Not Quite Perfect

‘Well, if it isn’t the sexiest, cleverest, most beautiful editor in the world.’ Martin folds her in his arms and kisses her on the mouth.

‘Mmm, I should almost fail to get a book and then succeed in getting a book more often,’ she says, pulling him towards her. ‘Shall we just skip the dinner and go straight onto pudding?’

‘All in good time, my little sexpot. I have many surprises for you first. Come in, come in.’ He leads her to the kitchen. ‘Look! I bring you good things to eat and flowers, candles and –’ he pulls open the fridge, swiping out a bottle, ‘champagn-a!’ he says in a mock-Italian accent.

Emma’s stomach does a little flip at the thought of her third dose of champagne in less than twenty-four hours but is touched by his kindness. ‘Thank you darling.’

‘And for my final trick –’ continues Martin, fanning out some printed pages in front of Emma like a magician. ‘Ta-da!’

Emma studies them. ‘What’s this? Wow! The Clevedon? For this weekend? That’s amazing. You spoil me!’ she cries, wrapping her arms round his neck.

‘Well, you deserve it,’ says Martin, stroking her face and kissing her tenderly. ‘I love you so much, Em. Now, sit down. Chef Love has a feast to prepare and you, my darling, have champagne to drink.’

Emma sits back in the comfy kitchen chair, propped up with mismatched cushions. She kicks off her shoes and accepts the glass of champagne Martin has poured for her.

‘Here’s to you, Emma Darcy, editor-extraordinaire. Congratulations.’

They knock their glasses together and Martin strides over to the work surface to check on the bubbling pot of bolognese. He lifts the lid and scoops up a spoonful, blowing it before taking a tentative taste. ‘Ooh, hot, hot, but oh so good,’ he grins. Emma laughs and sips her champagne feeling cosy.

‘So, who did you end up drowning your sorrows with last night?’ asks Martin.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, when I last spoke to you, you were on your way home, but you sent me a text at about ten telling me not to wait up.’

The lie is out of Emma’s mouth before she has a chance to stop it. ‘Oh, it was just Ella. We were going to go for one and ended up staying for more. How was the match?’ she asks, changing the subject.

‘It was great. I scored a hat trick,’ grins Martin proudly. ‘I’m top goal-scorer this season. Expecting an England call-up any day.’

‘I’m proud of you, darling. Hopefully that means I’ll get to give up this publishing lark and hang out with Coleen Rooney,’ laughs Emma as the phone rings. She picks it up and hears Martin’s mother’s voice.

‘Emma?’

‘Hello, Daphne. How are you?’ Emma has an uneasy relationship with her mother-in-law to be. She’s never been anything less than civil, but Emma knows she doesn’t really like her. It’s partly due to the fact that Martin is an only child and she’s fiercely over-protective, but she also once overheard her remarking to a neighbour that Emma was a ‘flibbertigibbet’. Rachel had snorted with laughter. ‘I’d take that as a compliment, sis. You should hear what Steve’s mum calls me.’ Emma knows she’s right but does want to get along with her prospective mother-in-law and she knows she tries too hard.

‘Well, I can’t lie Emma. I’ve had the most terrible bowel problems of late.’

Emma sits eyes-wide listening to Daphne’s very detailed descriptions. She does her best to avoid looking at Martin, who has picked up the gist of the conversation and is doing his best to make her laugh.

‘Well, that must be terrible,’ says Emma, biting her hand to stop herself from giggling. ‘I had no idea it could come out that colour.’ Martin mimics someone sitting on the toilet and Emma sticks two fingers up at him.

‘So, are you looking forward to the weekend?’ says Daphne abruptly changing tack.

‘Er, yes. Actually, I only just found out about it myself,’ she replies slightly annoyed that she wasn’t the first woman in Martin’s life to know.

‘Oh good, because we’re so looking forward to seeing you.’

Emma is confused and then notices that Martin is looking sheepish. She glances again at the hotel booking, realising that it’s just around the corner from his parents’ house. Daphne is twittering on about seeing her engagement ring and how much they are looking forward to her becoming their daughter-in-law.

‘Yes, we’re really looking forward to seeing you too. Martin’s just made me a lovely dinner, so shall I get him to call you later?’ says Emma eventually. She replaces the phone, fixing Martin with a look.

‘OK Em, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you and we’ll only need to pop round for half an hour or so.’

‘It’s OK,’ says Emma pecking him on the cheek. ‘It’s probably a good idea. Kill two birds and all that.’ She takes another sip of her champagne. ‘Now, where’s this dinner you’ve been promising me?’

Chapter 6

Rachel watches Will disappear in a flurry of seven-year-olds. He looks small and even though she knows he doesn’t give their partings a second thought, she still feels sick to her stomach when she thinks about him growing up. She turns away quickly, trying to avoid conversation with the other mothers, but fails.

‘Rachel! Hi!’ It’s Verity, the toothy, overly keen year two PTA representative. Rachel has made it her life’s work to avoid people with the word ‘representative’ in their title. Today she is particularly keen to be on her way as Steve is starting work late so that he can drop Lily and Alfie at pre-school. Rachel is eager to enjoy some quality time with this week’s Grazia and a skinny latte.

‘Rachel,’ says Verity again with a sincere smile, the ‘like me, like me!’ vibes oozing from every pore. ‘I just happened to notice that you hadn’t signed up to help at our annual Nearly New Sale.’

Rachel’s heart sinks. It’s not that she objects to helping at school events, it’s just that socialising with the school committee members is more competitive than the Olympics. Last term, she had nearly come to blows with another mother when she suggested that they buy some cheap costumes for the end of term production from the pound shop. The mother had told Rachel that she was ‘creatively repressed’ and ‘morally corrupt’ for not making Will’s crab outfit herself. Rachel had then spent a miserable weekend constructing a papier-mâché crustacean that Will had refused to wear. Since that day, Rachel had vowed never to let middle-class guilt get the better of her again.

‘Oh sorry, I didn’t see the letter home. When is it?’

‘It’s on Saturday.’

‘Oh, we’re busy, we have a family do,’ says Rachel too quickly.

‘Week,’ finishes Verity.

‘Ahh, I think we might have something on that day too,’ she says knowing she has been rumbled.

‘Really?’ says Verity her tone changing, ‘because it would be a shame if people didn’t make the effort for their child’s school, don’t you think?’

‘Erm, sorry, Verity, I really have to go.’

‘Fine, Rachel, that’s fine. Just don’t expect to be voted onto the school committee. Ever.’ She delivers this final utterance like a judge who has just issued the death penalty.

‘Fingers crossed,’ mutters Rachel and scoots out of the school gates. Her mobile rings. It’s Emma.

‘Tartface! What news?’

‘We got the book!’

‘You are kidding me? A thicky like you?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Seriously little sis, well done. That’s very good news. When do we celebrate? I could do with a night out.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How about drinks tomorrow? At the Pickled Pig?’

‘OK, great. You can buy me a drink and tell me how clever I am.’