course they’ll let penises in,’ said Sal decisively. ‘Now stop whinging and let’s get some of this wine down our necks.’
They opened their tiny bottles and started glugging the wine. The rows of terraced houses outside the window were starting to flash past them quite fast now and the sun was coming out and glancing off NASA-sized satellite dishes. JoJo shrugged off her raincoat; Rose slipped her feet out of her court shoes. It was so hot on here!
‘Lovely,’ said Rose. She seemed to have quite a thirst on her and had drunk almost half her bottle in one gulp.
‘You might have chilled them,’ said JoJo. ‘Joking. They’re great.’
‘My wine, at the pub, is always chilled,’ said Sal. ‘I got these from the mini-mart at Woking station.’
‘They’re perfect,’ said Wendy, settling back further into her seat. ‘Thank you, Sal. So, how is everyone? What have you all been up to recently? Any gossip?’
They all fell silent for a second. JoJo shrugged; she hardly ever had gossip, Rose knew, unless it was something salacious about a client. Sal looked . . . what? Guilty, a little bit cheeky? A smile was curling at the corner of her lips in a suspicious manner. And Rose was considering telling them about Jason, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to bring down the buoyant, excited mood just yet. She’d wait for a lull in proceedings, like maybe on the train home again.
‘All the exciting stuff is going on in your world, Wendy,’ Rose said. ‘The wedding . . . next Saturday! I can’t believe it! Are all the preparations done?’
‘All done!’ declared Wendy.
‘Is Frederick on his stag this weekend?’
‘Nope. Last weekend,’ Wendy said. ‘He and some of his old schoolmates went fishing for the weekend.’
‘Wild,’ pronounced Sal.
Wendy grinned. ‘It’s just something he likes to do. He always puts the fish back,’ she added.
‘Of course he does,’ said Rose, ‘Frederick’s a nice guy – lovely, in fact. You’re really lucky, Wendy. He’s a catch.’
‘Just like the fish,’ put in JoJo, to smiles all round.
‘Lucky is the word,’ said Wendy. ‘Bloody, bloody lucky I think you’ll find. Right, so you know all my news – how about yours? Somebody give me something! How are the girls, Rose?’
‘The Sisters of Sass? Oh, just the same, unfortunately!’
The Sisters of Sass. That’s what she and Jason called their daughters – they would never say it to their faces, it would make them more sassy than they already thought they were. As Rose had packed her bag, all three Sisters of Sass had lolled on her bed. One had her feet under Rose’s pillow; one had a smooth, fake-tanned leg dangling over the end of the bed; the third lay on her front and picked at her nails until glittery bits of polish sprinkled down onto Rose’s pale grey carpet. On principle, she shouldn’t even have allowed them in her bedroom – she wasn’t allowed in theirs, unless it was for essential de-scuzzing, or to bring food . . . They’d spreadeagled themselves – all legs and straightened hair and perfume and nail polish and powdery, foundationed cheeks – and had started criticising her fashion choices.
‘You’re not taking those, are you, Mum? Like, total cringe!’
‘Eew – those shoes are horrible, Mum!’
‘Mum! You’re, like, way too old for that top!’
So charming. Rose often wondered who these alien creatures were and where had they come from. They were so big. They were so loud. They had so much stuff – so many clothes, so much make-up, most of which they were wearing, all at once, layer upon layer of it. And they were so contemptuous. It was a good job she loved them so much, otherwise she might resent being a rather despised and worn part of the furniture – squishy and unkempt and thoroughly sat upon.
‘And how’s Jason?’ asked Sal.
As her daughters had lain on her bed and teased her on her sartorial choices, a great snort had come from the spare room and the girls had hung off each other’s shoulders in peals of sisterly laughter.
Jason was having a catch-up nap and a bloody good snore. He had a varied repertoire; never steady, rhythmic snoring that could be tolerated by a co-sleeping human, but the spluttering, intermittent kind – a frustrating orchestra of misleading lulls and great, trumpeting trumpets. It was snoring that had seen he and Rose resorting to separate rooms, which was not a great situation as, of course, they were already in separate rooms for most of the year anyway, but Rose got such a terrible night’s sleep if she and Jason slept in the same bed, and she needed to be alert, what with the girls and the house . . . and the girls . . . to deal with that it was the only solution. And he slept better without her prodding him or kneeing him in the back or making random clacking noises with her tongue, like she was giddying up a horse, which she’d heard could stop a bear of a man snoring in his tracks.
Disappointingly, she’d heard wrong. They never slept in the same bed because of the Philharmonic Snorechestra . . . Rose had coined that phrase and her daughters, for once, actually thought it quite funny.
‘He’s OK,’ replied Rose. ‘The same. He got back this morning. “Good cop” has returned.’
Jason had arrived home this morning after yet another work trip to Hong Kong – it had been five years of this now; that land reclamation project was taking a really long time. His plane had actually arrived late last night, but sensible Jason never did a Roy Orbison and ‘Drove All Night’ to get home to her, all dishevelled and five o’clock shadow . . . rather he would check into the Novotel at the airport, have a good night’s sleep and a hearty continental buffet breakfast and then cruise on home for a civilised 8 a.m. When he’d stepped into the hall with a weary ‘hello’, she didn’t bother leaving the washing up to come and greet him; he went straight upstairs to sort out his case. It was predictable, non-romantic fare for two pedestrian, rather careworn ships that passed in the night, or rather, the morning. Same old same old.
‘Meaning you’re always bad cop?’ enquired JoJo.
‘Yep!’ said Rose. ‘I’m there at the coal face, in the trenches, doing all the nagging and the telling off. He breezes in now and again, like Prince Charming, to save the day, and to do nice things. They adore him because of it and just tolerate me. I’m so boring compared to him!’
To their girls, Jason’s homecomings were always Prodigal. All three of them had ambushed him on the landing this morning, showering him with kisses and hugs and risking creasing their lovingly ironed (by Mum) cropped tops and leggings. OK, they stopped short of ‘Daddy, my Daddy’ but it was like the bloody Railway Children.
‘Thank God you’re home!’ Darcie had exclaimed. ‘Mum’s been driving us nuts!’
‘And she took my phone away for being cheeky!’
‘And she wouldn’t buy me that new top, for Alex’s party!’
It was the same thing every time. He was someone fresh and exciting, hardly ever seen; she was always there, good old Mum, bad
