Chapter Fourteen
The Rise of Saint Fanny
Gossip is best listened to with enough alcohol not to care and enough not to remember.
Mavis followed me to Tesco’s. The Taj Mahal had run out of tomatoes, and as Tesco’s was the only place open, we headed there.
It was not one of my better ideas.
Jessie was standing by her car, absently waving at a passing car. She was glowing with happiness, in a bright blue and gold sari. Her red hair was scooped up into a stylish bun and her eyes darkened with kohl. She looked exotic, nothing like the beige daughter of Birthday Dad – and it seemed she was hell-bent on advertising it.
She waved at us, sending Mavis into a series of muttering about “ignoring,” “walk the other way,” and “what the hell is that she’s wearing?”
The last person she wanted to tal
