Young Wives' Tales by Adele Parks Read Free Book Online

push open the door to our home I’m hit by the smell of something meaty cooking; a casserole of some description would be my guess. I can hear Radio 4 and Auriol’s chatter drift from the basement kitchen. These are good signs. In the past, on the first day home to a new nanny, it has been known for me to be greeted by the nanny already wearing her coat and handing me a letter of resignation. It’s not that Auriol is a terrible child to handle, it’s just that some of these young girls are not experienced enough to manage her creative temperament.
    ‘Surprise,’I call.
    Auriol bounds up the stairs towards me and flings her arms around my waist. I try to stop her putting her hands on my skirt (it’s Emilio Pucci) but the manoeuvre costs me my grip on the balloons and they drift up through the stairwell and hover two flights above us. Eva, Auriol and I gaze upwards at the bobbing mass of pretty pink balloons. I freeze for a moment and wonder if this is going to cause a problem. I often feel entirely at sea with Auriol and have no idea how she is going to react to anything. It astonishes me that I can predict financial markets throughout the world with pinpoint accuracy, I have a widely respected insight into the characters of most people I happen upon, but when it comes to kids in general, and Auriol in particular – I’m stumped. I mean, they are so irrational and unreasonable. So emotional and mercurial.
    The balloons hover, teasingly, Eva takes the initiative and laughs, Auriol squeals with excitement and I shrug. This time disaster is averted, no scene. Marvellous.
    ‘How was school?’I ask.
    I try to kneel because I read that children like you to talk to them at eye level. Princess Diana always did that and she had a great way with children. Unfortunately my skirt is too tight and I’m in Sergio Rossi killer heels so it’s not going to happen. I usher Auriol back towards the kitchen. She’s bouncing off the walls and chattering about the new teacher, Miss Gibson or Gibbon or something, and the fact that Fran is in her class. I tell her to stay with Eva and I go to my bedroom to change.
    It takes me about fifteen minutes to decide what towear because I have resisted going down the lazy mum route which is so depressingly prevalent. I have never been seen in a vomit-sprayed or Weetabix-splodged beige top or baggy leggings. My dry-cleaning bill is enough to buy me a small car every year, but standards have to be maintained. By the time I get to the kitchen I see that Auriol has eaten supper. I’m disappointed.
    ‘I came home early to take you out to a restaurant to eat,’I grumble. ‘I wanted to celebrate your first day of school.’
    My intention is to reprimand Eva for not reading my mind or at least for not checking my schedule.
    ‘It’s not early for Auriol,’replies Eva. ‘It was after six o’clock when you arrived home. After a full day at school she is hungry at four in the afternoon. I have made enough beef casserole for you and Mr Phillips too. It’s entirely organic as per your instructions.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t eat much red meat,’I mutter, swallowing my irritation. Irritation seems to be sustaining me quite adequately at the moment, that and decent vitamin supplements.
    I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. I slip on to the bench seat next to Auriol and try to engage her. However, she’s more interested in the TV which has replaced Radio 4 and is blaring from the corner of the room. I follow her gaze. Some beautiful twenty-year-old girl, dressed as though she’s just walked out of a pop video, is being dunked in a pool of custard. When she manages to slither out of the pool, millions of Coco Pops drop from the sky and stick to her. Throughoutthe experience she is screaming, ‘Wicked,’and ‘Totally gross man,’in the most awful Birmingham accent. It’s unsuitable viewing on every count.
    ‘I don’t like the TV on at mealtimes,’I tell Eva.
    ‘Why do you have a TV in the kitchen