My hand extends, and my lips curl back from the teeth. “Mr. Marjoribanks. What an honour to welcome you to our humble home.”
Pleased? Effing terrified, more like.
He looks nonplussed.
Oh, sweet suffering Jesus. What did I say wrong?
“It’s pronounced Marshbanks,” he says.
Yeah, right, just had to correct me, didn’t you? Couldn’t have let it go, could you, you supercilious twat?
“May I offer you a drink?”
Laced with a smidgen of laxative.