Strictly Love. Julia Williams
be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Why do you think I work the hours I do, if not for the family?’
Great. He'd done it again. He could always get her there. Charlie had always worked incredibly hard for them. Now Katie felt guilty. But she was still angry. How dare he just waltz in and assume they would all up sticks without a by-your-leave?
‘I know,’ said Katie, ‘but I don't want to live abroad again. It was bad enough last time, and now we‘ve got three kids. It's okay for Molly, she won't know the difference. But the boys have all their friends here. You can't expect them to uproot themselves.’
Charlie seemed to take a step back.
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I don't know,’ said Katie. ‘Why not try commuting? you've been away more than you've been home recently anyway. And if it's not for long, I'm sure I can manage here.’
‘I'll think about it,’ shrugged Charlie. ‘It's not definite yet anyway.’
‘Oh good,’ said Katie. ‘That's settled then.’ But later, as she followed Charlie into the lounge and cuddled up with him to watch TV, she couldn't help dwelling on it. Neither choice was a great one. And Charlie didn't really seem as bothered as he ought to be about spending the week away from her …
‘Dad, can we have Domino's tonight?’
Beth put on her special pleading look, but Mark was having none of it.
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Not tonight. Your mum will kill me if I give you a takeaway again.’
‘Aw, that's so unfair,’ said Beth, with a pretend pout. With her long fair curls and dimples, even at ten she was still able to make a bid for cutest kid on the block.
‘Yup,’ said Mark. ‘But then so is life. Get used to it.’
Sam was always on at him to feed the kids healthily. Mark wasn't a brilliant cook, but he could rustle up spaghetti bolognaise or roast chicken (the kids' favourite) when he had to. And of late, he'd noticed that Rob's bad influence of late-night beers and takeaways were having a rather disastrous effect on his waistline. In order to make amends, Mark had bought a low-GI diet book and was busy trying to find out what constituted low-GI food. White bread, which he loved, alas did not. While rye bread, which he hated, did. One day someone would invent something that was good for him which he'd actually like …
The middle-age spread had come as a shock. Throughout his twenties, Mark had taken it for granted that he would retain his lean, rangy shape without too much difficulty. But when Sam had left him he hadn't bargained for the downward spiral of depression that would follow; a downward spiral which inevitably sent him and Rob to the curry house late at night. Mark was at least grateful that he hadn't started smoking again, though the temptation had been great at times.
Recently he had made more of an effort to get to the gym or to go for the occasional run. He'd never get another woman interested in him if he looked too porky. Not that that seemed to stop Rob, but if Mark was sure of one thing, it was that he didn't want to end up like Rob. And somehow, he intuitively felt, Emily wasn't the sort of person who would want him to be either.
‘How about I make us a stir fry?’ Mark had discovered from his GI reading that this was apparently Good For Him, and Rob, who was a bit of a foodie, had moved in with a wok, so it couldn't be too hard.
‘Can we have sweet and sour?’ Gemma had mooched in from the room she shared with Beth.
‘I think there's some in the cupboard,’ said Mark. He had done a big shop the previous day, knowing that the kids were coming for the weekend. He loved having them and hated being apart from them. Something people often didn't understand. Oh well, they'd say, at least your time is your own now. Or, you've got your freedom back, nudge, nudge, wink, wink – the implication being, You dirty old dog you, why not go and play the field?
But playing the field wasn't as easy as all that. For a start, until meeting Emily, Mark hadn't had the slightest inclination to do so; but also, what people – even women – failed to understand was that Mark came as a package. It wasn't only him, it was his kids too. Love me, love my children. Not all the women you met were likely to want to do that. Mark wondered whether Emily would. He'd gone along with Rob's strictures not to mention the children, but it had felt a bit odd.
‘Here it is.’ Gemma passed over the jar. She hoisted herself onto the worktop. ‘Da-ad,’ she began in a wheedling tone Mark knew all too well.
‘Whatever it is, I'm going to say no,’ said Mark firmly as he cut up some peppers.
‘But Da-ad. You don't know what it is yet!’
‘Okay, what is it?’ Mark turned the heat on and put the wok over the gas.
‘Shelly's-invited-me-to-the-park-and-sleepover-tomorrow-night.’ The words came out in a nervous gabble. Clearly rehearsed, and desperate to get his assent.
‘Who's Shelly again?’
‘You know. Shelly. The one who does dancing with me.’
Oh. That Shelly. The one with the tattoo. And the ring through her nose. And the one who Mark suspected had persuaded Gemma to smoke on at least one occasion.
‘I don't think so, Gemma, do you?’ Mark chucked the vege tables into the wok.
‘Oh Da-a-ad,’ said Gemma. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I don't want you hanging round the park after school,’ said Mark with half an eye on the recipe. He had found a sachet of black bean sauce in the cupboard and tore it open with his teeth.
‘But why can't I go to Shelly's?’
‘Because I say so.’ Mark hated himself the minute the words came out. He'd always sworn he wouldn't use that one on his kids. How parenthood makes hypocrites of us all, he thought. At least he hadn't done the one thing guaranteed to make sure she would stick to Shelly like a limpet, namely let Gemma know just how much he disapproved of her friend. ‘Besides, it's a school night.’
‘So?’ Gemma wasn't going to give up that easily.
‘So don't you have homework or something?’
Mark had chucked the sauce into the pan and turned the flame up a little – the stir fry didn't seem to be frying quite as quickly as it should.
‘Homework sucks,’ said Gemma sulkily.
Mark turned away to face her.
‘So does going to work, but I still have to do it,’ he said. Suddenly he was aware of the smell of burning. He turned round to see the pan had caught fire. ‘Holy shit!’ Mark turned the heat off and grabbed a lid to smother the flames, while simultaneously soothing Beth who had started to scream.
‘But Da-ad –’
‘Not now, Gemma.’ Mark surveyed the charred content of the pan. Apparently stir fry was much harder than he'd imagined.
‘You are so unfair!’ Gemma stomped off to her room. It was only the third time she'd performed that trick that evening. ‘Yup,’ said Mark.
‘What's up with Wednesday now?’ Rob wandered in from the shower, rubbing a towel on his head. He'd christened Gemma ‘Wednesday Addams’ the first time she'd dyed her hair black. And, realising how much it annoyed her, he'd kept it up.
‘Oh, the usual. I'm the meanest dad in the world for not letting her out with her mates.’ Mark was scraping the remnants of his stir fry into the bin.
‘What were you trying to do?’ asked Rob. ‘Burn the house down?’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Mark. ‘Domino's anyone?’
Emily sipped her drink, stared around the glitzy nightclub and sighed. The tubthumping music blaring out from DJ Rappa, The Sugar Daddy, who, despite the moniker, was actually a former accountant called Tim Seiver,