out the light and snuggled down, alone, under the white cotton sheet and the limited comfort of the dodgy striped comforter. The thought of being back had filled her with dread, but for those rapidly passing hours of bliss, she was free.
Frankie had arrived home at ten this morning and it was like she’d never been away. Actually, it was worse than if she’d never been away. She had let herself quietly in the front door. Shoes had littered the hall. A child’s padded jacket had been flung on the second stair up. A congealing, pink plastic cup of milk had been randomly placed on a windowsill.
She’d walked into the kitchen. There had been remains of a Saturday night takeaway strewn all over the table, an empty styrofoam burger box open on the floor like a Muppet’s mouth, an almost-empty bottle of lemonade on its side on the worktop, a sticky dribble coming from it and dripping down the under-counter fridge. Cupboard doors and drawers were gaping; there was a sink full of dishes and empty tins filled with water, and an overflowing bin. For God’s sake!
‘Rob!’
Silence. There had just been the slight rustle of the white plastic bag the takeaway had come in, left redundant on the table and flicking in the chilly January breeze coming through the wide open back door.
‘Rob!’
‘In the garden!’
They had all been out there. Rob, in his bright red fleece and Timberlands and, despite the weather, those bloody shorts she detested, the ones with the tar stains on the knees. Harry and Josh, duelling with cricket bats. They duelled with anything these days: light sabres, plastic pirate swords, and if it came to it, rolling pins and tubes of tin foil and cling film. At least they were doing it in the garden; they usually fenced at the top of the stairs when she was trying to come down with a massive basket of laundry. Tilly was doing cartwheels on the wet grass in double denim, and three-year-old Alice was plomped on her bottom on the overgrown lawn (where was the waterproof-backed picnic blanket?) and noshing on a very unseasonal choc ice. Half of it appeared to have exploded over her face, and all the children looked overexcited and under-dressed.
‘Mummy!’ Tilly had hollered, mid-wheel, and Alice had run over to Frankie and wiped her chocolatey cheeks on her mother’s leg. Frankie hugged Alice, waved ‘hello’ at the other children then retreated back to the kitchen, where she’d started tidying up. Within ten minutes, Harry had come into the kitchen for something and ended up telling her she was ruining everything, as always (she had dared ask him if he had finished his science project for school tomorrow) and Rob had stormed into the kitchen demanding to know where his phone was.
‘How the hell should I know?’ said Frankie, swiping at a ketchup splodge on the table with a sodden yellow sponge.
‘It’s been moved,’ growled Rob, ominously and incorrectly, and he marched off upstairs, huffing about ‘turning this place upside down until I find it.’
‘Oh, bog off!’ Frankie had mumbled, under her breath, then felt her spirit die a little as she remembered she’d promised them a big Sunday roast this weekend.
She’d only just got back, but she wanted out again.
Frankie gave a deep sigh as she peeled a Brussels sprout off the floor with one hand and scraped a strand of frizzy hair off her face with the other. The blissful night at the GetAway Lodge was becoming a distant memory. As soon as she’d stepped through the door and seen those littered shoes and the congealing cup of milk, the wife and motherhood juggernaut had started its engine and it was now rumbling again at full, reluctant pelt as she cleared up the aftermath of the roast dinner. She scraped more dishes in the bin, wiped the table, put the table mats away, swept the kitchen floor, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. She still wanted out. She wanted her P45. She’d had enough.
She shook her head and tried to rally, which was quite difficult as she’d just stood on a squished, half-chewed potato and nearly slipped over. She’d chosen this life! She’d wanted this husband, these children. She’d not said ‘no’ to any of them, when she had the chance. They were hers and she was theirs. She just had to get on with it. Embrace them. Continue to smother them all in love and roast potatoes…
It was no use. She felt worse than before she’d escaped. Crisis point had been reached and there was only one solution. A solution that would give her time on her own, like those blissful hours at the GetAway Lodge, at least every other weekend.
It was radical. It was major. It would cause a hell of a lot of upheaval. But it could be done. She knew a school mum who had this very set-up. Free, blissful time on her own every other weekend. Every other Friday she’d have a chilled night with her girlfriends. Every other Saturday she’d go out and get wrecked. Alternate Sundays she’d lie on the sofa until 5p.m., her shoes from the night before still toppled together on her (Frankie imagined) white, fluffy rug. She wanted some of that and there was only one way she could get it.
Frankie chucked the flattened roast potato into the bin and kicked the dishwasher door shut.
She could leave Rob.
Grace’s silent scream was at the side of a Sunday morning football pitch whilst having a bit of mindless small talk with Charlie’s mum.
‘Oh bless, look at my Charlie, one of his socks has fallen down.’
‘Oh yeah. Yeah, look at him. Oh bless.’ Grace smiled and put her hands in the back pockets of her skinny jeans. She didn’t really know where to put them. She barely knew where to put herself.
That bastard! How could he do this to me?
‘At least they’ve got good weather for it. It was chucking it down yesterday.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. It’s cold, but it’s nice to see the sun.’ Another smile, another platitude. Grace didn’t really know what she was saying.
Cheat! Liar! I’m never going to let him come back. Ever.
‘Goal! Yes! Go on Charlie!’
‘Yay! Brilliant. Well done, Charlie.’
No man is going to hurt me like that again.
Grace grinned in what she hoped looked like happiness, or at least something that didn’t look like her soul had been wrenched from her body, and she and Charlie’s mum walked towards the brick changing rooms.
Anyone glancing at her would think she was a normal, contented football mum enjoying the bright, crisp January day, the white clouds scudding across a chilly marine sky and her son’s hat-trick. That the worst part of her day would be cleaning muddy football boots and scouring the freezer for what to cook for tea. To a casual onlooker, Grace knew she would look perfectly at ease.
Blimey, she was good at this, she acknowledged. She should maybe have been an actress, instead of someone who worked in a hat boutique. No acting required there. Well, maybe a bit. She sometimes had to tell old battle-axes they looked nice in their pink mother-of-the bride hats or anyone they looked good in a fascinator.
Charlie’s mum had certainly fallen for her act this morning. She had no clue that Grace’s husband of twelve years had admitted to her before football this morning that he was cheating on
