FOR VARIOUS REASONS, there was a little tension in the air when we arrived at Ernest’s house. First, we really were twenty minutes late (but it wasn’t my fault; it was because, led astray by Miss Seventy Percent Sure Mia, we’d boarded the wrong bus), and second, Mia and I had deep forebodings about Lottie and Florence and how they would get on.
“If she makes a single nasty remark…,” muttered Mia ominously to herself.
We hadn’t told Lottie how furious Florence had been at the idea of giving up some of her space; even Mom hadn’t dropped the faintest hint. Otherwise, we all knew Lottie either wouldn’t have come with us or, considerably more likely, would have insisted on moving into the broom cupboard.
“Or if she has any kind of silly look on her face…,” Mia went on.
Myself, I stared at Frightful Freddy outside the Spencers’ front door and could only just stop myself saying “Ydderf, Ydderf, Ydderf” instead of ringing the bell. Strange how familiar I’d become with that overweight stone statue over the last few nights. I almost expected it to wink at me.
Mia and I had run from the bus stop, shaking off Mom and Lottie, and only now did they round the corner, gasping for breath. At the same time, unfortunately, so did a tall man in corduroys and a roll-neck pullover, coming from the opposite direction and apparently in just as much of a hurry. He stumbled over the dog leash, which didn’t amuse Butter at all. She began yapping and kicking up a fuss, and there was minor chaos. Mia and I tried to grab her collar, but that wasn’t so easy; Buttercup twisted and turned like an eel. The extra-long leash wrapped itself around Lottie’s feet and the man’s legs, and they both fell over while Mom stood there watching and saying, “Bad dog!” about ten times in a row, not very helpfully.
At last I managed to drag Buttercup away by her collar, and Lottie and the man got to their feet. In doing that they banged their heads together, and when Lottie said, “Ouch!” Buttercup would happily have leaped to her defense. She barked reproachfully.
“Bad dog,” said Mom faintly.
The man rubbed his forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked Lottie, and I really thought the better of him. Anyone else in his position would have threatened us with legal proceedings.
“I’m so sorry,” said Lottie, rather breathlessly, putting a strand of brown hair back from her face. “I’m usually a very nice dog.”
Mia put her hand in front of her mouth so as not to burst out laughing.
“Er, I mean she is,” stammered Lottie, going red in the face. The sight of the tall man seemed to have confused her terribly. “She’s a dear, good dog. I … er … it’s just that she doesn’t like postmen.”
“Well, I’m not a postman,” the tall man assured her. “I’m the black sheep of the Spencer family, Ernest’s brother Charles. And you must be the new additions to our family. I’m very glad to meet you all.”
Now that we had time to take a closer look at him, we weren’t really surprised by these revelations, because Charles was very like Ernest: the same broad shoulders, the same blue eyes, the same bald patch on the way, the same enormous elephant ears. Even his voice was very like Ernest’s.
He shook hands with us one by one, and we told him our names and assured him that we were pleased to meet him, too. When it was Lottie’s turn, she blushed even more and explained that she was the mindchilder.
“Or something like that, anyway,” murmured Mom.
Mia and I exchanged glances of alarm. What on earth was the matter with Lottie? We could hardly believe our ears when our mindchilder went on to reveal her family secrets that even we had never known before.
“I used to be the black sheep of my own family,” she said cheerfully. “But then my cousin Franziska fell in love with her cleaning lady, so that made her the black sheep instead. Until my cousin Basti converted his hotel into a swingers’ club and—”
“Let’s leave the details until later,” Mom hastily interrupted her, firmly pressing the doorbell. “After all, there’s no end of furniture to move.… Oh, hello, Ernest darling! I’m so sorry we’re late, but it wasn’t my fault.”
“We boarded the bong wrus,” explained Lottie with a blissful smile, although it wasn’t meant for Ernest. I was gradually getting the idea of what was going on.
“I think we’ve found a possible candidate for Operation Marrying Off Lottie,” I whispered to Mia as we went indoors. “That black sheep with the beginnings of a bald patch somehow seems to be her type.”
“Yup,” agreed Mia. “I’ll just sound him out.”
And so she did, by asking a whole series of indiscreet questions while wearing her sweetest smile. The questions were addressed either to Charles himself or to his relations.
By the end of that day we’d made a good deal of progress. First, we had introduced Spot and Buttercup to each other, which, considering Butter’s inauspicious first appearance, proved surprisingly simple. They began with a staring match, Spot looking down with a haughty expression from his place on the sofa, Buttercup snuffling anxiously as she kept close to Lottie’s legs. Then they decided to ignore each other for the rest of the day. Spot was much better at that than Buttercup, who kept casting suspicious glances at the sofa but otherwise stayed with us as we went all around the house. We got a lot of exercise, because we had to move what felt like forty tons of furniture and boxes from right to left, from up to down. We basically cleared everything out and put it back in a different place.
Meanwhile, we’d looked at over fifty shades of white paint for the walls, picking the ones with the prettiest names (“Old Lace” for Lottie, “Snow White” for Mia, “Seashell” for me). Here, surprisingly, Florence turned out to be an adviser with a good sense of style, while Grayson was practically color-blind. (“Are you trying to be funny? They’re all white, for heaven’s sake!”)
We had also put together an exhaustive file on Ernest’s brother Charles. He was thirty-nine years old, childless, and had been on his own for two years. Getting divorced from his ex-wife, Eleanor, “the greedy dragon,” had cost him a holiday home in the south of France, a Jaguar, and endless nervous stress. The vertical line between his eyebrows was also Eleanor’s doing, or so Florence claimed. He played tennis, donated to the World Wildlife Fund, liked open-air classical music concerts in the park, and a band called Lambchop. Speaking of lambs, he was known as the black sheep of the family not because—for instance—he sprayed graffiti on the walls of tunnels or grew his own cannabis or did whatever else you might expect a black sheep to do, but just because, unlike his three older brothers, he hadn’t studied law or gone into politics. Instead, he was a dentist with a practice in Islington. Mia and I were rather disappointed. A veterinarian would have been fine, but a dentist—well, that wasn’t quite so toothsome, if you see what I mean.…
However, Charles wasn’t the only one who had to undergo cross-examination; Lottie herself was bombarded with peculiar questions, because clearly Florence had a problem with Germans, so she wanted to know whether there had been any Nazis in Lottie’s family and, if so, whether she felt guilty and what she was doing about it.
Mia would happily have come to blows with Florence over that question, but Lottie said that as far as she knew, any Nazis in the family had died in the Second World War, and Florence seemed happy with that for now. She appeared to have come to terms with the merger between our families, and the rearrangement of the Spencer household that was part of it. At least she wasn’t complaining anymore and did not seem about to fall into hysterics. I was almost disappointed. I’d liked Florence better when she lost her self-control and let rip.
And of course Mom wasn’t about to spare me embarrassing remarks. For practical reasons, she kept them until lunchtime, because then everyone would get the benefit of hearing them.
“It’s sweet of you to take Liv to that party with you this evening,” she said, beaming at Grayson. All I needed now was for her to pat his cheek. “I always say, young people don’t spend Saturday evening at home unless they have a temperature of a hundred degrees. I’m so glad Liv won’t be a wallflower here in London.”
“Er…” Grayson was clearly at a loss for words. He glanced at me, and I couldn’t resist a mischievous grin.
“Mom, I don’t think you’re up to date with the latest developments. You’ll embarrass Grayson. You see, he’d rather I didn’t go to the party this evening.”
Ernest put his soup spoon down. “What did you say?”
Grayson put a piece of bread in his mouth and muttered something that no one could make out. I felt slightly sorry for him, but he’d been asking for it.
“Nonsense, mousie,” said Mom. “Why, you have Grayson to thank for your invitation to the party in the first place. Isn’t that so, Grayson?”
Grayson swallowed. “Yes, well, but it … I’ve … um … er.” A quick glance at me, and then he seemed to pull himself together. He went on, without quite so much stammering, “These parties are rather wild. I mean, there’s a lot of alcohol flowing, and what with Liv being only fifteen, I thought it would be better if she stayed at home and…”
Oh, really, this was too much. “I’m going to be sixteen in three weeks’ time,” I said, stung.
“Really? You don’t look it.”
“Grayson!” Ernest gave him a stern glance. So did I. What did he mean, I didn’t look it?
“I can tell what he’s thinking,” said Mom. “He’s a responsible boy—he only wants to protect Liv.” She turned to her future stepson. “But there’s really no need for you to worry, Grayson dear. You just have fun at the party—Liv can look after herself perfectly well.” She leaned over to Ernest and whispered loud enough for everyone at the table to hear her. “Too well, I sometimes think. At her age I’d already done it all: my first hangover, my first joint, my first experience of sex. Liv is something of a late developer there. I’m rather afraid she may take after her father. He never did anything in his life without thinking it over first. Or no, I’m wrong about that; after all, he married me.” She laughed.
Ernest joined in her laughter, although he looked slightly confused, like his brother Charles, who at least seemed to be relieved that he wasn’t under attack this time.
“Hear that?” I said to Grayson. “The more dangerous your friends are, the better my mother will like it. Even if they go holding the Black Mass by night in cemeteries.”
I could have been just imagining it, but I thought that Grayson turned a little pale. He tightened his lips, pushed his chair back, and stood up. “I’m going back to moving the furniture.”
“If Grayson doesn’t want to look after Liv, I can do it,” Florence volunteered as Grayson left the room with a last, dark glance at me. “I’m going on to Arthur’s party right after our meeting of the ball committee.”
I had no chance to get indignant about that, because Mom pricked up her ears again the moment she heard the word ball. Her interest pleased Florence, who began describing the Autumn Ball and all the party dresses in glowing colors as the most romantic day in the year. An absolute must in the life of anyone at Frognal Academy, although—and at this point a brief and distinctly malicious smile flitted over Florence’s face—although sad, very sad, to say, it was only for upper school students.
Mom looked as if she were going to burst into tears of disappointment right away.
“Younger students can go to the ball only as someone older’s dancing partner.” Florence’s voice was positively dripping with regret. “And the stupid thing is, Grayson’s already taking Emily.”
Mom sighed.
“But with a little luck, I might be able to find Liv a partner…,” added Florence.
Yes, that was exactly what Persephone had predicted. And of course, Mom fell straight into Florence’s trap.
“Really?” she said enthusiastically, and I could see that, in her mind’s eye, she was already choosing my ball dress. “Liv, mousie, wouldn’t that be great?”
“Hmm … Difficult, but I think Emily’s brother Sam is still free.” Florence frowned, as if working that out had really been a great strain. “Maybe I could persuade him to take Liv to the ball.”
Sure, Sam. Or Pimply Sam, as Persephone had called him.
“But of course I can’t promise anything.”
This was getting better and better. Next I supposed we’d have to go on our knees to Pimply Sam and beg him to go to the ball with me. Maybe even bribe him.
“It sounds like a truly horrific occasion,” I said with emphasis. “Let me make one thing clear: I’d sooner have a root canal without anesthetic than go to that ball.”
“Liv!” exclaimed Mom, and Florence, piqued, raised her eyebrows, muttering something about foxes and sour grapes.
“I once had a root canal without anesthetic,” said Lottie, “and believe me, it’s not something you’d ever want to do.”
“Root canal without anesthetic?” repeated Charles incredulously, and Lottie nodded.
“My uncle Kurt is a dentist. A bad dentist, a mean old miser, and a sadist.” With a sideways glance at Florence, Lottie made haste to add, “He’s not a Nazi, all the same.”
“Then I suppose you don’t especially like dentists?” Charles’s tone of voice was distinctly regretful. “I mean, if you’ve had such bad experiences.”
Lottie blushed and launched into a peculiar speech about sadistic dentists, getting her words all mixed up again, until Buttercup nudged her with her nose and prevented the worst from happening. During lunch, she had been lying under the table looking anxiously at the sleeping cat. But now she obviously wanted to help Lottie out of a fix by reminding her that it was long past time for her usual midday walk. Lottie seized the chance to shut her mouth and pick up the dog leash. I felt sure she was in urgent need of some fresh air. A little cold water splashed in her face wouldn’t have been a bad idea either.
Thoughtfully, Florence watched her go. “I think she has a funny accent, even for someone German,” she said, but so quietly that (I hoped) Lottie couldn’t hear her. “What breed is that dog of yours, by the way?”
I was opening my mouth to defend Lottie’s accent (she didn’t have one—she was just getting her words mixed up today) and to enumerate all the dog breeds that had, presumably, featured among Buttercup’s forebears (it was a long list), when Mia interrupted me.
“Buttercup is an Entlebuch Biosphere dog,” she explained, perfectly straight-faced. “It’s a very rare and valuable breed of Swiss herd dogs.”
Buttercup, who had trotted after Lottie, turned back at these words, looking as rare and valuable and cute as she could manage. So did Lottie, who was waiting for her in the doorway.
“Delightful dog,” said Charles enthusiastically.
Mia bent over her plate and muttered, but luckily not at such high volume as Mom, “All the same, we like veterinarians better.”