Where there's smoke

The weather forecasts talk about thunderstorms when mother steps into my room, her skin tone noticeably lighter than usual. "Frank is coming to dinner" she says. "Try to behave". She spends the rest of the afternoon nervously walking around the apartment in heels, changing her jewelry every half hour while loudly talking to herself as if to another person. "Does this look right? Yes. No. Yes. Yes."

Chloe has just returned from work when the doorbell rings, mother's face a nuance of pale that accentuates her Rouge Coco lipstick (#10 Camélia). With that bone white Moschino dress from the early 90s she really does look fabulous, like a movie star just before the drug addictions.

And Frank, there's something about the way he looks at me from across the table, I can't put it into words but he's tidier than the last time I saw him. Mother serves a stuffed bird and talks about how they met at a Who concert in 1979, but I get the feeling there's more to the story. The subtle tremble in her voice gives her away, I look at Chloe looking at me. She feels it too.