The Year of Taking Chances (29 page)

Gemma might have become Businesswoman in Demand overnight, but you’d never think it from her family’s reaction.
It was still Gemma who had to make breakfast and
load the washing machine and drop Darcey at a friend’s party.
It was still Gemma who had to run Will into town, and push the Hoover around, and load up with groceries and supplies for the
week ahead.
That was on top of visiting the wholesaler to buy the silks and satins in the bright jewel colours she had chosen to offer as swatches to interested customers, as well as the thread,
zips and buttons she would need.
She’d now had ten orders for dresses through the website – two Midnights, three Valentines and five Olivias – on top of the private appointments
booked in her diary.
She hoped she hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew.

By Sunday she felt positively frazzled and wished heartily that she hadn’t invited her dad round, today of all days.
With Judy, too!
It was meant to be a ‘Meet the Family’ sort
of thing, suggested in a charitable moment, but now she felt churlish to the point of unwelcoming instead.
And
the house was still so shabby and neglected.
She must whip round with a
paintbrush soon.
She must!

The night before she’d stayed up late, cutting swatches with her pinking shears and sending them with a polite typed note —she really should order some proper stationery – to
everyone who’d requested one.
That left just the whole house to clean, a mountain of potatoes to peel for lunch, the children to remind about their homework, Will’s muddy rugby kit to
wash .
.
.

‘Why is your face like that, Mum?’
Darcey asked, coming into the room just then.

‘Like what?’

‘All sort of fierce and frowny.
Like you’re cross about something.’

Gemma laughed.
‘I’m not cross, love.
Just .
.
.
’ She shrugged, searching around for the right word.
‘Just determined, I guess.’

Darcey bent down to fuss over the cat from over the road, which had got in again and fancied his chances with the chicken.
‘Determined to do what?’

‘Keep all the plates spinning, Darce, without letting any fall.
That’s all I’m trying to do.
That’s all any woman can do.’

While Gemma was doing her impression of a bluebottle on speed, Spencer was, as usual, on the sofa, playing
Halo
with Will on the Xbox.
His ankle had now fully healed and
he was meant to be doing more gentle exercise, but he had barely left the house in days, complaining that the spring sunshine made his headache worse.

Hearing them mucking about together while she was charging about doing everything single-handedly was starting to irritate her.
Had it not occurred to them that she might appreciate a hand?
Clearly not.
Eventually she put down the peeler and marched through to the living room.
‘Will, come and make yourself useful, won’t you?’
she said.
‘I’ll teach you how
to peel vegetables – a very important life-skill.’

‘Oh, leave him,’ Spencer said, not moving his eyes from the screen.
‘It’s not that important a skill.
Any idiot can do it – even me.’

Gemma resisted mentioning that she had never seen him with a kitchen utensil in his hand, let alone peeling a single potato.
‘It’ll take you five minutes to learn,’ she said.
‘And, Spence, maybe you could mow the lawn?
It’s a lovely day out there.’

‘Aw, Gems, come on, it’s Sunday.
Give us a break.’

‘Will?’

Will glanced over his shoulder at her, then across at his dad, clearly torn.
‘Can’t Darcey do it?’

Gemma was damned if she was about to teach her daughter to peel spuds before her much older son learned to do so.
‘I’d really like a bit of help,’ she said steadfastly.

He sighed and paused his character onscreen.
‘Oh, all right then,’ he muttered, getting up with exaggerated reluctance.

‘I’m sorry, love, but we all need to muck in now,’ she said.

Spencer rolled his eyes.
‘Yeah, yeah, we know.
Now that you’re the power-mad businesswoman, you don’t need to remind us.’

‘I’m not power-mad,’ she replied, taken aback by the bitterness in his voice.
‘I’m only asking our son to peel the carrots for Sunday dinner.
It’s hardly the
end of the world.’

‘Yeah, and me to mow the frigging lawn, even though it doesn’t need doing .
.
.
Just because you’re busy, Gemma, don’t start bossing everyone else around.’

‘I’m not,’ she protested, but he was already getting to his feet, one hand to his back, to show her how painful his injury still was, just to rub in how unreasonable she was
being, forcing an invalid to move.

‘Course you’re not.
And now I’ll go and mow the lawn with my bloody front teeth, shall I?
Because you told me to.
Fat old nag.’

Gemma’s jaw dropped.
She actually felt as if she’d been slapped.
‘Wh-what did you call me?’

His eyes were hooded and sullen.
‘You heard.’

Yeah.
She’d heard, all right.
And it was pretty much the worst thing he could have called her.
He knew full well the angst she’d suffered over her size in the past, how she’d
lived on thin air and black coffee when she was young and self-conscious, how she’d made herself sick if she ever weakened and gave in to a doughnut or a bag of chips.
She had battled so hard
to overcome those feelings of low self-worth, and he had helped her through, by telling her she was beautiful, that he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

Until now, that was.
Until he’d just thrown that word at her as if it had all been a lie.

‘Well, if that’s how you feel, maybe you should find someone else to try and look after you,’ she said, her voice cracking with hurt.
‘If that’s how you feel, maybe
you should get lost!’

Back in the kitchen, Gemma’s hands shook as she put the potatoes on to parboil, Will sulkily hacking away at the carrots and parsnips beside her as if he was enduring
some kind of Guantanamo torture.
She couldn’t believe Spencer had called her that.
Her very least-favourite word.
And he knew it was, too.
He had said it deliberately, as if he couldn’t
care less.
It was the worst thing he’d ever done in the fifteen years they’d been together.

Will clumped out again, vegetables done, but Gemma’s unhappy mood continued as she set the potatoes roasting, mixed the bread sauce, basted the chicken and chopped broccoli florets.
Of
course there was no whirring of the lawnmower to be heard outside.
What a surprise, she thought bitterly.
Spencer was definitely spoiling for a fight.

She slammed the plates into the warming drawer of the oven with unnecessary force, and crashed the cutlery around as she laid the table, unable to help banging out her frustration.
Well, she
thought, if he was going to start name-calling, she was not about to take it lying down.
She would not be made to feel bad in her own home – she wouldn’t!

Just as she was crossly wiping a splatter of gravy from her left boob, the doorbell rang and her eyes swung up to the clock in horror.
What?
It was only ten past twelve and they had definitely
agreed on half-past.
Surely her dad hadn’t broken the habit of a lifetime and turned up somewhere
early
for once, had he?

Gemma let out a groan.
She was still in her oldest jeans and a horribly unflattering sweatshirt, smelling strongly of roast potatoes and now splotched with gravy.
The plan had been to change
into something more attractive as soon as the chicken was out and resting under its foil blanket, and the Yorkshire puddings were gently fluffing up in their tray (the childrens’ favourite
– they had Yorkshire pudding with every kind of roast).
If her dad had been on time, she could have answered the door to him looking composed and sane; as it was, she had no make-up on, and
instead appeared red-faced and scruffy.
This was not the Superwoman image she’d intended.

‘Hello, love, sorry we’re a bit early.
We were going to pop into the garden centre, but there was such a queue to get in the car park, we couldn’t be bothered.’
Her dad
enveloped her in one of his mammoth, crushing hugs.
‘Judy’s been telling me off, saying that nobody wants early guests, but I said you wouldn’t mind.
You don’t, do
you?’

‘Of course not!’
Gemma laughed a bit too heartily.
‘Not at all.
Excuse the state of me.
I was just going to change, but .
.
.
’ She shrugged, feeling uncomfortable.
‘Hi, Judy.’

‘Hello!
What a lovely big house!
My goodness, it’s like something from
Footballers’ Wives’
.
Judy pressed a bunch of gladioli into Gemma’s arms.

‘Well, not exactly .
.
.
’ Gemma said weakly.
She doubted any of the footballers’ wives these days had Artex ceilings and peeling wallpaper, but whatever.
‘Thank
you.’

Judy’s charm-offensive had already moved on.
‘And you must be Darcey, what a pretty face!
It’s lovely to meet you.
I’m Grandad’s .
.
.
friend,’ she said
coyly, batting her eyelashes.
‘Now I’ve got a present for you somewhere.’
She dug a hand into her bag.
‘Where are they?
Ah.
Sweeties!’
She produced a large bag of
Percy Pig sweets and Darcey’s eyes lit up.

‘Thank you!’

‘Not before lunch,’ Gemma found herself saying, although Darcey was already skipping away, apparently struck by selective deafness, judging by the way her hands were tugging eagerly
at the opening of the bag.
‘Darcey!
Did you hear me?
Don’t spoil your lunch!’

‘And where’s William?
And Spencer?
I’ve been so looking forward to meeting the fellas,’ Judy gushed, with that annoying, toothy smile.

Gemma could guess exactly where they were: locked in battle once again on the Xbox, the lawn pointedly left untouched.
It could be three feet tall by the time Spencer deigned to give it a mow.
Sod it, she would have to do it herself, she thought crossly.
Like everything else around this bloody place.
‘Spence!
Will!
Come and show your ugly mugs,’ she yelled, annoyed that they
hadn’t the manners to end the game at the sound of the doorbell.
‘Let me take your jacket, Judy,’ she said after a moment, as neither of them appeared.
Brilliant.
Thanks, guys.
‘Come on through.’

She left the flowers on the worktop as she filled the kettle.
‘Spencer!
Will!’
she shouted again in exasperation.
Where
were
they?
‘Sorry,’ she muttered as she
clattered down four mugs and the box of teabags.
‘I’ll go and track them down in a minute.’

‘Oh, don’t worry!
No rush at all.
Can I help with anything?’
Judy asked, hovering expectantly.
‘Everything smells absolutely wonderful.
Barry’s been saying what a
great cook you are.’

‘It’s just a roast,’ Gemma said.
Dad’s favourite, thank you very much
.
‘And I think it’s pretty much under control.
The chicken’s due out in a
few minutes and then .
.
.
’

‘Mum.’
It was Will, looking wired and twitchy.

‘Oh, there you are.
Will, this is Judy, and .
.
.
’

Judy was already coming over, her hand outstretched.
‘Lovely to meet you!
What a handsome lad you are!’

‘Mum, it’s Dad,’ Will said urgently, side-stepping Judy.

‘What do you mean?
Is he all right?’

‘He’s gone.’

Gemma stared at him.
‘What do you mean, he’s gone?
Gone where?’

‘I .
.
.
I don’t know.
He just said he was fed up and went out.’