Not Quite Perfect

‘Got it!’ she grins and darts back to her desk.

Wearily Emma launches herself to her feet and follows Joel to a meeting room like a pupil about to be blasted by their headmaster. Joel is already sitting at the head of the table looking like a headmaster about to blast his pupil.

‘What’s this about then?’ asks Emma, wishing she could just curl up in the corner of the room and go to sleep.

‘It’s about this Red Albatross.’

‘Orchid’

‘I know but I’m calling it an Albatross, because that’s what it will be for this company’

Emma tells herself to stay calm. She tries to fix her eyes on a point and finds herself staring at Joel’s ear hair. She shudders.

‘The point is, this book isn’t going to work. We’ve paid far too much money, which we will never earn back. We have no guarantee that anyone will even like it, let alone shortlist it for a prize. And even if it does win, who says the punters will actually buy it? I mean the Booker’s all very well, but what does it actually deliver in terms of revenue and profit? You editors make it very difficult for us at the coalface, you know. So, as a precaution, Jacqui’s put in a call to Richard and Judy. I’m going to need your author on best behaviour at the Ivy next month, OK?’

Joel sits back waiting for Emma to show her appreciation. Emma Darcy has never been a girl to disappoint. Before she knows what is happening, she lurches forwards, grabs a handily place wastepaper bin and vomits, accidentally splashing Joel’s shoes. They look at one another astonished before Emma wipes her mouth with a tissue and makes for the door, bin in hand without a backward glance or word. She almost collides with her godmother Rosie, who is striding down the corridor arm in arm with Miranda, two extravagantly colourful powerhouses of energy.

‘Darling! I’m just having coffee with Mimms. Take you for lunch afterwards?’

‘Wonderful,’ says Emma with a smile. ‘I’m suddenly starving!’

Rachel feels one of her eyes open and realises that her eyelid is being lifted for her by a three-year-old’s finger.

‘Wake up, Mummy,’ sings a sweet angelic voice. When she attempts to close her eye again, its pitch and tone intensify. ‘Wake up, Mummy. Now!’

Rachel tries to open both eyes simultaneously and glare at her torturer.

‘Alfred, Mummy has got a headache!’

‘Yeah, Dad said you had too much beer,’ says Will, who has just wandered into the bedroom.

‘Oh he did, did he?’ mumbles Rachel, feeling an attack of ‘bad mother with a hangover’ syndrome coming on. ‘Where’s Lily?’

‘Downstairs, watching Milkshake. I turned it on for her,’ adds Will proudly.

‘Clever boy,’ says Rachel weakly ruffling his hair and checking her watch. ‘Oh bloody hell! We’ve got to get Will to school in twenty minutes.’

‘Oh bloody hell!’ shouts Alfie with glee.

Eighteen minutes later, Rachel has bundled herself and the children into the car and armed each of them with a banana. ‘A good, nutritious breakfast,’ she declares.

‘I wanted porridge,’ says Lily, doing her best grumpy princess face.

‘And I want two weeks in Barbados with George Clooney. Sometimes life is so unfair,’ says Rachel.