Just What Kind of Mother Are You? by Paula Daly Read Free Book Online Page A

and rather than settle me and give me words of reassurance (as was his usual way), he looked at me with a pained expression, whispering, ‘Why are we here, baby?’
    Before I could reply, Guy answered the door, bottle of wine inhand, and immediately I felt deflated. My shoulders slumped, my chin poking forward in a pathetic posture.
    He greeted us exuberantly, almost shouting, ‘Hello, the Kallistos! Come in, come in!’ His face was a perfect show of warmth and welcoming, deftly masking what he’d instantly noticed as our first major gaffe: our outfits.
    Joe had worn his only suit, a cheap black Burton’s thing he put on when he was required to drive someone to a funeral. With it, he was wearing a new white shirt and a spotted tie. He did look lovely, as he always does in a white shirt because of his dark colouring, but Guy had on faded jeans and a round-necked jumper.
    I was wearing a new dress I’d bought that day from Next. It was strapless and cut above the knee, made from shiny red fabric with great big black roses all over it. And for reasons best known to myself, I’d been and had a spray tan.
    I dreaded to see what the women were wearing.
    I shot a panicked look at Joe as Guy beckoned us in, and he said, ‘Well, we’re here now,’ tenderly touching my bare shoulder briefly, guiding me, encouraging me to move forwards.
    I was like my old grandad – he was dead now, but for the last ten years of his life he had suffered from Parkinson’s. Whenever he was faced with walking through a doorway, he’d freeze. The top half of his body would be leaning ready to go, but the bottom half was stuck fast, as if his shoes were glued to the carpet. The only way we could get him moving was to march him steadily to the tune of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.
    Surprisingly, I began humming, and it worked for me as well.
    Kate and Guy had not long moved into the house, so there was the smell of wood shavings and linseed in the air. They were having oak flooring installed throughout, and I wasn’t sure whether I should remove my heels – reckoning if I knackered an eighty-quid-a-square-metre floor with a pair of cheap stilettos,it would be just about the worst thing ever. But Guy didn’t say anything so I kept them on. Just tried to walk on the balls of my feet.
    Music was coming from the kitchen, a dreamy acoustic female artist I didn’t know. As we walked in I found Kate and Alexa by the Aga, tasting and stirring, both wearing similar outfits of pale linen, both wearing minimal make-up, both with their hair pinned up loosely, as if they were in a Nivea or a Neutrogena commercial. I felt like a total idiot as they turned around, their broad smiles not matching the alarmed look in their eyes as they regarded first me, and then Joe. Then, chiming more or less together, ‘Wow, Lisa, you look … fantastic! I love your dress, where is it from? … Joe! So great to see you.’
    Embarrassed, I mumbled an answer, thrusting the bottles of wine we’d brought at Kate, saying something along the lines of Thanks for inviting us . Then I quickly pulled out a stool from the kitchen island in an attempt to hide myself.
    Joe said a quick hello, gave the ladies a peck on the cheek and did the obligatory, ‘How nicely the house is coming along, Kate,’ while Kate did her best exasperated expression, sighing dramatically, replying, ‘Well, we’re getting there ,’ as if they were not renovating a home but were in fact building a school in Namibia and were struggling to locate a clean water supply.
    ‘I’ll open another bottle,’ Kate said, walking across the room. Turning, she added, ‘Joe, you go and join the boys – leave us girls to gossip. Adam’s brought a stupidly large selection of bottled ales for you to get through.’
    Alexa had turned her back and was taking another taste from the pot on the stove. ‘Kate,’ she said, her voice snippy with criticism, ‘these onions are not completely softened, you can’t