Free Not What They Were Expecting by Neal Doran Page A

have done.
    ‘It was fabulous, Penny. A classic,’ he said instead.
    ‘The secret’s wrapping the beef in a pancake. I saw it on
Saturday Kitchen
.’
    The room went quiet again.
    ‘So you’ll run an interview in the paper next week then? Respected businessman slandered in police sting,’ said Howard. ‘Hey, maybe PC sting? Police being politically correct and all that?’
    ‘Tory chief a victim of institutional homophobia,’ said Margaret.
    ‘These days I’m just an ordinary party member. But I suppose Chief’s a fair description for a headline – they do still look to me to advise on the big stuff. Although I don’t think it’s right I’m a victim…’
    ‘Top Tory fights prosecution persecution,’ mused Ben.
    ‘Hey, he’s a smart cookie that husband of yours isn’t he? Wasted on the local rag, he could get a job at the
Mail
, you know.’
    ‘He knows people at the
Guardian
, I keep telling him to call.’
    ‘He’d run rings around them at the old Grauniad. Say, Lord Beaverbrook, can I offer you a post-prandial cigar?’
    ‘Oh. I’ve got my own blend thank you,’ said Ben tapping the tobacco tin in his shirt pocket. ‘I prefer the lighter –’
    ‘What kind are they?’ Margaret interrupted.
    ‘Montecristos, I believe,’ said Howard.
    ‘Cuban?’
    ‘Of course!
Viva la revolución!
’
    ‘I’ll have one with you, Howard. Of all the forms for tobacco, cigars are the least dangerous, personally and environmentally.’
    ‘Is that so? I’ll get you one, rolled on the thighs of some big hairy old communist.’
    ‘Of course access to them is still often restricted to men in this fragile phallocentric society.’
    ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it a large one. You’re all right there, Penny? You wouldn’t want one of these filthy things…’
    ‘I’ll just get the dishwasher loaded.’
    ‘You know,’ said Ben, ‘the idea of rolling cigars on thighs is something of a myth but does have a basis in cultural…’
    The last of the parents filed out of the room, leaving Rebecca and James alone with just the Sunday concert on Classic FM to break the silence.
    ‘What,’ asked James, ‘the fuck. Was that?’
    They hadn’t been told his parents would be joining them for lunch. Presumably because her parents had known there was no way they would have shown up if they did, thought Rebecca. Actually, that wasn’t true, she realised. She and James would have been there early, making a concerted effort to ensure the two sets of parents had no opportunity to talk to each other about anything, especially politics after what had happened the last time.
    ‘Can’t quite believe Mum tried to discuss spring fashions with your mum.’
    ‘That was a lecture of sweatshops waiting to happen…’
    ‘What was that joke Dad tried to tell? Where you needed to have worked out the punchline was an anagram of botulism?’
    ‘I don’t know what was more painful, the silence or the polite laughing. He didn’t seem to notice, though. Naturally.’
    ‘And it was great being held up like a specimen. The future of humanity, right here under my jumper.’
    ‘And urgh! The childhood anecdotes.’
    ‘Actually that bit was quite funny,’ said Rebecca.
    ‘I didn’t see you laughing when Howard mentioned how you used to do an all-out ballet performance whenever anyone visited the house. Including the guy who was just there to read the meter.’
    ‘Shut it, bedwetter.’
    ‘The vision of you running at the poor bastard, who didn’t know he was supposed to catch you as part of the routine…’
    ‘Are you worried about that? Is it making you feel anxious? Would you feel better if we got a rubberised undersheet for tonight?’
    ‘Leave it, twinkle-toes,’ he said in his gruffest
Sweeney
voice.
    ‘It was a sweet story, that’s all. And now I know why you’re always so keen to keep on top of the laundry.’
    Hearing about an entirely forgotten spate of bedwetting when he was six, and not really coping with a