Other People's Husbands by Judy Astley Read Free Book Online Page A

hormones, Sara’s sister Lizzie had given her a book on surviving teendom. Rule no. 1 had been:’Only pick fights with teenagers over issues of essential personal safety (theirs and yours), otherwise all conversation for the next five years will be combative.’ Five years? Ten now and counting. If sixty was the new thirty, did that mean twenty-four was the new thirteen? It seemed horribly likely.
    â€˜If you mean Cassie, no of course she won’t be paying rent. Why would she?’ Sara went to the fridge in search of the Dijon mustard. The jar, when she dug it out from behind the redcurrant jelly, was virtually empty – only the thinnest smears of the stuff remained around the sides. Conrad again. A horrible little flash of mortality recognition crossed her brain as she accepted that he was way past changing. By this stage in his life he was never, ever going to stop putting empty jars back in the fridge or cupboards, however often she reminded him not to.
    There had also been a couple of cold sausages in the fridge. Their fat-smeared plate, lightly crumbed with meaty shards, was still there. He liked to dunk sausages in the mustard, scooping up huge dollops of it. He dismissed all consideration of germs and hygiene as namby-pamby garbage. Another connection he refused to make was to link the idea of a used, empty plate with the dishwasher. This was something else that wasn’t going to change. As with surviving life with a teenager, she would have to keep quiet. These things, these little ant nests of annoyance, they weren’t worth picking fights over. Or at least individually they weren’t . . . there would surely come a time when the sheer number of gripes built up to explosion point. What then? Wait and see, she told herself, deal with it in the if-and-when.
    â€˜So Cass’ll be living here and she won’t have to pay any living expenses. Is that right?’ Pandora stood with her hands on her narrow little hips. She was wearing a long skinny sleeveless purple top and her arms were twiggish like a child’s. Her usual row of silver bangles hung loose over her right wrist, and the watch on the other one dangled over her hand. She was scowling, challenging. She was like her work, Sara thought suddenly – all Pandora’s paintings were furiously executed, great slashes of anger. Where had this come from? Her childhood had been as happy as Cassandra’s, surely? She had a first in fine art, growing interest from galleries, early success and . . . OK, a job in a restaurant, just a bill-payer, a fill-in. But didn’t every painter have to do such jobs, starting out? And many at the finish as well?
    Sara managed to scrape a spoonful of mustard out of the jar and into a bowl, adding salt, pepper and a pinch of sugar. As she stirred in the balsamic vinegar she began a calm, slow explanation for Pandora.
    â€˜Look, Panda. It’s what you do as a parent. You accommodate your children when they need it. Cass is finding it all a bit hard to cope with just now and she’s asked to stay for a while, that’s all. It could even be a touch of post-natal depression, who knows? You know that you can come back and live here too if you ever need to, don’t you? But Conrad and I don’t need to take money off you or Cass, so why should we? What would be the point?’
    â€˜OK.’ Pandora picked a sliver of plum varnish off her thumbnail. ‘It’s just some of us are out there in the real world working for a pittance and having to pay rent and always thinking can I afford it about almost every tiny little thing, including a pint of milk and a pizza . . . and, well, everything. And Cass chose to have a baby – she must have known what she was getting into. Some of us are more . . .’
    â€˜More what?’ Cassandra stood in the doorway, tendrils of her wet hair escaping from a loosely wrapped towel. She was carrying Charlie, whose baby head