Free The Nearly-Weds by Jane Costello Page A

pronto!’ Trudie chucks a bag of pre-prepared lettuce at Amber, who fumbles to catch it.
    The three of us have become a crack SAS squad, just parachuted in.
    ‘Zoe – some apples. Quick!’ barks Trudie, convincing as commander-in-chief.
    I grab random items of fruit from the large bowl in the centre of the table and rapidly plonk one of each on the children’s plates. Trudie is in the process of shovelling a handful of crisps from Eamonn’s plate into her own mouth when the kitchen door flies open.
    ‘Mrs K! Hiya! You’re home early!’ splutters Trudie, as hickory BBQ flavour Lays escape from the side of her mouth.
    Barbara King enters the room like a Roman empress surveying her kingdom. She is wearing a designer suit, suede high-heeled shoes, and carrying an expensive handbag. Her dark hair is cut in a short, sleek bob and her makeup is so perfect you’d think she’d been made over by Max Factor himself.
    ‘Why is there a lemon on that child’s plate?’ she asks.
    Damn. My mistake. ‘Um, it’s a traditional British party game,’ I pipe up. ‘It’s called “Pass the Lemon”. We always played it at the nursery where I used to work. Here, Ruby, you next.’
    Ruby takes the lemon and regards me as if I’m demented. Then she shrugs and passes it on to Samuel.
    ‘I’m Zoe,’ I say, holding out my hand.
    Barbara shakes it and frowns, still deciding what she thinks of my party game. At least, she almost frowns. Barbara has apparently had enough Botox sessions to paralyse the forehead of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, so it’s more of a twitch.
    ‘Now, where are my boys?’ she cries. ‘Mommy was on her way to a meeting so she thought she’d stop by to surprise you!’
    The twins leap from their seats and hurtle towards her open arms, their hands and faces covered with so much artificial cheese and non-Fair Trade chocolate that they can barely prise their fingers apart.
    ‘Oooh, er, hang on a min!’ hollers Trudie. ‘Let me wipe that peach juice off your hands.’
    She grabs a baby wipe and deals with Andrew but Eamonn is too quick for her. As he reaches his mother, she recoils. ‘What in God’s name have you been eating?’ she demands, with such horror you’d think a live mouse was hanging out of his mouth.
    ‘Oooh, Eamonn, you’re all sticky,’ observes Trudie, innocently, as she jumps in to remove the offending debris from his hands. ‘That juice really is a nightmare, isn’t it?’
    ‘Tru die ,’ says Barbara, sternly, as she scans the kitchen table. ‘Have you forgotten my rules about what the children can and cannot eat? About them having lots of fruit and vegetables?’
    ‘Course I haven’t, Mrs K!’ says Trudie, brandishing a limp piece of lettuce, apparently as evidence. ‘Five a day! I’ve not forgotten!’
    ‘Seven in this household,’ corrects Barbara, wiping Andrew’s mouth with a pristine handkerchief produced from somewhere in her bag. ‘And I want no trans-fats whatsoever. Okay? And sugar – absolutely no more than ten per cent of their daily calorific intake. Okay?’
    ‘Don’t you worry,’ says Trudie, strategically placing herself in front of a plate of brownies. ‘I think of nothing but the state of their arteries, Mrs K.’
    ‘Hmm,’ says Barbara, clearly unconvinced, ‘and you’re not giving them any tonic, are you?’ Tonic is what Bostonians call fizzy drinks.
    ‘Tonic? Ho! As if!’ laughs Trudie.
    Barbara straightens up and eyes Trudie suspiciously. ‘Good. Because heart-disease rates being as they are, these days, I firmly believe that failing to feed children a properly balanced diet is tantamount to cruelty. Half the pre-schoolers in this country have chronic constipation.’
    Trudie nods obediently.
    ‘Well,’ continues Barbara, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Now, you two, come and give Mommy a big hug!’ She bends down to the twins, closing her eyes tightly and nuzzling her face in their hair.
    ‘ I have a tonic,’ announces Ruby, unhelpfully, as she