Free Ten Years On by Alice Peterson

up.
    ‘Hi, boys, why don’t we eat those fruit … er … kebabs ?’ I suggest, having to speak loudly over the noise. Completely ignored, I open the fridge to see if I can find them.
    There they are, on a plate on the bottom shelf. Strawberries, pineapple and … ugh … cherry tomatoes skewered on to sticks.
    I drop one of the kebabs on the floor when I hear his voice say, ‘Oh, yum-yum! Save one for me.’ Slowly I pick it up, brush it off, put it back on the plate, still confused.
    ‘That’s right. The boys won’t notice,’ the voice continues. ‘A bit of dirt never did anyone any harm, hey.’
    ‘Olly?’ I say. ‘Is this really you?’
    ‘Did you ask Joe why he stopped calling me?’
    ‘I didn’t. I …’
    But then I hear screeching. I turn round to see thatOscar has now abandoned the car and is bouncing round the kitchen table on a bright-blue rubber cow, Theo wailing that it’s his turn, it’s his Happy Hopper.
    ‘Watch out, Becca! Duck!’ says the voice.
    A toy car is flying in my direction, a distressed Theo about to burst into tears. ‘Now that’s enough!’ They barely look up at me, and it is then that I realize how little I know these boys. My nephews. When Olly and I were first married, we rarely visited Mum and Dad at weekends, nor Pippa and the boys, partly because we were having too much fun, mainly because I don’t think Olly felt completely at ease. ‘I’m sure your Mum wishes you’d married a reliable solicitor like your father, or another Todd,’ Olly would say. I told him not to be silly, but deep down I sensed it too. I’d make up all kinds of excuses as to why we couldn’t visit them at weekends, one of the main ones being that Olly needed the time to write. I think Mum thought Olly’s head was in the clouds half the time, that his writing would always be just a hobby, and her disapproving tone made me feel protective of my husband. I look at the boys now. I don’t know them at all. There is a price to pay for distancing yourself from the family.
    *
    ‘Now, it’s nearly bedtime, so let’s eat these and then why don’t I read you a story?’ I suggest, hardly recognizing my hearty-hearty sing-along voice as I kneel down to hand both boys their kebabs. ‘These look scrummy!’
    Theo shoves the stick my way, offering me a bite, a squished strawberry precariously close to my lips, which I refuse a little too quickly, before saying, ‘No, no, they’re all for you! So, you made these at nursery? Aren’t you clever!’
    ‘I’ve made kuss kuss too,’ says Theo, chomping into a strawberry, half of it falling on to the floor.
    ‘Couscous. How delicious,’ I titter merrily, thrilled by how the evening is progressing. With Pippa and Todd’s genes, I decide they are handsome boys. Wide foreheads like Todd, saucer-shaped blue eyes and cherubic curls. Oscar is slighter in build and has a reddish tint in his hair, a little like mine. Theo is rounder-faced with a dimple like mine, and he’s pure blond, like Pippa.
    ‘What would you like me to read to you?’ I ask.
    Oscar stares at his kebab, thinking, a wicked glint in his eye … Next thing I know, he’s flicked it towards the kitchen window, splat , tomato seeds dribbling down the glass.
    ‘Hey!’ I protest, grabbing a J Cloth. ‘What did you do that for? That’s naughty!’
    SPLAT ! A strawberry now hits the glass, followed by hoots of laughter coming from Theo, who has copied him. ‘No! Stop it!’
    Roars of laughter! They couldn’t care less!
    The telephone rings, a flash machine with so many buttons that I daren’t touch it. It’s Todd’s office, Todd’s mobile, Todd’s this and that.
    ‘They bleep each other in the house?’ There’s a smile in his voice.
    Eventually I hear Pippa’s voice on the answer machine. ‘Hi, Becca, hope everything’s OK and the boys are behaving.’
    Splat .
    ‘Stop fussing,’ I hear Todd murmuring in the background as frantically I wipe the mess off the window.
    ‘Just