Free The Playground by Julia Kelly Page B

the world sitting, as I was then, holding an acorn, a small plastic fish and a toy shark. When you spend a lot of time on your own and in your own head, you contemplate such things.
    Emma joined us in the kitchen. She slid along the bench seat,punching her chewed, half-varnished nails on the keyboard of her iPad, her pale face concealed by her unwashed hair. She kicked her legs against the table leg in a zombie daze, but a slight grin was detectable on her face as she knew she had our attention. She wanted to look miserable. She hated being thirteen. She wanted her parents to be divorced. She dreamt of being an orphan.
    Bella disappeared with a plate of chicken for Jack who was still watching TV.
    â€˜Did you hear that Wendy O’Brien had a baby boy?’ Mum asked, picking at some broccoli.
    â€˜
Mum
. Yes. I was the one who told you,’ I said, then tried to soften my tone by smiling. I was irritated by other people’s good fortune when I was having such a miserable time and further irritated by my mother reminding me of their happiness.
    â€˜Oh, yes. Well it’s great news, isn’t it? Though I’m not at all sure about the name.’
    â€˜Hector.’ We said in unison to Bella, returning now with Jack who had his hand between his legs, but insisted he didn’t need a pee.
    â€˜Such a strange choice. Hector. Sounds like a bad cough.’
    â€˜Do a down dog,’ I said, cajoling my child who, bored of eating, had slipped down from the table. Of course she refused, only assuming the position, shooting her little bum in the air, when we’d all given up looking at her. Then she cried because no one was watching.
    There had been a time, pre-children, when family dinners were for adult conversation and politics and great howls of laughter, but now they were always halting and disjointed and no one was ever sitting at the same time.
    Mum was trying to tell us about the itinerary for her next trip, a five-night break in Paris with a few girlfriends to see a specialexhibition at the Louvre. Her children and grandchildren were continually interrupting her, not listening and even leaving the room as she read, but she was used to this sort of distraction and it never deterred her. ‘So then on the Friday evening we’re going to a restaurant in the Latin Quarter that I’ve never heard of, oddly enough.’ This
was
rather odd for someone so ridiculously well travelled.
    â€˜What’s it called?’ Bella asked; she’d stayed in that area before.
    â€˜TBC,’ Mum said, showing us where it was printed on her itinerary.
    â€˜Restaurant TBC – Mum, that means to be confirmed.’ We all giggled about this, even Mum, while shaking her head and benating herself for making such a silly mistake.
    *
    â€˜I’ve been so bad this week,’ Bella said, picking a walnut from the top of the coffee cake, popping it into her mouth, clearly suffering a combination of Sunday evening melancholy and postprandial guilt.
    â€˜Me too. You know I’ve put on half a stone since Joe left.’ Both Bella and my mother regarded me as slim and were therefore affronted whenever I mentioned weight or diets in front of them.
    â€˜Never mind. Tomorrow’s another day,’ Mum said, drumming the flesh on her thighs with her hands then flinging her head back, shaking her hair behind her.
    She was up again and looking for teacups in the cupboard when I started feeling sorry for myself. I knew that she was deliberately making as much noise as possible because she was irritated by the sound of my voice and was attempting to drown me out. Bella’s expression was compassionate but she had one sneaky eye on her iPhone. Actually I didn’t blame either of them. By now I was boring myself.
    This was the time of the evening when Bella and Mum would take out their diaries and begin discussing childcare arrangements for the coming week.
    What had always, for me, been a