Free Two Fridays in April by Roisin Meaney Page A

Get some sense.’
    ‘But I can’t just
fix
myself – I just can’t! I don’t know how you expect me to do that.’
    ‘You need to get some
purpose
into your life again,’ Mo insists, still prodding the table. ‘You need something that’ll pull you out of the rut you’ve been in for the past year. We both need that. And even if you hate the thought of spending the money you got, it’s giving you the chance to do just that. At least say you’ll think about it.’
    But everything in Daphne revolts against the idea. Pack in a job she’s perfectly happy with to jump into the great unknown? Burn her bridges to risk falling flat on her face and end up with nothing at all, not to mention using the money she’d sworn she’d never touch? Working side by side with
Mo
, day after day? Out of the question.
    She’s been at Donnelly’s for sixteen years: it’s the only job she’s ever had. Mr Donnelly is like a second father to her. And it’s true she hasn’t sold anything lately – well, for quite some time – but that’s the swings-and-roundabouts nature of the estate-agency business, nothing to do with her.
    What part of this whole hare-brained scheme could Mo possibly think would work? She’s nothing more than a delusional old woman, trying to bully Daphne into going along with it.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she says firmly, ‘but I’m just not interested. It’s not going to happen.’
    Mo regards her angrily. ‘You won’t
let
it happen, you mean. You won’t even think about it.’
    ‘That’s right. I won’t.’
    And as they regard one another in a defeated, furious silence, Daphne’s phone rings, cutting shrilly into the tension. She picks it up, sees her mother’s name.
    ‘I have to take this,’ she says curtly, getting to her feet. A conversation with Isobel is the last thing she feels like having right now, but it gives her a chance to escape. She leaves the room and closes the kitchen door, pressing the answer key as she walks upstairs.
    ‘Daphne,’ her mother says, ‘how are you feeling?’
    ‘My car was stolen,’ Daphne tells her.
    Give them something to talk about.

    At almost half past nine there’s still no sign of Una. ‘Ring her,’ Mo says, refilling their three teacups, placing a second slice of cake on Daphne’s father’s plate.
    ‘You’re trying to fatten me up,’ he says.
    ‘I am indeed. Someone has to.’
    They enjoy one another’s company, always have. He has the knack of softening Mo’s edges, however he does it.
    ‘Give Una a ring,’ she repeats, so Daphne calls the girl’s mobile again, and for the second time that evening she gets only her voicemail message.
    ‘Just wondering if you’ll be home soon,’ she says. ‘Jack and Mo are here, we’re having cake. We’d love to see you.’
    The cake has been resurrected. It was sitting on a plate in the middle of the table when Daphne returned to the kitchen after her phone conversation with her mother. She stared at it.
    Mo was doing the washing-up. ‘See what I found,’ she said, without turning from the sink.
    ‘You took it out of the bin.’
    ‘It was in a box. It’s fine.’ Her head swung around then, a bundle of dripping cutlery held in her rubber-gloved hand. ‘What I’m wondering,’ she said mildly, ‘is how it ended up there.’
    Daphne slipped her phone back into her bag. At least their earlier argument seemed to have been put aside. ‘It seemed a bit … pointless, when Una wasn’t coming home to eat it.’
    ‘So you just threw it in the bin. Even though there wasn’t anything wrong with it.’ But her voice held none of its earlier sharpness; she wasn’t on the attack any more.
    Daphne took the tea towel from its hook. ‘I shouldn’t have binned it, I know that. I was tired, and … upset. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
    Mo set the cutlery on the draining board, peeled off the gloves. ‘And I’m wondering what became of the one you ordered. I’m assuming this isn’t it.’
    ‘No, of