Free Eggshell Days by Rebecca Gregson Page A

him to go anywhere.
    â€œFuneral.”
    â€œWhose?”
    â€œKieran Kennedy, my brother’s mate from way back. Heart attack, forty years old.”
    â€œYou’ll see Cathal?” There was a catch in Emmy’s voice but his name had to be pronounced with a bit of throat clearing—Ca’hul—so she got away with it.
    â€œHe better be there. I’m only going to keep him sober.”
    â€œNo chance.”
    â€œKieran was a fat bastard. Drank himself to his grave on Saint Patrick’s Day.”
    â€œBut that was in March.”
    â€œI know. It took him a long time to let go.”
    â€œGod. There’s a lesson in that for you both. When did Cathal call?”
    â€œA few days ago. Maya answered the phone and brought it to me when I was in the bath, remember?”
    â€œNo, she didn’t tell me that.”
    â€œDoes she tell you everything?” Kat asked irritably. “Niall, did you actually notice me come in and start speaking to you? Only…” She whispered in his ear.
    â€œMary, mother of J, we’ve only just got up. What was wrong with suggesting that an hour ago when we were still in bed? I can’t do it to order, anyway. Where’s your spontaneity, woman?”
    â€œYou’re not trying to put off all that humping you promised you’d do, are you, Niall?” Emmy asked.
    â€œWould I?” he said, smacking Kat’s tiny bottom.
    Kat had no choice but to try out her most generous laugh, too.

4
    Niall’s “recreational relationship” went back to London on the same day the children started at their new schools, so it was hard to tell what the catalyst for the sudden burst of activity was. Maybe it was the hint of summer breeze that blew through the house after Jonathan opened all the sash windows, heaving and pushing until their ancient gloss seals cracked and the swollen wood retreated. Maybe it was the way the house martins swooped in and out of the eaves as if they were solar-powered. Or maybe it was just the basic truth that, in Emmy, Niall, Sita and Jonathan’s case, four was company and five was a crowd.
    â€œCome on,” Emmy said, leaping up from the kitchen table on the first Kat-free morning. “Let’s get this show on the road. This lino can go for starters.”
    She kicked at a cluster of tiny lumps under the green marble-effect flooring and managed to take the tops off them. A spray of ancient grit stuck in her toenails and in the rubber sole of her flip-flop. “Ugh, that is revolting.”
    Sita knew opportunity when she saw it, but the breakfast things were still on the table and she hadn’t yet found time to get out of her pajamas. “We should clear up first.”
    â€œWhat’s the point? We can do it later.” Emmy was teasing her a little, overplaying their differences, but Sita was ahead, as always, and said, “Sure. Actually, could you paint my toenails first?”
    â€œYeah, right. I thought you’d want to strike while the iron is hot.”
    â€œOh, the iron’s on, is it? I’ll just—”
    â€œBugger off,” Emmy laughed, beaten at her own game. She was already on the floor, picking at an upcurled corner by the Welsh dresser.
    Sita tried not to feel too much like a performing baby elephant as she lowered her bulk to the floor to join her and rested gingerly on her knees.
    â€œNo one’s going to approach me from behind, are they?”
    â€œYou should be so lucky.”
    The flooring was tacky with years of neglect, a black line of grease running along the dresser’s plinth where the mops of a decade of domestic helps had failed to reach.
    â€œUuch! It really is disgusting!”
    â€œYes, but it’s rotten as well. We can just pull it off. Look.”
    It came off easily in a pleasingly wide strip big enough to reveal a triangle of the original floor underneath. That was all it took for their idle peeling to