back up again? And I forgot to weigh it. How long would you give that? Roughly?’
‘Here,’ said Jo, handing her the bottle of wine, as she searched through the jumbled kitchen drawers for string. ‘Let me.’
The string would find Jo, thought Katie. She was like that these days: a domesticity magnet. Jo was one of those women who made complete sense as a domestic goddess, but without ever making a big deal about it. She didn’t need to. Everything about motherhood seemed to suit her. Jo hadn’t lost her baby weight after Rowan, despite promising to come with Katie to the Yummy Mummy Bums and Tummy class at the sports centre, but she actually looked better than she had done in her skinny, suited, estate agent days. Now she wore lots of flowing skirts and soft smocks, and had the sort of hips that babies fitted onto instinctively, moulding themselves into her cosy shape. Jo exuded good sense and kindness like a chocolatey perfume, and was completely oblivious to how attractive it made her. There was something about her you just wanted to touch.
Katie’s stomach was flatter but she still envied Jo. Keeping two steps ahead of Eddie Harding had helped her squeeze back into her old suits, but she knew she looked about five years older these days as a result.
‘Now, you said, when you went back to work, that you weren’t going to let it drive you mad,’ Jo reminded her. ‘Ah, there’s the string, excellent!’
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
‘Here,’ said Jo, handing her the bottle of wine, as she searched through the jumbled kitchen drawers for string. ‘Let me.’
The string would find Jo, thought Katie. She was like that these days: a domesticity magnet. Jo was one of those women who made complete sense as a domestic goddess, but without ever making a big deal about it. She didn’t need to. Everything about motherhood seemed to suit her. Jo hadn’t lost her baby weight after Rowan, despite promising to come with Katie to the Yummy Mummy Bums and Tummy class at the sports centre, but she actually looked better than she had done in her skinny, suited, estate agent days. Now she wore lots of flowing skirts and soft smocks, and had the sort of hips that babies fitted onto instinctively, moulding themselves into her cosy shape. Jo exuded good sense and kindness like a chocolatey perfume, and was completely oblivious to how attractive it made her. There was something about her you just wanted to touch.
Katie’s stomach was flatter but she still envied Jo. Keeping two steps ahead of Eddie Harding had helped her squeeze back into her old suits, but she knew she looked about five years older these days as a result.
‘Now, you said, when you went back to work, that you weren’t going to let it drive you mad,’ Jo reminded her. ‘Ah, there’s the string, excellent!’
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