Ch 2 - THE NOBS

Getona Nob considered mentioning to her mother that her habit of attending meals naked was not helping Getona recover from bulimia but, for the thousandth time, she dismissed the idea over her quails eggs and oysters. ‘This lot will be down the drain in a jiffy!’ she speculated ruefully.

Fuky Nob was slurping and dribbling, oblivious of anything beyond the contents of his financial portfolio which fully occupied his consciousness as usual.
“I am at the golf course if anyone wants me.” He mumbled as he discarded his napkin with his usual contemptuous disregard for etiquette. Nobody cared where he was going to be, provided that he was out of sight and mind. He knew that. If there was one thing he valued besides money it was his privacy. This did not extend to others. All members of his household were under permanent surveillance via their addiction to Smart phones. Fuky did not carry any technological devices personally.

The chauffeur held the car door open and Farquhar Nob immediately forgot all domestic matters. He opened the bar and poured himself a large malt whisky. Wordlessly, the chauffeur drove the gleaming black limousine out of the grounds.

Caressa Nob listened to the departing car with one ear while nodding agreement to the menu for the coming week. “Tell chef to get rid of that awful spotty boy!” she ordered her housekeeper, Miss Judge.
”But that is his son, Madam!” bleated the long-suffering retainer.
Caressa pursed her skinny lips and glared.
“I don’t care to be confronted with oozing zits first thing in the morning! Put him to work in the garden, he can live in the tool shed.” Miss Judge thanked her for her inspired idea and gratefully exited the dining room muttering multiple expletives under her breath. Chef would shoot the messenger, he always did. Miss Judge trudged downstairs to the kitchen, counting the days until her retirement. It could not come quick enough for her. The sight of Caressa Nob’s thinning grey hair, her spindly fingers and saggy nakedness was something she wished to forget forever but she feared she wouldn’t. ‘I hope my pension will cover therapy” she mused.

Chef exploded with a type of rage modelled upon Gordon Ramsey when he heard the news. He resolved to double the belladonna berries he was adding to the Ceasar’s Salad.

“I’d like to brick her up in a fucking wall!” he ranted for all to hear. “Or make salami out of her offal and feed it to that boney bitch daughter of hers!” Miss Judge nodded solemnly. The kitchen maids suppressed their giggles. Chef’s acne ridden son grinned for the first time that day which popped a ripe sebaceous gland close to the corner of his mouth. He licked it up appreciatively.
”Working in the garden could be useful, father!” he purred conspiratorially. “Lots of learning to be done among the weeds, wouldn’t you think?” He already experimented with the clear sap of poison ivy by adding a few drops to Mr Nob’s wet wipes. Sneaking it into Caressa Nob’s face cream would be a doddle. He winked at his furious father. “Leave it to me, Dad!” he said and disappeared into the extensive grounds of the Nob’s Tudor manor house.