Page 105 of Hexed Up

“How’s the chicken coming along, darling?” Asha asks.

“Another ten minutes and it’ll be ready.”

“It’s roast chicken,” Asha explains to me. “Horatio’s favourite. I’d always cook it for him every weekend when he came home from boarding school.”

“You went to boarding school?” I blurt out. As a kid myself, I read all the books that featured troops of kids trotting off to boarding school for an unending number of adventures. I was seriously envious, stuck out in the woods with my parents and my sisters and not secret underground tunnels and stink bombs. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually met someone who’d been to such a school in real life, though.

“Just for the sixth form,” Alan says. “It was good for him. We had a bit of trouble with him up until that point. He was a bit wayward back then.”

Horatio? Wayward? I can’t imagine that’s true.

“I always wanted to go when I was little, but in retrospect I think I’d have found it too hard. I got severely homesick just going on the school camping trip to Wales,” I say, attempting to stick up for my fake boyfriend.

“It was good for him,” Alan continues. “I don’t think he’d have made his grades otherwise. Certainly wouldn’t have gotten into the university that he did, and he wouldn’t be in the job he is now, otherwise. It all worked out for the best.”

Horatio visibly grimaces. I can feel the tension rolling off him again.

“What was boarding school like?” I ask him.

Horatio straightens the cutlery on the table in front of him. “I did miss home a lot.”

“Everyone’s homesick at first,” Alan says. “It’s good character-building stuff.”

“I’m not sure I’d have liked it,” I say, meeting Asha’s gaze across the table. “I’m a homebody.”

“And what do you do, Molly, for a living?” Alan asks me.

Why do I feel like I’ve suddenly entered a job interview?

“She runs a cupcake business,” Asha says. “Isn’t that lovely, darling?”

“Oh yes, lovely,” Alan says, not sounding like he finds it lovely at all. In fact, I’m not sure he approves of that either.

Good. Disapproving parents I can handle. I’ve been handling my mother and her disapproval for years.

A bell rings off in the distance and Asha pats her husband on the shoulder.

“That’s the buzzer, darling.” She rises from her seat. “Dinner is ready.”

“Can I help, Mom?” Horatio asks, also standing.

“No, you two sit here and enjoy the garden. Alan and I have it all in hand.”

Alan snaps back his chair, bolts upright, then marches back to the house, Asha a few paces behind him.

“Saved by the bell,” I say. “I think I was in for an interrogation. Probably wants to determine if I’m good enough for his stepson.”

“Doubt he cares,” Horatio says.

“Well, he didn’t sound like he approved of my job much.”

“All Alan approves of is money. Money and status.”

“But you care about those things too,” I point out.

Horatio turns his head to look at me. “Do I?”

“Don’t you? I mean, you have the smart flat. You have the designer shoes and the designer suit. You have the flashy car and the well-paid job. Those things must be important to you.”