In Bed with a Stranger

‘You have a mother,’ he said softly. ‘And most mothers would probably say that getting to be Mother of the Bride is one of the highlights of the job.’

She slid off his knee, getting up and taking the champagne bottle from the ice bucket in which the stewardess had left it. Kit felt a moment of desolation as the contact with her body was lost.

‘My mother is not most mothers,’ she said in a tone of deep, self-deprecating irony as she poured champagne into her glass. Too fast—the froth surged upwards and spilled over. ‘Oh, knickers—sorry,’ she muttered, making a grab for it and trying to suck up the cascading fizz.

‘It’s fine—leave it.’ Taking the glass and the bottle from her, he tilted the glass as he refilled it. ‘So, why wasn’t she like other mothers?’

‘Well, for a start I wasn’t even allowed to call her that.’ She slid back into her own seat, took a mouthful of champagne before continuing, ‘Not “Mother” or “Mum” or anything that would pin her into a narrow gender-stereotyped role that carried political and social associations of subservience and oppression.’ She rolled her eyes elaborately and he could hear the inverted commas she put around the phrase.

‘So what did you call her?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘Rainbow, like everyone else.’

‘Was that her name?’

‘It was for as long as I can remember.’ Absently she trailed her finger through the little puddle of champagne. Two lines were etched between her narrow brows, and Kit found himself longing to reach over and smooth them away. ‘It was only when I went to live with my Aunt Janet when I was fifteen that I discovered her real name was Susan.’

‘So why did she call herself Rainbow?’

Sighing, Sophie slumped back in the seat, her glossy maple-coloured hair bright and beautiful against the pale upholstery. Nick ought to hire her as a promo model, Kit thought wryly, then instantly dismissed the thought. Over his dead body.