Husbands Read Online Free PDF Page B

She’s probably thinking how delightful it will be to live in a dust and power-tool-free environment for twenty-four hours. I seal the deal by adding, ‘I think Amelie could do with a night out too.’
    Laura looks at once thrilled and stricken but agrees immediately. She’s thrilled at the idea of a girls’ night in/out and stricken at the mention of Amelie’s name. Amelie’s loss has that effect on everyone. In our heads we both refer to her as ‘poor Amelie’ and occasionally we slip up and do so out loud, although Amelie would be outraged to know we feel like this.
    We agree to meet on Friday and then I pull a copy of
Heat
from my bag. We dive into it, hungry for our gossip fix. I buy this mag religiously on the day of publication, and, in a unique act of friendship, I don’t even peek insideit until I see Laura so that we can take a virgin look together. This isn’t a completely unselfish act as she always comes up with the most amusing and scathing comments. The conversation turns to the rash of B-list celebrities exposing their pregnancy bumps.
    ‘Hers is nice,’ comments Laura.
    ‘It turns my stomach. Not just because they’ll use their fertility to secure a few column inches, but because they look so gross and don’t seem to know it.’
    ‘You’ll feel differently when it’s you,’ grins Laura and then she does that thing that so many people have started to do since I married Philip. She gives me a knowing wink.
    I bite into my muffin and concentrate on the sweetness because unaccountably I can suddenly taste fear.

6. Guitar Man
    Laura
    Bella and I leave Starbucks together and stop for a minute or two to look in the window of a shop that sells children’s T-shirts with funny slogans such as ‘Granny Target’ and ‘Been Inside for Nine Months’. I resist buying Eddie the one with ‘Mummy’s Little Man’ emblazoned across the front. Mostly because it is true and therefore seriously unfunny.
    Eddie is my utter love and the only reason I don’t completely hate Oscar is that he had something to do with Eddie’s existence, although I don’t dwell on exactly what that involvement entailed. I sometimes worry that I love my child too much. It might have been better if Oscar had left me with two children (a girl, perhaps) so I could have spread my love a little more evenly and Eddie would not grow up thinking that the world revolves around him. But then, imagine the extra washing and the increased chances of standing on those tiny little bits of Lego in bare feet (there is no pain like it).
    I leave Bella sauntering towards Soho where, no doubt, she’ll spend a couple of hours gazing in shop windows at the retro film posters, cute stationery and large silver dildos. I tear off in the opposite direction and head for the tube. We were having such a great time being cruelto celebrities that I’d completely lost track of time. I now have only thirty-five minutes before I’m supposed to collect Eddie. I hate being late for pick-up. Besides the haughty looks that rain down on me from the kindie staff and the enormous fine (they charge an extra £7.50 for each unscheduled hour, or part hour) the biggest punishment is catching sight of Eddie’s face. There is a huge stigma attached to being the last child that is picked up. I know that the shame is only ever a delayed tube away.
    I dash down the first escalator towards the depths of the Piccadilly line. Halfway down my sense of urgency is hijacked by Elvis. Not the real Elvis. I know he’s dead. But someone singing as though he were Elvis. ‘All Shook Up’ bounces up the escalator and I find that I am playfully tapping my toes and gently patting my fingers against my hip. If I’d been in the privacy of my own sitting room I would undoubtedly have been clicking my fingers and shaking my hips with real enthusiasm. Remarkable, when you consider that the sentiment could not be further from my reality. I am not in love and I can’t remember when last