of fun.
    But instead of being the short,
intense, edgy ball of energy that she’d first known, he was...a
lethargic, cuddly teddy bear.
    “ Are you ready, Tig?” she
called.
    Unwisely she’d named her first and
only child Antigone. An-tiggo-nee. Greek—daughter of Oedipus. A
beautifully dramatic name, she’d felt at the time. Ideal for the
daughter of a successful actress who’d appeared in both a TV drama
series and on the cover of the Woman’s Weekly.
    Johnno had resisted, of course. “I’ll
call her Tigger then,” he’d confirmed in his husky Welsh lilt. He’d
been hoping for Myfanwy, or even better, a son.
    “ Okay if I bring something
I’ve written?” Tigger asked.
    “ Something you’ve done for
the meeting?”
    “ No—months ago. It’s a sort
of try-out for a novel. Just the first chapter. I’ve got a bit
bogged down. I thought maybe your group could get me going
again.”
    “ Darling, this is very
exciting! Two writers in the family. Well, well.” (She was secretly quite
miffed. How dare the girl just announce it casually like
this?)
    “ Three,” Tigger said. “What
about Dad?”
    “ What about Dad?” Eloise asked with
narrowed eyes.
    “ His book. The island
thing.”
    “ Ohhh...” Eloise sighed,
flapping a hand as she tried to recollect anything Johnno had ever
said about writing a book. Surely not. Trying to outshine her, was
he? “I don’t think that’s a very serious project,
darling.”
    “ Mom, he’s steaming along
these days. Over half way through.”
    “ But Tigs, he never goes
near the computer.