That’s right, thought Fat Charlie. Your kind always have to be invited. Just say no, and she’ll have to go away. “Of course, Mrs. Noah. Please, come in.” So that’s how vampires do it. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Don’t think you can get around me like that,” she said. “Because you can’t.”
“Er. Right.”
Up the narrow stairs and into the kitchen. Rosie’s mother looked around and made a face as if to indicate that it did not meet her standards of hygiene, containing, as it did, edible foodstuffs. “Coffee? Water?” Don’t say wax fruit. “Wax fruit?” Damn.
“I understand from Rosie that your father recently passed away,” she said.
“Yes. He did.”
“When Rosie’s father passed, they did a four-page obituary in Cooks and Cookery. They said he was solely responsible for the arrival of Caribbean fusion cuisine in this country.”
“Oh,” he said.
“It’s not like he left me badly off, neither. He had life insurance, and he owned a share of two successful restaurants. I’m a very well-off woman. When I die, it will all go to Rosie.”
“When we’re married,” said Fat Charlie, “I’ll be looking after her. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not saying you’re only after Rosie for my money,” said Rosie’s mother, in a tone of voice that made it clear that that was exactly what she did believe.
Fat Charlie’s headache started coming back. “Mrs. Noah, is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’ve been talking to Rosie, and we’ve decided that I should start helping with your wedding plans,” she said, primly. “I need a list of your people. The ones you were hoping to invite. Names, addresses, e-mail, and phone numbers. I’ve made a form for you to fill out. I thought I’d save on postage and drop it off myself, since I was going to be passing by Maxwell Gardens anyway. I was not expecting to find you home.” She handed him the large white envelope. “There will be a total of ninety people at the wedding. You will be permitted a total of eight family members and six personal friends. The personal friends and four members will comprise Table H. The rest of your group will be at Table C. Your father would have been seated with us at the head table, but seeing that he has passed over, we have allocated his seat to Rosie’s Aunt Winifred. Have you decided on your best man yet?”
Fat Charlie shook his head.
“Well, when you do, make certain he knows that there won’t be any crude stuff in his speech. I don’t want to hear anything from your best man I wouldn’t hear in a church. You understand me?”
Fat Charlie wondered what Rosie’s mother would usually hear in a church. Probably just cries of “Back! Foul beast of Hell!” followed by gasps of “Is it alive?” and a nervous inquiry as to whether anybody had remembered to bring the stakes and hammers.
“I think,” said Fat Charlie, “I have more than ten relations. I mean, there are cousins and great-aunts and things.”
“What you obviously fail to grasp,” said Rosie’s mother, “is that weddings cost money. I’ve allocated ￡175 a person to tables A to D—Table A is the head table—which takes care of Rosie’s closest relations and my women’s club, and ￡125 to tables E to G, which are, you know, more distant acquaintances, the children and so on and so forth.”
“You said my friends would be at Table H,” said Fat Charlie.
“That’s the next tier down. They won’t be getting the avocado shrimp starters or the sherry trifle.”
“When Rosie and I talked about it last, we thought we’d go for a sort of a general West Indian theme to the food.”
Rosie’s mother sniffed. “She sometimes doesn’t know her own mind, that girl. But she and I are now in full agreement.”
“Look,” said Fat Charlie, “I think maybe I ought to talk to Rosie about all this and get back to you.”
“Just fill out the forms,” said Rosie’s mother. Then she said suspiciously, “Why aren’t you at work?”
“I’m. Um. I’m not in. That is to say, I’m off this morning. Not going in today. I’m. Not.”
“I hope you told Rosie that. She was planning to see you for lunch, she told me. That was why she could not have lunch with me.”
Fat Charlie took this information in. “Right,” he said. “Well, thanks for popping over, Mrs. Noah. I’ll talk to Rosie, and—”
Daisy came into the kitchen. She wore a towel wrapped around her head, and Fat Charlie’s dressing gown, which clung to her damp body. She said “There’s orange juice, isn’t there? I know I saw some, when I was poking around before. How’s your head? Any better?” She opened the fridge door, and poured herself a tall glass of orange juice.
Rosie’s mother cleared her throat. It did not sound like a throat being cleared. It sounded like pebbles rattling down a beach.
“Hullo,” said Daisy. “I’m Daisy.”