‘There are lots of links between tarot and psychology, right?’ says Art. ‘Jungian archetypes and all that?’
I look at him in surprise. Roo’s face brightens. ‘Yes, there are! But try explaining that to my mother. She doesn’t think I have a real job.’
‘Oh, my parents never thought I had a real job either,’ says Art. ‘My brother’s a solicitor. My mum thinksthat’sa real job.’
‘Mine’s a software engineer,’ says Roo. ‘Which I’m not sureisactually a real job.’
‘Probably regular hours, though.’ Art grins at me. ‘Unlike our work.’
‘And mine,’ says Roo. ‘I’ve just been doing some readings.’ She gestures at her frock. ‘Which is why I’m so dressed up, by the way. I’m not normally like this on a Saturday morning.’
Art laughs. ‘I mean, I didn’t want to say anything …’
He asks Roo how her online readings work and she tells him. They’re getting on like a house on fire and I’m surprised at how relieved I am. But then I spot the time.
‘Art, shouldn’t we be leaving soon, if there’s match traffic?’
I don’t want to be late for Honoria Quigley.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Art smiles at Roo. Fuck, he does have a nice smile when he turns it on. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘Roo’s great,’ says Art when we’re in his mum’s car. ‘And not as scary as I thought she’d be.’ He glances at me. ‘Did you use up all your household’s colour ration?’
I laugh despite myself. ‘She told me I’d betrayed my roots whenI started dressing like this. And she was only half joking. Actually, I’m amazed you restrained yourself from making a joke about her job.’
‘Jesus, McDermott.’ Art looks genuinely affronted. ‘What do you take me for? I do have some manners, you know.’
‘I know you do,’ I say. ‘Sometimes. Where did all the Jungian stuff come from?’
‘I googled tarot and psychology and that’s the first thing that came up,’ says Art. ‘It’s genuinely interesting. I mean, I still think tarot’s a load of bollocks, obviously, but—’
‘Art,’ I say. ‘Just quit while you’re ahead.’
The traffic gets heavy and for the next half hour we’re both preoccupied with finding the least busy route to Honoria’s house. At one o’clock exactly the car rolls into the gravelled drive of an enormous Victorian red-brick villa.
‘Wow,’ says Art. ‘Soaps clearly paid pretty well in Honoria’s day.’
‘Her wife’s a retired oncologist,’ I say. ‘And Honoria did a lot of big theatre work afterNorthside.’
I ring the bell and a minute later the door is opened by a very chic older woman with a blunt grey fringe and large glasses.
‘Ah!’ she says. ‘Honoria’s visitors. Come in, come in. I’m her wife, Maureen.’
Art and I introduce ourselves and follow Maureen down a corridor and out through a glass door into a huge sunny back garden.
‘Darlings!’ says Honoria Quigley.
She doesn’t look like Ma Cusack. I mean, she does, obviously. Those big green eyes, those high cheekbones, that wide smile are all instantly recognisable. But while Ma Cusack was known forher sky-high updo and trademark tight zebra-print ensembles, Honoria is an elegant pastel vision in silk palazzo pants and a kimono-esque jacket. Her hair is a chic, artfully tousled blonde pixie cut with clearly expensive highlights. She advances towards us, arms outstretched.
‘You must be Arthur! Why, you’re absolutely delicious. You remind me of a beautiful sailor I knew in the Île de Ré in the seventies.’
I stifle a laugh. So it’s not just me who thinks he looks like a French fisherman.
‘And you’re Annie! What wonderful hair! And your dress is exquisite. The colours! Like a gorgeous sunset. You’re utterly radiant.’
‘Sheisquite dazzling.’ Art looks highly amused.
‘Maureen darling!’ Honoria beams at her wife. ‘Would you mind bringing out the sandwiches?’ She turns back to us. ‘I ordered in some lunch, I hope you don’t mind.’