by Emma Murray
Just as the hysteria reaches fever pitch, my mother finally appears from the kitchen, Bolognese- and apron-free. With her hands behind her back, she herds Harry and Anna into a corner of the living room, bends down, and whips out two lollipops.
‘Lollipops,’ they shout hysterically, and immediately race to the couch to open them.
‘That’ll keep their mouths occupied for a while,’ she says, clapping her hands.
I think about that old woman in Ireland who gave Dee such a hard time for giving her little boy a lollipop and I feel grateful that I don’t have a mother that judgemental.
I catch her eye and mouth a thank you.
She waves me away, and heads back into the kitchen, muttering something about the lasagne being ‘rubbery’ if she doesn’t get it out soon.
I leave Bea, Jen and David together as I go to sort out some drinks.
When I reach the kitchen, the lasagne is already on the table accompanied by a mountain of garlic bread.
‘Jesus, is it time to eat already? I haven’t even served the drinks yet!’ I say.
‘Well, it’s your oven, that’s the problem,’ Mum says, folding her arms defiantly across her chest. ‘It’s never cooked this quickly in my oven at home.’
As there is zero point in arguing with her, I go back to the living room and tell David and Bea that dinner is on the table.
‘So soon?’ David says.
‘Don’t ask,’ I say, nodding my head towards the kitchen.
David grins.
I look at Harry and Anna, contentedly sucking their lollipops.
‘Don’t disturb them when they’re so happy,’ Bea says, through gritted teeth. ‘They can eat later.’
So we back away slowly and make a break for it, each of us hoping we can bolt down at least one course of our meal without interruption.
For once, we succeed. We manage to have a glass of wine each and even an actual adult conversation, mostly led by my mother. (‘Did you hear Steve Jobs never let his kids have an iPad?’. David: ‘Yes, loads of the Silicon Valley lot have banned tech from their kids,’ and Bea: ‘Easy for them to ban it when they have a million staff to look after their kids twenty-four seven.)
As the last scrap of lasagne leaves our plates, Harry and Anna rush into the kitchen, shouting for birthday cake. David gets the champagne for grown-ups and apple juice for the kids, while I bring out the baking masterpiece.
Everyone oohs and aahs over it, even though the most generous person would agree that it really doesn’t deserve even a fraction of the attention. Under pressure from Anna to decorate it, I have skimped a bit on beating the mixture enough, which means it hasn’t risen and now looks like a large, messily iced biscuit. Nevertheless, David lights the candles and we all sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Nana.
After the last ‘hip, hip, hurrah!’ I kneel down beside Anna who is happily sipping her apple juice, and whisper gently, ‘Sweetheart,– remember what I told you about giving a toast to your nana?’
‘Oh, yeah!’ she says, with more enthusiasm than I’ve seen her display in ages.
Everyone smiles as Anna climbs down off her chair and carefully holds up her cup. I exchange a warm smile with David, and everything seems right with the world.
Anna toasts her nana exactly the way I taught her, and we all laugh and clink glasses. As I bend down to kiss her soft little cheek, Anna whispers, ‘I want to say something else, Mummy!’
‘Of course!’ I whisper back, and give her hair a little ruffle.
‘Anna has something more she wants to say,’ I announce, and smile at her in encouragement.
‘Hawwy’s daddy kissed my mummy in the park,’ she says, proudly.
My hand flies to my mouth and it takes me a moment to realise that Bea has done the same thing.
David looks from me to Bea and back again, and judging by the hard set of his mouth, he knows it’s true.
And this time there’s no sea to dive into and no holiday home in which to escape. My mother looks at Jen and shakes her head slowly, and I know just what she is thinking: I will need more than one of her Marital Miracles to get out of this one.
Acknowledgments
Writing fiction has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but the most worthwhile and joyous. This book would not exist without the faith, love and support from my friends and family. I owe you a debt of gratitude that I can realistically only repay in the form of booze and the odd free dinner, but knowing you lot, that will be more than enough.
First, I want to thank Yoav Segal for listening to me whinge about my desperation to be a novelist and recommending Heather O’Connell, my brilliant career mentor, to put me on the right path. I also want to thank my fabulous friends-for-life nursery mums who have been, and continue to be, a source of unfailing support during these perplexing early child-rearing years. A huge thank you to my childhood friend and former literary agent, Emma Walsh. Emma was the first person to read the novel and gave me the push I needed to persevere. A special mention also goes to Claire-from-Pilates who read an early draft of the book and strongly advised me to remove the first 10,000 words. Without her advice, the manuscript may not have caught the eye of my brilliant editor, Sarah Ritherdon, and her stellar team at Boldwood. But of course, it would never have reached Sarah at all without the help of my lovely agent, Bea Corlett, one of the most patient people I have ever met, who took a chance on a completely unknown fiction writer and never once lost faith along the way despite the plethora of rejections (urrggh).
As for my family, I have to thank my parents for discouraging me from pursuing my childhood dream to be a novelist after finishing university (‘Sure, there’s no money in it, Emsie!’). Although it pains me to say it, they were right. I wasn’t ready – but I am now.
Finally, to my husband, Sam. I cannot put into words how grateful I am for your love and support over the years. Without you, I would never have had the confidence to become a full-time writer, not to mention a novelist. Having said all that, I really don’t think this book is your thing. Really. Don’t read it. Ever.
More from Emma Murray
We hope you enjoyed reading Time Out. If you did, please leave a review.
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About the Author
Emma Murray is originally from Co. Dublin and moved to London in her early twenties. After a successful career as a ghostwriter, she felt it was high time she fulfilled her childhood dream to write fiction.
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First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
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Copyright © Emma Murray, 2020
Cover Design by Alice Moore Design
Cover Photography: Everyday People Cartoons
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The moral right of Emma Murray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, e
xcept in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Paperback ISBN 978-1-83889-476-4
Ebook ISBN 978-1-83889-470-2
Kindle ISBN 978-1-83889-471-9
Audio CD ISBN 978-1-83889-477-1
MP3 CD ISBN 978-1-83889-474-0
Digital audio download ISBN 978-1-83889-468-9
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