Page 3 of Under Your Spell

‘Ew.’ Serena accepts a mug that says ‘accountants are great between the (spread)sheets’, a gift from me which Len doesn’t appear to have been as emotionally attached to as he was, say, to our good glassware or the vacuum cleaner.

‘If I wanted to talk about penises,’ my sister continues loftily, ‘I would simply talk about penises. But fine.’ She clears her throat and gives me a stern look. ‘Clemmie – you know your whole relationship with Leonard was actually about Dad.’

‘Speaking of penises,’ I mutter, taking a long drink from my own mug. The champagne is cold, crisp, the bubbles rush through my blood. Serena only buys the best.

We all have our own relationships with our father – in my case it might best be described as a passing acquaintance. When your dad is an ageing rock god who managed to impregnate three women in the space of four months, things tend to get complicated.

‘It’s true that Len was the anti-dad,’ Lil muses. ‘It doesn’t get less rock ’n’ roll than an accountant from Surrey.’

‘Not sure what you’d know about rock ’n’ roll,’ Serena scoffs.

‘I’m a musician.’ Lil crosses her arms, ‘I know about all sorts of music.’

‘Only music made by women who look like Victorian ghosts.’ Serena smirks while Lil splutters, though it does appear that she is wearing a voluminous white nightdress underneath her giant pink coat.

‘That mass-produced crap you put out at your label can hardly be called music.’ Lil is indignant.

Serena flicks her curtain of subtly balayaged hair over her shoulder. ‘Being popular isn’t a crime. God forbid a song should have a beat, something people can actually dance to.’

‘Can we not?’ I interject wearily, the argument a familiar one.

Both my sisters followed in our dad’s footsteps with careers in music, yet they manage to be two barely touching circles on a Venn diagram: Serena is a terrifyingly efficient executive producer at one of the biggest record labels in the world – polished, gorgeous, her fingernails constantly clacking over the screen of her iPhone, while Lil is a tiny angelic waif who wins over festival crowds with her sweetly rasping voice, acoustic guitar and flower-child energy.

‘No need for you to wade in, Miss I-Haven’t-Listened-To-New-Music-In-Two-Decades.’ Serena huffs.

‘It’s Dr I-Haven’t-Listened-To-New-Music-In-Two-Decades, thanks,’ I reply, refusing to take the bait. There’s no point in us getting bogged down in my parental issues, when there’s plenty of other stuff to be upset about. ‘And I was under the impression you were here to help with my problems,’ I finish forlornly, clambering onto one of the stools at the small breakfast counter.

‘We are!’ Lil exclaims. ‘Of course we are. So tell us what happened? I thought you said they were going to extend your contract?’

‘I thought they were, that’s what the head of the department told me, but there have been cuts and…’ I trail off, pinching the bridge of my nose to stop the tears from falling. I cannot keep crying or at some point I will simply disintegrate.

‘If they told you they were going to keep you on then that’s what they should do,’ Serena huffs. ‘You’re brilliant, an expert in your field and all your students love you. This is bullshit.’

‘I suppose being an expert in the field of obscure medieval literature doesn’t mean I’m as in demand as you’d think,’ I say into my mug.

Ever since I’d finished my PhD five years earlier, I’d taken one badly paid, short-term contract after another always hoping that the job would turn into something more permanent. Here in Oxford, I thought that had finally happened, but it seems that the universe wasn’t done crapping all over me. Just when I thought I’d be able to catch my breath, to actually start adult life at the ripe old age of thirty-two, I find that I’ll be jobless when term finishes for the summer. Jobless. Boyfriendless. Soon to be homeless. So much for adult life.

I drain the mug of champagne and hold it out to be refilled. Silently, Lil complies.

‘So, we need to make a plan,’ Serena says firmly. ‘Find a new job for you.’

‘Academic posts don’t come up that often,’ I say. ‘And they all have about a trillion applicants because of that. Trust me, I know. And even if something does miraculously come up for next year, it won’t be until the start of the autumn term, which leaves me a good four months totally unpaid.’ I am feeling extremely sorry for myself now.

‘How about a short-term loan?’ Serena asks. ‘Just until you get something sorted.’

I’m already shaking my head. ‘I can’t take money from you.’

‘You know there’s always Dad,’ Lil suggests and then winces when I glare at her. ‘I know you don’t want to, but I’m sure…’

‘I don’t want his money,’ I say, trying to keep emotion out of my voice.

‘You’re being so unnecessarily stubborn about this,’ Serena says. ‘He’s a shitty dad whether you take his money or not, might as well let the old duffer do something to help out. And besides, he’s not as bad as you—’

I cut her off with a wave of my hand. My sisters look at me for a moment and then sigh in unison. They know this is an argument they won’t win.

‘So what will you do?’ Lil asks. ‘Have you told your mum?’

I grimace. ‘Not yet. She’ll want me to come home.’