Barbara King enters the room like a Roman empress surveying her kingdom. She is wearing a designer suit, suede high-heeled shoes, and carrying an expensive handbag. Her dark hair is cut in a short, sleek bob and her makeup is so perfect you’d think she’d been made over by Max Factor himself.
‘Why is there a lemon on that child’s plate?’ she asks.
Damn. My mistake. ‘Um, it’s a traditional British party game,’ I pipe up. ‘It’s called “Pass the Lemon”. We always played it at the nursery where I used to work. Here, Ruby, you next.’
Ruby takes the lemon and regards me as if I’m demented. Then she shrugs and passes it on to Samuel.
‘I’m Zoe,’ I say, holding out my hand.
Barbara shakes it and frowns, still deciding what she thinks of my party game. At least, she almost frowns. Barbara has apparently had enough Botox sessions to paralyse the forehead of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, so it’s more of a twitch.
‘Now, where are my boys?’ she cries. ‘Mommy was on her way to a meeting so she thought she’d stop by to surprise you!’
The twins leap from their seats and hurtle towards her open arms, their hands and faces covered with so much artificial cheese and non-Fair Trade chocolate that they can barely prise their fingers apart.
‘Oooh, er, hang on a min!’ hollers Trudie. ‘Let me wipe that peach juice off your hands.’
She grabs a baby wipe and deals with Andrew but Eamonn is too quick for her. As he reaches his mother, she recoils. ‘What in God’s name have you been eating?’ she demands, with such horror you’d think a live mouse was hanging out of his mouth.
‘Oooh, Eamonn, you’re all sticky,’ observes Trudie, innocently, as she jumps in to remove the offending debris from his hands. ‘That juice really is a nightmare, isn’t it?’
‘Trudie,’ says Barbara, sternly, as she scans the kitchen table. ‘Have you forgotten my rules about what the children can and cannot eat? About them having lots of fruit and vegetables?’
‘Course I haven’t, Mrs K!’ says Trudie, brandishing a limp piece of lettuce, apparently as evidence. ‘Five a day! I’ve not forgotten!’
‘Seven in this household,’ corrects Barbara, wiping Andrew’s mouth with a pristine handkerchief produced from somewhere in her bag. ‘And I want no trans-fats whatsoever. Okay? And sugar – absolutely no more than ten per cent of their daily calorific intake. Okay?’
‘Don’t you worry,’ says Trudie, strategically placing herself in front of a plate of brownies. ‘I think of nothing but the state of their arteries, Mrs K.’
‘Hmm,’ says Barbara, clearly unconvinced, ‘and you’re not giving them any tonic, are you?’ Tonic is what Bostonians call fizzy drinks.
‘Tonic? Ho! As if!’ laughs Trudie.
Barbara straightens up and eyes Trudie suspiciously. ‘Good. Because heart-disease rates being as they are, these days, I firmly believe that failing to feed children a properly balanced diet is tantamount to cruelty. Half the pre-schoolers in this country have chronic constipation.’
Trudie nods obediently.
‘Well,’ continues Barbara, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Now, you two, come and give Mommy a big hug!’ She bends down to the twins, closing her eyes tightly and nuzzling her face in their hair.
‘I have a tonic,’ announces Ruby, unhelpfully, as she holds up a can of Coke.
Barbara’s eyes ping open.
‘Oh,’ I say, grabbing the can from her, ‘that’s just for you, sweetheart.’ I turn to Barbara, feeling the need to explain. ‘The other children had something different,’ I tell her. ‘Ruby’s daddy doesn’t mind her having fizzy drinks.’
She purses her lips. ‘So Ryan Miller lets his little girl drink Coke all day. Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t say all day,’ I mumble, wondering why I’m trying to defend him. ‘It’s just—’
‘Don’t worry, honey,’ says Barbara. ‘If you’re living with Ryan Miller, that’s the least of your worries, believe me.’
Chapter 17
The keys to the garage are apparently in the hall drawer. The problem is, so is everything else. Determined to dig out the children’s bikes so we can do something active and fun this afternoon, I spend ten minutes rifling through the drawer before giving up and tipping it out on the floor.
The kids think sifting through the contents is enormous fun, at least for the first five minutes. I’m less impressed, largely because I’ve got better things to do than untangling phone chargers from balls of Plasticine, old bandages, a tape-measure, a half-eaten jam tart and various other bits of detritus.
When I locate the keys, I fight my instinct to sort through the rubbish and instead pile it back into the drawer. I’m about to call the kids back to tell them we’re one step closer to getting at their bikes, when I spot a mildly intriguing piece of paper. Slightly creased, but relatively unscathed compared with the other items in the drawer, I open it up and am unable to stop myself reading it.
Darling Ryan,
I have so many conflicting thoughts about you at the moment, I barely know where to begin. So, I suppose I’ll get straight to the point. I love you. There, I’ve said it. Whether you like it or not, that’s the situation. Which both of us now have to deal with, one way or the other.
Predictable as this sounds, I knew I loved you the minute I met you. It wasn’t just your looks that won me over. It was your soul, your mind – a mind most women couldn’t begin to understand. I knew instinctively that beyond your impenetrable exterior was a man with so much to give. I believe I have reached out and seen the real Ryan – and now I’m determined to see more of him.
I should tell you that the very fact I’d loved you in secret for so long before something happened between us made that moment all the more perfect. As I’m sure you already know, I’m a woman who strives for perfection. And that is why I don’t want to let this go. The first night we spent together wasn’t just special, it was beautiful. Life-changing, in fact. And I will not let you throw it away like yesterday’s pizza.
Now that I’ve opened my heart to you, Ryan, it’s time to be frank – so forgive me in advance for being so, but this is my request: I want you to reconsider what you said about not seeing me again. A simple one, I know you’ll agree, but one that could change both of our lives for the better.
Yours for ever,
Juliet
XXX
‘Zoe, have you found them yet?’ asks Ruby, impatiently.
‘Here we are!’ I reply, dangling them in front of her.
‘Great! Come on, Samuel – race you to the garage!’ she cries, grabbing his hand and deliberately letting him get ahead of her.
I fold the letter, and stuff it into the back of the drawer, which I close decisively. Then I follow the children outside to focus on what I should be focusing on.
Chapter 18
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Zoe,
How is America? I’ve been watching a lot of TV lately and thinking about you and what life is like over there. I had to turn Cagney and Lacey off the other night – you know what it’s like when your mind runs away with itself.
Desy kept going on at me that Cagney and Lacey is set in a completely different city, is twenty-odd years old, is based on the lives of two New York police officers and completely fictional. As if I didn’t know all that! He can be bloody dismissive sometimes, honestly. Thankfully, your dad suggested I might take in a bit of the Happy Days season that’s been on satellite for the last week. I feel much better about the whole thing already.
Anyway, let me tell you what happened to me the other day. I’d popped into Sainsbury’s to get the ingredients for a new twist on a Delia recipe I thought I’d experiment with – satsuma crumble – and I was standing in the queue when I suddenly went really dizzy. I almost fainted. Well, I didn’t exactly lose consciousness or anything but it was enough for me to have to sit down. One of the st
aff brought me a glass of water. I’d just started to feel a bit better when I looked up and your old boss from nursery – Anita, isn’t it? – was standing beside me.
She went on and on about how I should see a doctor because it’s happened with her staff in the past and you can never be too careful (what a hypochondriac I’d be if I shuffled off to the doctor’s every time I felt a bit queasy!). The point is, when I managed to get a word in edgeways, I finally got her to tell me about the girl who’s replaced you at work.
Reading between the lines, she isn’t anywhere near as good as you. Anita said so, near as damn it. And that she’d have you back like a shot. I just thought I’d mention that, in case you were thinking of coming home.
I know your dad thinks you need to do your own thing at your own pace, but he doesn’t understand you like I do, Zoe. Never has. And, anyway, it doesn’t do any harm me just laying out your options for you, does it? So if you were thinking of coming home then your old room is still there. Don’t forget that, will you?
Just so you know, people have stopped gossiping. Well, to me they have. I mean, I saw Judy Stephenson in Andrew Herbert the other day when I went in to get my top lip bleached and she made a pointed comment – but she doesn’t count. I’ve always said she was an old boot. (And that’s before you get me on to her hair. I swear, that woman’s roots were so bad I’m surprised she wasn’t mistaken for a prostitute.)
Apart from that, there isn’t a great deal of news for you. Your cousin Kylie has been picked for the school play. It’s The Wizard of Oz and she plays a chicken. I don’t remember any chickens in The Wizard of Oz but, as Desy said, we can’t all be Judy Garland. Besides, I’ve heard that poor child’s singing voice and I think she’s lucky to have won a part as poultry.
The weather’s terrible. It’s been throwing it down for days now. Where’s this global warming they keep promising us? That’s what I want to know.
Love and kisses,
Mum
XXX
Chapter 19
Although I’m glad to be away from Liverpool, my first few weeks in America pass slowly. It takes longer than I’d expected to get used to things. To not having my own space. To not having my friends and family around me. To being almost permanently on duty.
Most of all, though, I’m shocked by how little the move affects my feelings for Jason. I’m thousands of miles away from my old life yet he’s forever in my thoughts. Okay, so I’m doing nothing like the amount of crying I did in the immediate aftermath of our wedding day. My emotions aren’t as raw as they were then, but I’m still harbouring this horrible dull ache that nothing can shift.
I still feel angry about what he did to me, to us. But that isn’t my overwhelming feeling. More than anything, I miss him. Desperately. I long to feel his arms round me, to revel in the embrace I once took for granted.
Some mornings I wake up, forgetting where I am, and roll over, expecting to find him there. When I realize I’m in a single bed all by myself the sensation hits me like a ton of bricks.
I also find myself – more often than I can believe – drifting into a dream world in the middle of the day, luxuriating in memories of key events in our relationship. Like the day I took him home to meet my parents all those years ago. I was touched by the effort he’d made to impress my mum, bringing with him the most stunning bouquet of yellow roses I’d ever seen. He pretended to enjoy her cooking, even though she’d misread the recipe for salsa verde. The resulting concoction contained approximately seven times the number of anchovies that Rick Stein recommends. Between that and the Jersey Royals – so hard that Dad dislodged a filling – it’s a wonder he ever went back.
Except he was wonderful with both of my parents. I watched him turn on the charm to the extent that they enthused for weeks about him, everything from his fascinating views about recent items on This Morning (Mum) and his impressive grasp of the state of refereeing in today’s Premiership (Dad).
Jason had the same effect on my friends. You could see their minds whirring when they first met him, wondering whether he was too gorgeous for his own good – the sort of bloke who fancies himself more than any woman and whose only meaningful relationship is with his bathroom mirror.
They soon discovered, as I had, that despite the pretty-boy tag Jason was genuinely nice.
At least when I came here I left all my pictures of him at home. The idea was that, with time, I’d be unable to visualize what he looked like.
The theory sometimes works. Occasionally, I find it impossible to conjure up an exact image of him and am left with a frustratingly hazy outline. At other times, his face is crystal clear.
Either way, it doesn’t really matter, because what I loved – still do – wasn’t Jason’s looks. It was the whole package. A package I’ve well and truly lost.
Chapter 20
‘Oh, for Chrissake, can’t someone else deal with it for once?’
It didn’t take me long to learn that Ryan doesn’t do good moods. He only does bad moods. Or terrible moods. Or just moods. Today his temper is so far from good that if he were a dog someone would put him down.
‘Tell me, please,’ he thunders into his cell phone, ‘which asshole in Accounts has not managed to process this invoice when they’ve had fourteen full days to do so? What exactly is so difficult about that?’
I can’t hear how the person at the other end is trying to justify whatever horrendous cock-up has so infuriated him, but I can see he’s no closer to launching into a rousing rendition of ‘I’m Walking On Sunshine’.
This morning he’s wearing a battered green T-shirt with a faded logo on the front. His combats sit low on the hips, as if his waist was slightly bigger when he bought them. He hasn’t shaved, which he only ever does when duty requires it. I came to the conclusion the other day that he’s sexier with day-old stubble.
‘I don’t want excuses,’ he interrupts, pacing up and down the kitchen, ‘I want a cash transfer. For Wolfe and Co. Now. As in today.’ He hangs up, takes an exasperated breath and marches over to the coffee-maker, beside me.
He’s got that fresh-out-of-the-shower smell again and I find myself inhaling deeply and surreptitiously. A wave of heat surges through my body, then concentrates around the knicker area. I bite my lip. Thank God nobody is aware of this but me.
‘Where – is – the – coffee?’ asks Ryan.
The answer to this question is that he drank the entire pot I made – to replace his own disastrous attempt – about forty-five minutes ago. Instead of saying this, I turn to him, a vision of calm composure compared with his thermonuclear demeanour. It’s a skill I’ve mastered since I’ve been living with Ryan. ‘Would you like me to make some?’ I offer.
‘I’d have preferred it to be there already, given that I’ve made some this morning.’ His eyebrow twitches. ‘But since it isn’t, yes, please.’
I take in the accusatory implication of this statement. ‘No problem.’ I smile. ‘Happy to replace the one I made this morning.’
He’s about to start pacing again when he pauses. ‘I think you’ll find I made the coffee this morning.’
‘Well, yes,’ I concede, hoping my tone is soft enough for me to get away with this, ‘but you might have got the quantities wrong because it wasn’t very nice. So I replaced it.’
‘You replaced it?’
I nod.
‘Because it wasn’t very nice?’
I nod again.
‘Well,’ he says, crossing his arms, ‘that won’t be necessary in future.’
I look into his eyes. The staring competition is on again. ‘Right,’ I say.
‘Because my coffee was fine,’ he explains.
I grit my teeth and refuse to break eye contact. ‘It wasn’t.’
‘I make great coffee,’ he tells me defiantly.
‘I’m sure you do. But that particular coffee was not great.’
‘I’m sure it was.’
‘It really wasn’t.’
‘Yes
,’ he insists. ‘It was.’
I’m tempted to tell him it was barely fit for human consumption when Ruby appears and cuts the conversation short – which is probably a good thing.
‘Daddy, I’ve drawn a picture of you and Zoe,’ she announces, tugging at his shirt. I look down at her and smile.
‘Not now, honey. Daddy’s trying to get some work done,’ Ryan replies. When I turn back to him I notice he hasn’t stopped staring at me. I blush violently.
Fortunately, he walks away, hammering another number into his handset as the kids and I watch.
‘Jim, it’s Ryan,’ he begins. ‘That invoice still hasn’t been dealt with yet . . . Hey, don’t even think about starting on me about it.’
Ryan continues to pound round the room as I pour some coffee and, as soon as I’m confident my face and neck have returned to their normal colour, put the cup into his hand.
He catches my eye and mouths, ‘Thank you,’ in a way that can only be interpreted as sarcastic.
‘Listen, phone me back – but on my cell, not at work,’ he continues. ‘What? Oh, yeah, I’m working from home today. Trouble with the air-con in my office . . . Don’t ask.’
As Ryan marches into the study like an imperial storm trooper heading for the Millennium Falcon, I say to Ruby, ‘Can I look at your picture?’
Shyly, she holds it out.
‘Oh, wow! It’s lovely! I like the dress you’ve put me in. It’s much more stylish than my jeans, hey?’
Ruby giggles. ‘Do you think it looks like you and Daddy?’
In the picture, my hair is so curly I’m like a cross between Little Miss Muffet and a poodle. ‘You’ve got us to a T,’ I tell her.
There’s something odd about the picture, though. Ruby has drawn Ryan and me holding hands. Which is unlikely, given that he and I seem unable to be in the same room together without the conversation disintegrating into a heated exchange.
The Nearly-Weds Page 7
