There’s a wonderfully snarky review about a new book that portrays the Madoff kin in a hagiographic light (this word’s for you, Walt) but the shocker is the accompanying photograph of Catherine Hooper – the lady looks awful – I mean awful! What happened to the chic in a tits-flopping-out bikini hoisting a dead fish? How could someone age so quickly and so badly in just four years? Must be that rose oil doesn’t work.
Her three-year-old daughter has just been returned from nursery, but poor Catherine can spend only five minutes with her before dashing off, “awash with guilt”, for two hours of expensive beauty treatment. Because this is obviously how you demonstrate you are not in a relationship for the money. But at the salon she receives a text message from Andrew saying they won’t be attending the party after all (he had just found out about his father’s fraud). She’d got dolled up and missed out on quality time with her daughter for nothing! Oh, poor Catherine! That night, as Andrew lies on their bed in silence, we read how she stoically “finished applying Moroccan rose oil to her legs, slipped on a silk chemise and tried to quell the flutter of anxiety rising in her chest” before asking what was wrong.