Katie hesitated, then sighed apologetically. ‘It’s not work, so much as . . .’ She stopped herself, not wanting to let her negativity spoil the evening. ‘I suppose it’s feeling autumn starting to set in. I really felt it parking the car just now. It’s bloody cold out there.’
As she spoke, a gust of wind whipped around the house, rustling leaves across the little yard and flicking the first drops of rain against the window. The long Indian summer had finally finished, and now the crispness of autumn bit into the air.
‘I love this time of year,’ said Jo, pushing back her long curly brown hair into a clip to keep it out of her round face while she ground pepper and sprinkled salt on the chicken. A few curls escaped, and she tucked them behind her ear absent-mindedly. ‘You can wrap up warm, so no one can see your spare tyre, there’s always an excuse for hot chocolate, and Molly’s happy to play in the leaves for hours.’
‘Yeah, but you want to try doing site inspections when it’s lashing with rain,’ said Katie. ‘Sorry! Sorry. OK, I’ve stopped now. No more work.’
She took another sip of wine. With the chicken ready for the oven and still no sound from the kids upstairs, she felt softness begin to creep around her edges.
‘I love your kitchen,’ said Jo, unexpectedly. ‘It’s so homely and warm.’
‘Are you insane?’ Katie boggled her eyes. Ross was supposed to have blitzed the house before the Fieldings came round, but as usual he’d spent the afternoon making everything even more chaotic, dressing up with Hannah. ‘Do you not see grime? Or bodged DIY?’
‘Seriously, Katie, Greg took the kids’ potato prints off the fridge. He said it would ruin the finish. Ruin the finish! With a cleaner three times a week!’
Katie didn’t think that was anything to complain about, compared with Ross’s constantly broken promises about housework – Greg had, after all, paid for the total refit of the kitchen – but she smiled anyway.
Jo bent down to put the chicken in the oven, and when she stood up her face was serious.
‘But listen, while we’re in here on our own,’ she said, ‘what’s going on? How are things with you and Ross? I thought there was a bit of an atmosphere when we arrived.’ She gave Katie a concerned look, searching her guarded expression for clues. ‘It’s not just about the lemon, is it?’
‘Yes. And no.’ Katie struggled. ‘The lemon is just . . . typical.’
‘Come on, tell me. I’m not stupid, I can see there’s something wrong between the two of you.’
She looked up at Jo’s open, caring face, and suddenly felt an overwhelming need to get rid of the guilt and misery and resentment that had built up inside her, week after week. Katie’s mum wasn’t the sort of woman who encouraged unburdening, to or from her daughter; Katie couldn’t ring her now to confess, even if she’d wanted to. Which she didn’t. More than that, telling someone there were problems would make it official.
‘You’re allowed not to be perfect,’ Jo added. ‘None of us is.’
Her tone was so close to the comforting, practical one Peter the counsellor used that something in Katie broke.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Things aren’t great right now. I mean, we’re not actually fighting or anything, and there’s no way I’d do that in front of the kids, but . . .’
‘Get it off your chest,’ said Jo.
So Katie told her, a thinned-down, abridged version of how Ross’s martyred, asexual dependency was driving her mad. She didn’t mean to go as far as telling her about the counselling sessions, but somehow, on the tide of confession, it all slipped out, and as she spoke a weight seemed to lift from her shoulders at the same time as a new depression hit her.
‘. . . And I’m mean to him because I’m tired, but I’m tired because I work a full day in the office, then come home and have to put the washing on, because Ross only remembers to wash the kids’ stuff, and make some supper, because he’d just have cereal if it was up to him, and make sure the phone doesn’t get cut off, because the bill’s not been paid on time because he doesn’t pay bills – he doesn’t have time. He doesn’t care about making me happy, just the children. And I really, really miss the kids.’ Katie topped up her own wine glass. ‘I miss Jack. I miss putting him to bed. I don’t get to see him do new things, I just hear about them. Ross gets to look after the children, and I get to look after Ross. Which wasn’t the deal.’
‘I know,’ said Jo, sympathetically. ‘You both sound under so much pressure. But you and Ross are a great couple. You really work with each other.’
‘So everyone says.’ Katie stared blankly out of the window towards the swing in the garden. Everyone didn’t have to live with Ross – the whiny, needy, selfish husband, not the ‘everyone’s mate’ Dad-of-Hannah-and-Jack. She shook herself. ‘Anyway. We’ve started ballroom dancing classes – homework, by the counsellor – so never let it be said I didn’t try.’
‘And did you enjoy it?’ asked Jo.
‘If I’m honest?’
‘Katie, when are you not brutally honest? Well, did you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I suppose I wanted Ross to sweep me off my feet, and for everything to be magically made better, but . . .’ She smiled wryly, though she didn’t feel there was much to smile about. ‘We’re rubbish at dancing, Jo. Ross kept stamping on my toes, I kept pulling him around, apparently, and the teacher’s got it in for me, I swear to you. She loved Ross, of course. He gave her his “my wife pushes me about” look, and she couldn’t do enough for him.’
Jo ignored that. ‘But you’re going again?’
‘Yes, we’re signed up for the full course.’ Katie pretended to look horrified. ‘If we don’t kill each other first. I mean, we weren’t the worst ones there, thank God, but Ross is hopeless at leading. I don’t think he really enjoyed it much.’
‘No, he loved it!’ insisted Jo. ‘He said he had a great time, and you and he had a bit of a laugh afterwards. I think he— What?’
Katie stared at her, an unexplained feeling spreading through her stomach. Resentment that Ross now spoke to Jo more often than she did? Annoyance that Ross was lying? ‘How do you know?’
‘Oh, he just mentioned it when I saw him at playgroup yesterday,’ said Jo. ‘And before you say anything, I didn’t bring it up – he did. Now, he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t quite enjoyed it, would he?’
‘Did he say why we’d gone?’
Jo shook her head, dislodging another springy curl. ‘Not at all. He just said it had been a fun evening.’
‘Jo, will you do me a favour?’ pleaded Katie. ‘Will you and Greg come next week? For moral support?’
‘Course we will!’ She smiled and Katie felt a bit warmer inside. Then Jo’s forehead creased. ‘I’ll definitely come – and I’ll tell Greg, but he’s working away from home a lot at the moment, so I’m not entirely sure what time he’ll be back. He was away in Birmingham two nights this week.’ She brightened up with an effort. ‘But yes, count us in.’
Katie privately thought Greg’s business success wasn’t something for Jo to be getting stressy about. He supported them all, played tennis regularly, and wore proper shirts with cufflinks and ties that he could loosen sexily at the end of the day. Katie could forgive a few late nights for all that.
‘Well, when there’s just one of you working you never feel like you can stop chasing up business,’ said Katie. ‘It won’t be because he doesn’t want to spend time with the three of you. It’ll be because he wants to make sure you can go to Disneyland again in the spring. You do have the best holidays, you lot.’
‘I know. I know,’ said Jo. ‘Shouldn’t complain! Anyway, dancing. Yes. We’ll be there next week.’
‘You have to wear something suitably glitzy “to get you in the mood”,’ said Katie. ‘And be prepared for some very personal observations about the size of your feet.’
‘Really?’ Jo looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got much that’s not maternit
y wear. I’ll have to go shopping. Want to come? How about tomorrow?’
‘Can’t,’ said Katie, with a rueful twitch of her mouth. ‘I told Hannah I’d take her to that indoor playground that’s opening in Stratton tomorrow. I’ve promised.’
Katie made a lot of promises to Hannah, to make up for not being there for spontaneous treats. Keeping them took every spare ounce of effort and time, but she was determined.
‘Sunday, then?’
‘Jo, I just don’t think I’ve got time,’ she sighed. ‘It’s like I said, work’s mad. I’ve got to fit in some paperwork this weekend too, along with getting the shopping in, and I get so little mum time as it is.’
Jo thought hard. ‘Hmm. Well, how about we all go to the shopping village on Sunday morning – Ross can do the big shop with the kids, because I know Hannah loves supermarkets, and you and I can whiz off to the outlet mall? Then we can go for milkshakes while Ross gets an hour or two off to himself? Come on, we can kill three birds with one stone – you can get Hannah and Ross’s birthday presents, something for you to wear, plus we can sort out their surprise at the same time?’ Jo grinned. ‘Multi-tasking!’
Katie put down her wine glass and squeezed her eyes. The birthday surprise: a trip to Center Parks during half-term, so Hannah could swim and Ross could . . . do something that didn’t involve looking after the kids. Trail biking. Nothing, even. That’s what had been at the back of her mind today. ‘I haven’t even thought about that yet.’
Hannah and Ross shared a birthday – October 24 – which only made their ‘daddy and his girl’ bond even stronger. It also meant that she and Ross hadn’t been able to have a romantic dinner out on his birthday since she was born. This year, of course, Katie’s idea was that Jo and Greg could entertain the kids while Katie and Ross got the chance to spend some lovely grown-up time together. It would cost a fortune, but Katie’s overtime would cover that. The only hard thing was making time to arrange it, since Ross did most of the domestic arrangements, and so far, work and resentment had pushed it to the bottom of her to-do list.
If Katie was being honest, right now she cared a lot more about proving to Hannah that Mummy was just as much fun as Daddy, than she did about proving to Daddy that she could still be fun. But you’ve got to try, she told herself. It’s when you stop trying that you know it’s over.
When she looked up, Jo’s expression was sympathetic, not disapproving, but Katie felt guilty all the same.
‘Well, you’ve been busy, haven’t you?’
‘I have,’ she protested. The redevelopment project was going to be massive, with new shops and new housing and if she performed well, there was every chance she’d get promoted by the end of the year. If she made it that far. Katie gazed hopelessly round the messy kitchen. Last night’s clean washing was still in the dryer. That night’s dirty washing would still be in a pile in front of the washing machine if she hadn’t hidden it in the pull-out vegetable drawer. ‘Really, I don’t know where the week goes. It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about Hannah’s birthday, it’s just that I can’t make personal calls at work and then . . .’
Her voice wobbled dangerously, with sheer exhaustion.
Before she knew it, Jo had swept across from the other side of the kitchen and was wrapping her in a warm hug. She smelled of babies and fabric conditioner, and Katie was overwhelmed with a desire to burst into tears, right on Jo’s velvety shoulder. She didn’t dare speak in case she did.
‘Give yourself a break. You’re under a lot of stress,’ murmured Jo, patting her back. ‘I know how hard you work.’
‘It’s not just that,’ mumbled Katie.
It was the pressure, the constant pressure from everyone, to do everything, at home, at the office, with the lawyers, with the developers, with Ross . . .
But Jo was talking over her head, as if she’d forgotten she used to work twelve-hour days as a matter of course.
‘Seriously, Katie, you’ve got to get your priorities right. You and Ross. Sort it out. Sod work. There’ll always be another job.’
But if I don’t work, we won’t have anywhere to live, thought Katie, wildly. If I don’t work, the kids won’t see the inside of a softplay centre again, let alone have birthday parties there. If I don’t work, and I have to leave it to Ross to support us, it’s definitely game over for our relationship. I can’t even rely on him to recycle the newspapers.
The weight of responsibilities crushed her chest so hard that for a second she couldn’t breathe. How could Jo possibly understand? She had unlimited credit cards, a husband who put a roof over their head and two cars in their drive, and a mother who was permanently on hand for emergency babysitting.
‘Hmm?’ said Jo, pushing her to arms’ length so she could scrutinise her face. ‘If you need some time together, tell me. I can take the kids – honestly, I don’t mind.’
Katie knew she wouldn’t mind, and also that Hannah would be thrilled to spend more time in Molly’s pink-tastic playroom.
‘It’ll work out,’ she said, and reminded herself horribly of her own mother, and the cover-all clichés she trotted out when she didn’t want to acknowledge her unhappiness. Katie knew she was going the same way: the more stressed and desperate she got, the more she felt obliged to pretend otherwise. The only difference being that at least she knew she was doing it, and she wasn’t teaching Hannah to mix her gin and tonics.
The chicken tasted better than normal, and Katie knew it was because Jo had discreetly done something to it while she was getting the pudding out of the freezer. She knew how to do things like that. Then again, Jo had the time to read the home sections in the back of magazines – the ones that told you what seasonings to scatter to make ready-meals taste like restaurant food. Somehow, it even looked better on the plate.
That might have been the candlelight, though. Katie gazed at her dining table, which spent more time as a newspaper-covered easel than a centre of witty dinner conversation. It had been Ross’s job to run round the house tidying up while she got supper ready, and though the sitting room was still a tip, he’d done something clever with a sheet over the table, and stacks of candles down the middle and the effect was quite elegant, making the glasses sparkle and everyone’s faces seem less worn-out.
‘Top you up, Katie?’ Greg had the bottle poised over her glass. It was a ‘good bottle’, one from some wine club that he belonged to. He’d explained it to her at some length while Ross and Jo were discussing car seats and the problems of getting ingrained chocolate out of same.
‘Um, just a little,’ she said. Two glasses made her feel relaxed, but more than that and she was liable to turn maudlin and, at the moment, who knew where that would lead.
‘Sorry, Jo, you’re driving tonight, aren’t you?’ he added, as he passed Jo’s half-empty glass by.
‘Or we could get a cab?’ muttered Jo.
Greg didn’t seem to hear her as he turned his attention back to Katie.
‘Katie, I meant to ask you about office interns,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to my personnel officer about getting one in next year – we seem to go through temps like nobody’s business. You’ve got them in your office, haven’t you?’
‘Well, yes.’ She leaned back a little in her chair, gratified by Greg’s attention. ‘But you really need to get the selection process right – I’ve had some real problems with mine this year . . .’
Greg made an interested mmm noise, and loosened his tie, exposing the tanned hollow of his neck beneath the blue shirt as he pushed himself away from the table. ‘Really? In what way?’
Katie dragged her gaze away from the smoothness of Greg’s throat. ‘Oh, it’s amazing how quickly they get into office politics, specially if they’re smart. Mine’s made an alliance from hell with my own boss, and I think he’s blind-copying him into all our email correspondence, just to catch me out . . .’
‘Sneaky little bastard!’ said Greg, then winked. ‘Have you got evidence?’
She notice
d, as they were talking, that Ross’s attention was drifting away. It always did when she and Greg got on to business stuff. Jo pulled a conspiratorial face and leaned forward to talk underneath them. Ross’s eyes immediately brightened.
I wish he’d look at me like that, thought Katie. I wish he saw me as someone he could gossip with. Is that my fault?
‘Katie?’ Greg prompted her.
‘Oh, I’ve got my eye on Scott. He doesn’t know but the security camera’s trained on a spot very near his desk, so I know all about his long lunchbreaks . . .’
‘Did you hear about Leigh Sinton complaining to Mrs Hodge about the snacks at playgroup?’ murmured Jo, and Katie heard Ross laugh in response – a light, unfamiliar sound, not like the nervous giggles he made at dancing.
‘Really?’
‘Apparently she threw a real wobbler in her office because they’d used chocolate in the crispy cakes they made last week, and didn’t use some fancy kind, can’t remember what. Delphi’s allergic to supermarket own brands.’
Ross laughed again. ‘Unlike her mother, who tells me she only goes to Aldi for her prosciutto.’
‘It’s the only place to go,’ agreed Jo, deadpan.
‘But not on a Wednesday,’ he added, and Jo giggled this time – it was obviously a running joke they had.
God, he sounds like a girl, thought Katie, crossly.
At least he was talking though. Ross had been notably quiet so far, not contributing anything to the conversation about who the reliable builders were in Longhampton and being a bit sarcastic, Katie thought, when Greg mentioned the problems he’d been having with his new car.
Ross and Greg never had much to say to each other, although clearly he and Jo were the French and Saunders of the school gates, with that in-jokey banter. There had been a time, she remembered rather sadly, when it had been she and Jo cracking jokes about leaky breasts and Kegel exercises. Well, mainly Jo.
Katie sipped her wine and tried to keep her face interested in Greg’s HR problems while Ross did a silly voice that she assumed was some mother she hadn’t met.