And all this was before the big row between her and Luke, since when we’ve barely mentioned her name. About two months before Christmas I tried to ask if we’d be giving her a present, and Luke nearly bit my head off. I haven’t dared mention her since.
Of course there’s one easy option ahead of me. I could just throw her card in the bin and pretend I never saw her. Blank the whole thing from my mind. I mean, what could she do about it?
But somehow … I can’t bring myself to. I’ve never seen Elinor look vulnerable before; not like she did today. During those tense moments when she was waiting for me to answer, I couldn’t see Elinor the ice-queen, I just saw Elinor the lonely old woman with papery hands.
Then, as soon as I said ‘OK, I’ll ask Luke,’ she immediately reverted to her normal sub-zero manner and started telling me how inferior The Look was to shops in Manhattan and how the English didn’t understand service culture and how there were specks on the carpet in the dressing room.
But somehow she’d got under my skin. I can’t ignore her. I can’t throw her card away. She may be a total bitch ice-queen but she is Minnie’s grandmother. They are flesh and blood. You know. If Elinor had any of either.
And after all, it’s possible Luke might have mellowed. What I need to do is raise the subject very carefully. Very, very gently, like waving an olive branch in the air. And I’ll see what happens.
So that night I wait up till Luke gets back, has kissed Minnie goodnight, had a whisky and is getting undressed, before I broach anything.
‘Luke … about your mother,’ I begin tentatively.
‘I was thinking about Annabel today too.’ Luke turns, his face softened. ‘Dad emailed me some old pictures of her today. I’ll show you.’
Oh, great start, Becky. I should have been clear which mother. Now he thinks I’ve brought up the subject of Annabel, it’s impossible to segue neatly into Elinor.
‘I was just thinking about … um … family ties.’ I change tack. ‘And family traits,’ I add in sudden inspiration. ‘Who do you think Minnie takes after most? She totally gets being a drama queen from Mum, and she has your eyes … in fact, she probably takes after everyone in the family a little bit, even …’ I hesitate, my heart thumping. ‘Even your biological mother. Elinor.’
‘I sincerely hope not,’ says Luke curtly, and bangs a drawer shut.
OK. So he doesn’t sound mellow.
‘But she is her grandmother, after all,’ I persist. ‘Minnie’s bound to take after her in some way or other—’
‘I don’t see that.’ He cuts me off. ‘Nurture’s what counts. I was always Annabel’s son, never that woman’s.’
Yikes. That woman. Things are even worse than I thought.
‘Right,’ I say feebly.
I can’t pipe up with ‘So how about we take Minnie to visit Elinor?’ Not now. I’ll have to leave it for the moment.
‘So, did you have a good rest of the day?’ I change topic.
‘Not bad.’ He nods. ‘And you? Get back all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I say innocently. ‘I got a cab. Thanks for asking.’
‘Strange area to have a cosmetic-surgery clinic, I was thinking,’ he adds casually. ‘Not what you would expect in the financial district.’
I make the mistake of meeting his eye – and there’s a tell-tale glint in it. I knew he was on to me.
The only way forward is to brazen it out.
‘Are you crazy?’ I retort. ‘It makes total sense. Look at all those haggard City workers walking around. You know, a recent magazine survey showed that City workers are more prematurely aged than any other sector, by 20 per cent.’
I’ve made this up, but Luke doesn’t know that, does he? And I bet it’s true.
‘You know what?’ I add, having a sudden bright thought. ‘The same survey said that if people feel cherished by their bosses they age less quickly. And they work better.’
‘I’m sure.’ Luke is checking his BlackBerry.
‘And it said that one way is for bosses to give their employees personalized, signed birthday cards,’ I persist. ‘Isn’t that interesting? Do you give people personalized cards at Brandon Communications?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Luke barely nods.
What a nerve. I feel like saying, ‘No you don’t! They’re all just in a pile in your office, unsigned!’
‘Oh, good.’ I force myself to sound casual. ‘Because apparently people feel really happy to know their boss has signed the card themselves and it hasn’t just been done by an assistant or anything. It raises their endorphins by 15 per cent.’
Luke pauses in his tapping. Yes! I’ve got through to him.
‘Becky … you do read a lot of crap.’
Crap?
‘It’s called research, actually,’ I say with dignity. ‘I thought you might be interested in how a tiny little thing like a signed birthday card could make all the difference. Because a lot of bosses would just forget. But obviously not you.’
Ha. Take that, Mr Too-busy-to-sign.
For a moment Luke is silenced.
‘Fascinating,’ he says at last. But then he reaches for a pencil and makes a note on the to-do list he carries around in his pocket. I pretend not to notice, but inside I smile a little satisfied smile.
OK, now I feel we’re done with this conversation. And I really don’t want to reprise the one about Botox. So with an elaborate yawn, I settle down to go to sleep.