LITMIR.BIZ

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the bedroom door behind him.

      And she did sleep. She dreamed she was riding a horse over a prairie. She was riding it hard, could feel its size and strength beneath her; between her legs, she felt its muscles ripple next to her thighs. She was breathless and free. Excited and able. It felt real, as she bumped up and down on the warm, leather saddle.

15

       Melanie

       Sunday 25th February

      I look up from chopping carrots as Ben walks into the kitchen. He’s wearing the Paul Smith shirt that I got him for his birthday, like I told him he should, with new jeans (that still look a little stiff) and his Ted Baker brogues, which he normally keeps for the office as he generally prefers Adidas trainers at home. He’s handsome, no doubt about it. When I’m walking in the streets with him, out shopping or whatever, I always feel secretly pleased, smug. I often see women check him out. He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, for my sake. Bless. Today he puts me in mind of the new, neat bay trees outside our front door. A little too formal, out of place and stiff.

      ‘Maybe you should put on a T-shirt,’ I suggest.

      ‘You told me to wear this,’ he replies with a confused and slightly frustrated shrug.

      He glances about. I have the lunch ingredients out of the fridge but nowhere near in the oven. Even though I’ve been up since six thirty when Lily came into our room and asked if I wanted to see a puppet show. There are approximately a hundred things – including toys, homework, stray socks, breakfast pots and a hairbrush – scattered across the table. I’m obviously not what anyone would describe as on top of things. My head aches and I’m so pale I’m transparent. I’m too old to stay up drinking until two a.m.

      One of the very many lovely things about being married to Ben is that we are a partnership. I don’t have to nag him to help out or do his share. If he sees something needs doing, he invariably does it. Maybe not exactly as I might have done it, but he gives it a go and I’m grateful. Normally, he lends a hand with notable affability; right now, he gathers up the debris from the kitchen table and then clatters down the cutlery in a distinctly irritated manner. He didn’t like me suggesting what he should put on today and, having complied, he likes me changing my mind even less. I can hear his frustration in the clinking of the knives and forks.

      ‘I know I did but—’ I’m about to say it looks a bit over the top, when Abi interrupts.

      ‘You look fabulous Ben, ignore her.’

      ‘Oh, Abi, I didn’t realise you were there.’ I’m embarrassed that she’s caught our conversation and wonder whether she noticed the slight testiness in the air. I want everything to look effortless, seamless and – most of all – blissful. Nagging my husband about the formality of his wardrobe is none of those things. It’s too late to get Ben to change now. I shouldn’t even expect it. Her compliments make me feel shallow. I’m also embarrassed that she’s here before I’ve managed to transform the kitchen. I wanted to have set it with a vase of tulips, a bowl of olives and wine. I have a very specific image of how I want to present things for Abi.

      Clearing the breakfast pots would have been a start.

      She looks around too. Her gaze is unreadable. She might be thinking we’re charming, or she might be thinking we’re revolting. ‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asks with convincing gusto.

      ‘Oh no,’ I reply automatically, although why? When another pair of hands would obviously be useful. Instead I find myself saying, ‘Ben, why don’t you show Abi our holiday photos from last summer?’ Turning to Abi I add, ‘We visited the Edinburgh Fringe.’ Ben looks startled.

      ‘Are you interested?’ he asks Abi with some scepticism. ‘It’s a bit throwback. People haven’t actually thought it was entertaining to show others their holiday snaps since circa 1979, have they?’

      ‘Yes, yes, she is interested,’ I insist.

      Abi backs me up. ‘I love the way Mel still goes to the effort of printing photos and putting them in albums. With the tickets of the places you visited, and maps and such. Works of art, really. History in the making. Who does that?’

      ‘Who indeed?’ says Ben, mildly amused. He thinks my photo albums are a bit of a waste of space and money and prefers keeping things digitally, but he indulges me. He has even promised that if there is a fire or flood, after the kids and the cats, he’d save my albums. Exactly how he’d do that isn’t clear, since I have about two dozen.

      ‘I’ve shown Abi loads of old albums already,’ I say.

      I’m eager to encourage them both to get out of the kitchen, so that I can rush about and pull the place into some semblance of order. I want the kitchen to myself. I don’t feel up to coordinating making lunch and having a conversation.

      Somehow, when the doorbell rings at one o’clock, lunch is almost ready and the table is dressed with our best glassware and pretty paper napkins.

      ‘Will someone get that?’ I yell. No one reacts. ‘It will be Tanya.’ I hear Liam gallop down the stairs with enthusiasm.

      ‘Someone’s keen,’ says Abi, amused; she and Ben have wandered back into the kitchen, ready to take their seats or at least refill their glasses.

      ‘I’ll say. The only other person who can get him to move as quickly as that is the pizza delivery man,’ jokes Ben.

      Lunch is loud and lively. I’ve put the meat and multiple vegetables in bowls on the table so everyone can help themselves. There is the inevitable hassle when Lily says she’d rather die than eat peas but I put them on her plate anyway. Again, Abi entertains us all. This time with stories about famous people she’s met and interviewed. Her stories are hilarious, informative and sometimes risqué. The girls – giddier than ever because they have both Tanya and Abi to play to – are near hysterical when she tells them she’s met Selena Gomez. They squeal at a constant, high pitch and, for fun, I join in. Ben jokily covers his ears and yells at us all to shut up. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’

      Quick as a flash I say, ‘You think with your head? Wow, you are quite a special man.’ This gets a big laugh from Abi and Tanya, the girls too, although they probably didn’t even hear the joke, let alone understand it.

      Smiling, Ben turns to Liam and bemoans the fact they’re outnumbered. ‘More than ever. We’re going to need to get soundproofing.’

      ‘You can’t say that,’ says Liam with a distinct note of embarrassment. ‘You two are so politically incorrect.’ He can be an outspoken kid and his opinions are generally quite well researched but normally he keeps his discussions and deliberations for the college debating society; today he seems to want to peacock in front of Tanya.

      ‘Can’t say what?’ asks Ben, genuinely mystified.

      ‘Mum can’t say that men think with their . . . ’ he glances at his sisters, who are hanging off his every word. He corrects himself. ‘She can’t say men think with anything other than their heads. It’s sexist.’

      ‘It was a joke,’ I say, still giggling. Quite pleased with myself.

      ‘It’s a cliché,’ replies Liam. ‘What are you saying? All men are dumb, led by instinct rather than intellect. Clichés always lead to sexism.’

      I sigh because this may be true but it’s so damned sad. ‘Clichés used to lead to jokes, I’m pretty sure of it. We used to be better at laughing at ourselves,’ I comment, defensively.

      ‘Sexist jokes. I’m surprised at you, Mum.’ Teens do have occasional forays into bouts of self-righteousness. Normally, I ride them out. Today, I wish Liam hadn’t decided to so abruptly change the atmosphere. We were having fun. I pick up the tureen that still has some roast potatoes left in it and offer them

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