Constance is back — but for how long?

‘Batten down the hatches,” my wife says. “Constance is coming to lunch.”

The implication that there are effective precautionary steps to be taken is misleading: there is nothing to do but wait. I put a shoulder of lamb in the oven and retreat upstairs to my office to watch the internet go by.

The doorbell goes, long and loud, at about 12.30pm. By the time I get downstairs, Constance is already seated at the kitchen table. “Hey, handsome,” she says. “Did you miss me?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, opening the fridge and pulling out a drink.

“Yes, please,” Constance says. “Tim, how come you never write about me any more?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’m trying to deny you the oxygen of publicity.”

“Don’t say that!” she shouts. “What about the people who leave comments under your column every week, asking, ‘Where’s Constance?’”

“That’s just you,” I say.

“It isn’t me!”

The hour before lunch follows a familiar pattern. Constance applies clear nail varnish and regales my wife with hair-raising tales from her private life. I finish my drink and think about switching to something stronger, since everyone else has. While I’m thinking this, Constance reaches over and peels back the newspaper I’m reading.

“Tim,” she says, “you can’t write about this.”

“About what?” I say.

“About anything I’m saying!”

I stare into space, my eyes still focused on the plane where the newspaper used to be. “I probably won’t,” I say. “But I should record some of it on my phone, just in case.”

“No!” she shrieks. “You can write about it in a year.”

“That’s not how it works,” I say. “I just report whatever happens in this kitchen week by week.”

“If you do, my life will be ruined,” she says.

“That’s how it works,” I say as the youngest one slides past on his way to the fridge. “Ask him.”

“Ask me what?” he says.

“Hey, brother!” Constance says, pointing to her glass. “Can you put more in this? My nails are wet.”

“And fetch me a notepad,” I say.

“Don’t!” Constance shouts.

After lunch, my wife and Constance bicker about which items of her jewellery Constance will inherit. “You are not getting this ring,” my wife says.

“But I’m going to look after you when he dies,” Constance says.

“I’m not going to die,” I say. “Am I?”

Not long ago, I had my blood sent for testing and, after hearing nothing back, concluded that I’d been issued a clean bill of health. I consider the possibility that the results are being kept from me.

“You are so going to die,” Constance says. “You are never getting this ring,” my wife says.

I watch the second half of a football match with the middle one. When it’s over, I go upstairs to find my wife napping, with Constance fast asleep on my side of the bed. I repair to my office to read. When I wake up, it’s dark outside.

In the kitchen, my wife is already fashioning supper from the remains of lunch. Constance is sitting at the table, rolling a cigarette. “Still here!” she says.

“You need to get another bottle,” my wife tells me.

Constance is allowed to stay for supper, but she is not permitted to ruin War And Peace by talking through it. “I’m going,” she says, pulling on her coat and turning to me.

“Tim,” she says, “you have to promise that you won’t write about any of that stuff. You need to protect my privacy.”

“OK,” I say. “In which case, you’re fired.”

“Wait, what?” she says.

“You’re sacked from the column,” I say.

“You can’t fire me!”

“Sorry,” I say. “My hands are tied.”

— Guardian News & Media Ltd

Tim Dowling is a columnist for the Guardian.