Ordinary Miracles by Grace Wynne-Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

mischievous-looking man with the ancient cord jacket – an aspiring journalist, I believe – is obviously attention seeking. He keeps reading the manual and asking complicated questions we’re supposed to get to on Friday. A g irl with a stud through her left nostril says her mouse isn’t clicking properly, and everybody at one time or another has said the room is too hot or too cold.
    Mrs Riordan has a large ruler which she uses to point to relevant information on the flip chart, but as the class progresses she waves it about in a more ominous manner. Apart from this she is resolutely cheerful, and even joins us during tea-breaks.
    Tea-break is, of course, the height of the morning and takes place in a small room nearby. It is while I am guzzling down my fourth digestive biscuit that Eoin, the man in the yellow jumper, asks me if, one evening after class, we might go for coffee together.
    I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised because I have, after all, taken off my wedding ring and we’ve had a couple of conversations about greyhounds, which Eoin breeds. But after nearly twenty years of marriage the realisation that I am, in fact, being asked out on a date, stuns me into silence.
    ‘I’m sorry…maybe I shouldn’t have…’ Eoin mumbles awkwardly, and I know I have to say something.
    ‘We could have a cup of tea together I suppose,’ I smile warily.
    ‘Ah yes, I forgot you’re a tea drinker,’ Eoin beams. ‘When will we do it? Tomorrow?’
    ‘Mmmmm – all right.’
    ‘Fine. We might go to a film too – afterwards.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    Then I say I’d better dash to the loo before Mrs Riordan rings her little bell. It’s not a loo to linger in. It’s full of stern messages about not flushing sanitary towels and tampons down the toilet. But I don’t mind.
     
    I’m a bit late meeting Bruce for lunch. I was on time but when I realised this I went into a newsagents and read Hello magazine for five minutes, and then I went to the post office and queued up for a stamp.
    Bruce has chosen a secluded spot at the back of the restaurant. He’s chomping anxiously on a bread roll and has poured himself a glass of wine.
    The waiter, who’s already called me ‘Madame’ twice and taken my coat, is now leading me towards the table in a swift, urgent manner. I loiter behind him, and then I have to speed up because I see he’s pulled the chair back for me and is waiting for me to sit down. As he shoves me towards the table, and my husband, I attempt a wan smile.
    ‘Hello Bruce.’
    ‘I’m so glad you came, Jasmine. I really am.’ Bruce looks tired.
    I pick up the menu. ‘I think I’ll have “Crevettes Martinique” for starters. Crevettes – that’s prawns isn’t it? And…’ I scan the prices…‘and “Lobster Provençale ” with…’
    ‘Put that menu down for a minute and look at me, please.’
    ‘We’ll have to order fast because I’ve got to be back at my computer course by 2.15.’
    ‘Computer course. That sounds interesting. I always said you were wasted just looking after the house.’
    ‘No, you didn’t.’ I’m unfolding my napkin which is made from thick linen and is very stiff.
    ‘Yes, I did Jasmine, but you obviously don’t remember. Still, that doesn’t matter now. What matters now is us.’
    ‘Anyway, I wasn’t just looking after the house. I was l ooking after Katie, and you, and – and your bloody dinner guests.’ I shoot him a venomous glance.
    Bruce winces slightly and picks up the bottle of wine.
    ‘I hope you don’t mind but I ordered this already. It’s Chilean. The Chileans are making very good wine these days.’
    ‘Good for them.’
    ‘Remember that time we went round the vineyards of Bordeaux and got completely blotto at that wine tasting?’
    ‘Mmmmm.’ I’m staring at a painting of a picnic in a forest. The people have gone and the food is half-eaten. I really, really, want to get up and walk out of this restaurant. Feelings are exploding inside me