Practice Makes Perfect

by Penny Parkes

  Elsie frowned, her features uncharacteristically sombre. ‘You will look after her for me, won’t you? When I finally quit the stage?’

  ‘Oh Elsie,’ Grace chided. ‘I can absolutely make you that promise, if it helps, but I have a feeling you’ll be outliving me at this rate. All your latest tests came back as top notch – A* in fact – model patient.’

  ‘Too good to be worm fodder just yet then?’ Elsie clarified. ‘That is good news. I have so much superior meddling left in me, you see. All you girls . . . women, I mean,’ she corrected herself, rolling her eyes at the political correctness she was expected to employ in her later years. ‘I worry about you so. Holly’s finally on the right track – if you ignore her flagrant disregard for the value of money – but it’s as though I’ve only just taken her stabilisers off and she could veer off course at any point. Lovely Lizzie is driving me to distraction with her well-meaning, but dear God, utterly exhausting Quest For The Meaning of Life and you—’

  Elsie leaned forward and clasped Grace’s hands in her own. ‘I see so much of myself in you, Grace. And I wish you could see that it’s okay to let others in to boost your happiness. You’ve become so incredibly balanced and self-sufficient, I worry that you might not let anyone into your life again, in case they disturb the status quo you’ve worked so hard for.’

  Grace squeezed Elsie’s fingers. ‘I haven’t cloistered myself away, Elsie. I’m out every night, you know,’ she offered as reassurance.

  Elsie waved her hand dismissively. ‘At yoga, or meditation, or swimming at the River Club – it’s hardly living the high life, is it?’

  Grace grinned. ‘Makes me happy though. Little goals, minor milestones – like swimming the River Race when I never thought I could, and perfecting my headstands . . .’ She subconsciously patted at the bob that had made that possible. ‘I’m all about what my body can do these days, rather than what I weigh, or what I look like – it’s been kind of liberating actually.’

  Elsie snorted. ‘Oh the irony!’

  Grace’s confused expression made her laugh harder. Elsie slid off the kitchen stool and pulled Grace into the hall. ‘Look at you! You’re gorgeous! Now don’t tell me you hadn’t actually realised the allure of the girl-who-didn’t-give-a-stuff?’

  Grace looked flustered, taking in her image in Elsie’s floor-length antique mirror. Seriously, who had time for navel-gazing and self-scrutiny these days? What she saw there pleased and frightened her in equal measure – clear skin, glowing eyes, a figure she would have killed for as a teenager – how was it possible that she was looking the best she ever had, when her best years were already behind her?

  Elsie leaned in and kissed her cheek. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Grace, inside and out. Don’t be afraid to embrace those that can see it too?’

  Grace blushed instantly, her thoughts filled with the gentle attentions of Jamie, and Dan, and the lovely guy at the baker’s who had taken to adding ‘a little something extra’ to her bag every time she went in.

  ‘You’re in your prime, darling girl. You wander around, thinking you’re over the hill, but you haven’t even got to the top yet – climb on up, darling – the view is sensational!’ Elsie waggled her eyebrows as though to reinforce the salacious undertones.

  ‘But I—’ began Grace.

  ‘No buts,’ Elsie interrupted, ‘unless of course you mean—’

  ‘Oh dear God,’ implored Grace, feeling incredibly uncomfortable with this line of conversation. ‘I can’t do filthy jokes about bottoms without at least a gin and tonic!’

  Elsie harrumphed. ‘Well, it’s not me who locked the liquor cabinet! And God knows I needed the gin earlier.’

  Grace guided her back into the kitchen and refilled her glass of Raspberry Blush. ‘We could do some yoga together, if that would help?’

  Elsie just looked bemused. ‘I honestly do not see how that would help.’ She held out her hand and for the first time, Grace noticed the empty ring finger where Elsie’s antique diamond ring normally took pride of place. ‘I lost my ring—’ she sighed deeply. ‘And you just know it’s the carer, don’t you? At least that’s what Panorama would have us believe. And I was about to fire Sarah – who by the way is an angel and a Godsend, but thank God I didn’t!’ She paused for dramatic effect and looked at Grace expectantly.

  ‘Because she hadn’t taken it?’ Grace offered.

  ‘Exactly! Mortifying! But I’ve lost so much bloody weight being old and decrepit that it just kept slipping off my finger, you see . . . So that’s why I needed the gin,’ she finished matter-of-factly.

  Grace nodded sympathetically. ‘I see what you mean. All terribly stressful, but gin isn’t always the answer. We could try meditation to calm your thoughts . . .’

  ‘Oh no, I’ve found it already,’ interrupted Elsie again, infuriating to the last. ‘It was in the herb garden all along.’ She pulled a very muddy, clearly very expensive diamond ring out of her pocket and dropped it on the kitchen counter, where it spun around like a top on the polished granite. ‘Oh Grace, do try to keep up – we need gin for the ring.’

  Grace looked sceptical. ‘Because it’s had such a tricky week?’

  Elsie burst out laughing. ‘Because it’s filthy and gin makes diamonds shine. How could you not know that? But I think that settles it actually.’

  Grace could feel herself losing the plot a little at the sheer number of abrupt turns this conversation was taking. ‘Settles what?’ she managed.

  ‘Well, I can’t go anywhere, can I? You all need me too much. I shall just have to cheat the Grim Reaper for a few years longer until I’ve got you all settled. Now, did you decide who was worthy of your affections in the end? Are we going for an inter-office romance or are we dabbling with being a cougar? Go on, go on, any first step will be hard, but we’ll have your stabilisers off in no time, too.’

  ‘I don’t remember mentioning either of those options actually, Elsie,’ Grace replied faintly.

  Elsie looked smug. ‘No, I don’t believe you did.’ She refilled her glass and looked Grace squarely in the eye. ‘But you need to make a decision because you’ll be needing a “plus one” at my party.’

  ‘I will?’ Grace said, grateful for a moment for Elsie’s new range of virgin cocktails. At least she could have more than one without getting utterly squiffy, embarrassing herself and agreeing to God-knows-what.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Elsie gleefully. ‘There’s altogether too much doom and gloom in Larkford at the moment, so I’ve decided to throw a launch party for my book!’

  ‘The book that isn’t published yet?’ Grace clarified.

  Elsie shook her head. ‘Oh dear God – what’s the matter with everybody. Are you so against a little gratuitous fun? You sound just like my publicist! So the actual book may not exist just yet, but the ink is dry on my contract and I read somewhere that it’s important to celebrate every milestone as an author. And I want you to help me organise it.’

  ‘Okay then,’ Grace acquiesced instantly, firstly because it was sometimes easier just to give in to Elsie’s schemes and plans, and secondly because a party in Larkford sounded like exactly what they all needed after the last few weeks.

  ‘It needs to be a garden party,’ Elsie said. ‘My poor gardener Brian has been slaving away all summer and nobody has been able to appreciate his hydrangeas. It’s almost criminal. And we’ll need cocktails and mini food and candles – Grace, are you even writing this down? There’s an awful lot to do!’

  Grace pulled a diary from her handbag and flicked through the pages. ‘We should probably think about setting a date first.’

  Elsie shook her head. ‘Oh, but I have. And I’ve booked the most delightful photographer. Next Friday gives you plenty of time to organise the rest, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s only drinks for a few hundred people . . .’ She clapped her hands together excitedly, completely missing the stunned expression on Grace’s face. ‘It’s going to be so much fun!’

  Chapter 43
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br />   ‘I come bearing yet another casserole, if you’re not sick to death of them already, some rather stunning flapjacks and a cunning plan,’ said Hattie, standing on Holly’s doorstep looking incredibly pleased with herself. Her own small twins were fast asleep but she didn’t bat an eyelid as Tom and Ben swarmed out to greet them, immediately fascinated by the enormous double buggy and its clever mechanisms and gadgets.

  ‘That’s so thoughtful,’ said Holly, hurriedly pulling her unwashed hair back into a bobble and wishing that today was the day she’d actually managed to get dressed. The house was in chaos around her, but Holly couldn’t seem to muster the energy to care. ‘I’ll get some more coffee on.’

  Her fridge was full of casseroles, her window sills laden with flowers and she hadn’t quite realised how many Meccano sets were available these days: it seemed that half of Larkford had the same idea – to stop Ben taking things apart and encourage him to build his own. The support and generosity of her friends and neighbours had been almost overwhelming, but still Holly felt oddly removed from it all.

  It was over a week now since Ben had been sent home from hospital with a clean bill of health and the simple instruction for him to take it steady for a bit. And it was fair to say that Holly and Taffy were struggling to come to an easy understanding of what that actually meant.

  Holly’s interpretation had been to wrap Ben in proverbial cotton wool and focus her attention almost exclusively on him. Taffy had returned to work, Tom had welcomed the opportunity to spend hours playing in the sandpit at home, but still Holly could not bring herself to take the next logical step.

  Even with Ben bouncing around the kitchen with his brother, there was a wealth of medical knowledge running through her mind like a ticker-tape. Relapses, complications, close-calls . . . Her mind was a veritable button box of what-ifs and maybes – all of them negative. On some level she knew she might be over-reacting, but on every other, the guilt was overwhelming; the curse of the working mother, it clouded her every decision at the moment.

  She pushed the window open and a warm breeze feathered through the room, smelling of hot grass and summer flowers, with a hint of warm tarmac. A tiny taste of the world outside. For the first time all week, with Hattie babbling away at her kitchen table, it didn’t seem quite so unbelievably daunting.

  ‘Well, you’re away with the pixies this morning, Holly,’ Hattie said, as Ben lost interest in the buggy and turned back to the Lego set that Dan had delivered in person. It had been a transparent ploy to discover when Holly might be coming back to work and she flushed a little to think of her response.

  ‘Oh, Hatts, I’m turning into a total fruit-cake this week. Poor Dan came by with that Lego for Ben and I practically bit his head off for suggesting I should try and get things back to normal – which we both knew was code for get myself back to work . . . I told him he wouldn’t understand because he wasn’t a parent. The look on his face, oh, it was awful.’

  Hattie nodded. ‘You do have a point, though. I’m not sure anybody can understand the fear and responsibility and juggling that goes on inside a mother’s mind unless they’ve actually been there.’

  Holly managed half a smile. ‘He has a point though, doesn’t he?’ She watched as Ben bounded around the sitting room without a care in the world. ‘Ben’s clearly better. I just can’t bear the thought of him being out of my sight. Not to mention all the issues I know are waiting for me at work. I’m being a complete ostrich about the whole thing.’

  Hattie leaned forward. ‘Listen, Holly, you know I’m the first person to say put your family first because nothing else really matters – I mean, when Lance was ill, I literally could not bring myself to give a fuck about anything else . . .’

  ‘Hattie!’ said Holly, a little shocked.

  ‘Well, call it like it is. But Ben is fine now and I imagine Mrs pole-up-yer-bum Harlow has had the fear of God drummed into her?’

  Holly nodded. ‘She’s been suspended, actually. She came round here to apologise, but it was so obvious she didn’t want to do it.’ The light came back into Holly’s eyes a little as she told Hattie about the look on Mrs Harlow’s face when she’d seen the big white envelope on the kitchen table with the solicitors’ postal stamp on it. ‘And I didn’t feel particularly inclined to tell her it was my divorce papers. Let her stew on her stubborn, negligent crappery.’

  ‘Is that even a word?’ Hattie asked.

  ‘Probably not, but it should be,’ said Holly with feeling. ‘The way she’s handled the boys has been nothing short of appalling. I’ve heard all about their Key Stage assessments and the lovely Ofsted man said it’s perfectly normal for children to get troublesome when they’re under-stimulated. He reckons that Ben’s health problems last year just mean that he got pigeon-holed. When he felt better and the pair of them were egging each other on, the staff just saw it as bad behaviour.’

  ‘I guess you can see how that might happen,’ Hattie said, ever the voice of reason. ‘But we both know that Mrs Harlow wouldn’t have stepped an inch out of her way to help them. This battery business is the final straw really.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘Look I don’t want to sound like this is a sales pitch, but I popped round with a suggestion that might help. You know Lance and I have been talking about expanding our business at The Deli? Well, what I didn’t tell you was that we’re turning the building next door into a crèche. I’ve got my Early Years registration and we were hoping that some of the freelance mummies around here might find the odd session with us more do-able than a full on commitment at Pinetrees. And it’s not like there’s any other choice around here, is there?’

  Holly felt a lump in her throat, as if all her worries about the boys returning to Pinetrees were bundled together with knowing that, in order to return to work, she didn’t really have an option. She’d kept Tom home every day this week as well, even once she’d heard about Mrs Harlow’s suspension, simply wanting to have him home safe with her. ‘Are you suggesting . . . ?’

  Hattie nodded. ‘It’s not officially open yet, but I could have my twins and your two for the next month or so, and then they’ll be off to school. You can get back to work and get your own life a little more balanced, without the constant worry of what might be happening with them.’ She smiled. ‘And I can promise you that under-stimulation will not be a problem. We seem to have toys and puzzles and books coming out of our ears.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Holly said, dumbfounded that the solution she’d been searching for could actually be so simple.

  ‘Absolutely. We can start gradually, or all at once . . . You tell me.’ Hattie grinned. ‘And just for once, I get to help you out, after everything you’ve done for me.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Holly managed. ‘It would be wonderful. Thank you, Hattie. Seriously. I’ve been so stuck . . .’ She didn’t need to elaborate for Hattie, for if anyone in Larkford understood, it was her. She would surely identify with all those hours in the darkest part of the night, sitting at Ben’s bedside, only giving Holly more time to dwell on what might have been – holding his hand, marvelling at his beautiful face, the snuffling noises he made in his sleep. This whole situation could have ended so differently, but for Taffy’s quick thinking.

  ‘I know,’ said Hattie gently, as though reading her mind. ‘I do. But when you get to the part where the worst bit is over, it takes a while to sink in, doesn’t it? I felt like I was poised for the next drama for months after Lance . . .’

  ‘It’s true,’ Holly nodded. ‘I just keep thinking – what next?’

  It didn’t take long to find out. Holly stared at the screen on her iPhone later that day, as it skittered across the coffee table, rebounding off crayons, Lego bricks and an optimistically laden fruit bowl. She clasped her now empty, still warm, coffee mug to her chest and tried to ignore the automatic wave of discomfort that seeing Milo’s caller ID had triggered within a single breath.

  She felt an uncomfortable tightening in her chest that drew h
er breathing into an escalating swirl and yet her hands still stubbornly refused to move. Decline the call – it was one flick of a finger and she could have peace again, she thought.

  That was the thing about smartphones and gadgets – you were never out of reach, never truly able to relax. A single ping of a text or an unwelcome e-mail and the course of a day or an evening could be thrown with one intrusive message. And God knows, she had enough experience of that of late.

  The very thought brought her up short – compared to the acidic horror of the phone call about Ben, this was child’s play. A week later and everything was relative now: he was home and he was safe and that was all that really mattered. This empowering perspective was like taking off an ill-fitting bra at the end of the day: a sudden release of the band around her chest and the ability to fully inhale for the first time in what felt like forever.

  ‘Hello, Milo,’ she said calmly, picking up the phone moments before the voicemail kicked in. ‘You took your time.’

  There was a pause at the end of the line, a transatlantic crackle of static that barely disguised the surprised intake of breath at her detached tone. Whatever Milo had been expecting, it wasn’t that. ‘How is he?’ Milo said.

  Thank God the twins were super-glued to a Pixar double bill when Milo had finally deigned to make contact, Holly thought, trying not to second guess Milo’s motivations in actually picking up the phone. Better late than never, she supposed.

  ‘He’s on the mend,’ she replied, feeling no need to elaborate for the moment, unable to quash her anger that it had taken him so long to respond to her message about Ben’s accident.

  He breathed out in a whoosh, as though he’d been holding his breath all week. The cynic in Holly wasn’t buying it though. It took all her reserve to patiently wait him out.

  ‘And you?’ he said, the intimacy in his voice so entirely misplaced as to be almost bizarre. ‘How are you coping? I mean, the timing of this . . .’ He stopped dead, changing tack abruptly. ‘I can’t believe you signed those papers, Holly.’