Of course I’m really very fond of Nancy: since Archie died she has been more like a mother to me than my own mother. I am particularly indebted to her for both her kindness and her extreme riches and her self-possession which is wonderfully inspiring and the fact that she has kept her 60s wardrobe intact for all of these years, so I get to go out dressed up like some fabulous Malibu Beach Barbie and sometimes people even stop me on the street and ask, “Are you dressed up as Lana Del Rey?” (No: FUCK OFF). Anyway cousin Francis, if he had been raised in the knowledge that he was her son, would no doubt have been a very great disappointment to her I’m sure.
While I waited to hear that familiar girlish-smoky gin-soaked voice creaking ‘Hello?’ on the other end of the line of my coral-pink telephone I couldn’t help but wish that our situation was reversed and that Frankie was Archie’s son and that I was Nancy’s daughter; I even considered a tactful blackmail angle, my own mother would doubtless be at no great pains to rush forward and claim me in the PUBLIC EYE, and Archie was, after all, supposed to be dead. At the very least the notoriety would mean the cuntish eternal Frank Sinatra Snr ‘TV and Variety Entertainers’ ban would be lifted from my lovely name and I could go on to make great pots of money modelling for Wheel of Fortune or something like that.