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sipped my Jura and held the fiery amber liquid in my mouth as I waited for my mother to begin talking herself in circles.
    And waited.
    ‘How are things at the shop, Katie? Were you busy today?’
    I swallowed the whisky and stared at my mother. What, no reprimand for being late?
    ‘Good thanks. We’ve been really busy.’
    ‘Will Ann be all right there tomorrow without you?’
    I took another swig from my glass. ‘Uh, yeah, her boyfriend’s helping her out.’
    This wasn’t my mother; it must be an imposter, a dopplegänger arrived to lure me into a false sense of security so it could dash my confidence to the ground once more.
    ‘Ah there you are, my favourite girls!’ My father crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on the top of my head. ‘How was your journey, Katie?’
    I snuggled against his chest and breathed in his familiar and lovely Dad smell of pine aftershave, washing powder and cigars. Despite Esther’s protests, my dad still indulged in an evening cigar or two; it was a habit I doubted he’d ever quit. I gazed up at him, grateful for his arrival, yet wondering if he’d noticed this strangely altered version of my mother. In the past, he’d often rescued me from Esther’s tirades before I completely crumbled into a blubbering heap or snapped and gave her a tongue lashing in return. I hadn’t really done the latter since I was about twenty-three and I was proud of my self-control. I loathed confrontation of any kind and had always been keen to avoid it. ‘Hey, Dad. There were a few delays along the way but it wasn’t too bad, thanks. How’re you?’
    With his thick white hair combed back with pomade, his naturally jet-black eyebrows and his year-round tan, Dad reminded me of Blake Carrington from 80s TV series
Dynasty
. Of course, he could have been said to resemble Alistair Darling, but Blake Carrington was a preferable comparison in my mind. Dad was handsome in that traditional way, like the movie stars of the thirties. Somehow, the white hair and black eyebrow combo suited him. He had charisma, strength, self-confidence and that old-school British charm.
    ‘I’m very well thank you, angel. Thoroughly enjoying my retirement, actually. Plenty of golf, tennis and time with my wife.’ He squeezed my shoulders and winked at me conspiratorially, then crossed the kitchen to my mother’s side. She was mashing potatoes and her powerful movements had caused her well-maintained blonde waves to fall over her face. I watched as Dad tenderly pushed her hair behind her ears then kissed her cheek. She immediately coloured and stopped punishing the spuds before turning slightly to allow my father to kiss her on the lips. I’d never understand my parents. They were such a strange combination. I seemed to have come out somewhere in the middle – I had some of Dad’s business sense and drive, yet I also occasionally suffered from Mum’s neuroses. But no one’s perfect, right?
    Just then my Aunty Gina floated into the kitchen. Gina is Dad’s younger sister. She’s ten years his junior. Granny and Granddad had a
surprise arrival,
as they liked to call her. Knowing my aunt as I do, I
bet
she was a surprise.
    ‘Ooohhh! Hello, Katie. So good to see you, darling.’ She drifted over to me. Gina doesn’t walk, she floats and drifts. She always dresses in brightly coloured billowing materials and refers to herself as a spirit of the revolution, even though she would only have been a child during the sixties. But she constantly plays The Mamas and the Papas, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and when she gets drunk, which she does all too often, she rants about capitalism and her time on a Kibbutz and how we’ll all be sorry one day.
    ‘Hello, Aunty Gina.’ I proffered a hand to shake but she swatted it aside and enveloped me in a bear hug, forcing the air from my lungs. Her perfume of choice was a heady mix of patchouli and rose which I could taste as I sucked in a breath when she released me. Suddenly aware