‘Mam, can I have the money for my shoes? I’m going to go into town with Jilly this afternoon.’ Millie strolled into the kitchen in her PJs and fluffy slippers and put her arms around her dad who was absorbing his wife’s backlash.
‘Sure,’ Hilary said calmly, and could see her daughter looking at her, waiting for the caveat ‘when you’ve finished cleaning’. But she said nothing, squeezing ketchup onto her plate and taking a sip of coffee, for all the world like she hadn’t a care. Sophie flounced into the kitchen, glowering at her. Hilary ignored her and ate some white pudding and mushrooms.
‘Dad, we’ve decided we’re going to go to see The Talented Mr Ripley. Will you give us a lift to the cinema?’ she wheedled. Jude Law was her new pin-up. All her class thought he was ‘to die for’, and they were longing to see his new film.
Ha! thought Hilary. Glad I got out of that one.
‘How can I refuse the birthday girl, even though it was your birthday last Monday?’ Niall smiled at Sophie, handing his daughters their plates and taking his own and sitting down at the table beside Hilary. ‘Breakfast OK?’ he asked warily a while later, unused to her uncharacteristic silence.
‘Lovely,’ she said with faux breeziness, taking another slug of her coffee and finishing off the last of her sausage. She stood up and went over to the counter and poured herself a refill. ‘Anyone else want some?’ she asked, waving the percolator.
‘No thanks.’ Niall wolfed into his fry.
‘Uhhh . . .’ grunted Sophie.
‘Can I have more OJ, please?’ Millie asked, scrolling down through her texts. Hilary handed her the carton.
‘Excuse me, all,’ Hilary said politely, removing her plate from the table and putting it in the dishwasher.
‘Where are you going?’ Niall looked at her, surprised. The Saturday morning fry-up was traditionally a long leisurely meal when the family caught up with each other’s various goings on.
‘Back to bed.’
‘Are you sick?’ he asked, perplexed, because she had just eaten everything on her plate.
‘Nope, just tired,’ Hilary responded coolly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the girls look at each other, clearly incredulous. What about the cleaning? she half expected them to ask. She didn’t give anyone the chance to say anything else. She took her mug of coffee from the counter and walked briskly from the room. She opened the front door, lifted the morning paper from the mat in the porch and tucked it under her arm and went upstairs. She felt a giddy sense of liberation when she put her mug on her bedside locker and plumped up her pillows.
Niall’s shirt was on the floor. She picked it up and brought it to his laundry basket in their en suite. It was almost full. She had planned to do a wash today and leave his shirts at the laundry for ironing. But her plans had changed, Hilary thought grimly. She was taking the day off. Time out. Let them all manage without her for a day.
She gave herself a quick freshen-up, patted some moisturizer onto her face and padded back to the bedroom. The rain was hammering on the roof, an angry impatient beat. A low growl of thunder echoed from the east. Perfect day for a duvet day, Hilary thought sliding into bed. Paper or book?
She dithered. Flick through the headlines and then settle down with the Anita Shreve, Hilary decided, snuggling down against the pillows and giving a luxurious stretch, watching the steely melancholy sky continue to unleash its volley of rain. It was strangely soothing to watch, snug beneath her downy quilt, and now that she had decided to step back and let the household get on without her she felt the tension she had been holding in every atom begin to float away.
‘Er . . . will I start hoovering?’ Sophie poked her head round the door ten minutes later.
‘Suit yourself,’ Hilary said, looking out over the top of her glasses.
Sophie looked so gobsmacked Hilary nearly laughed.
‘Em . . . what time are you getting up?’
‘I’m not.’ Hilary bent her head to her book.
‘But what about my sleepover?’ her daughter bleated plaintively.
‘Dad’s here, he can make up the salads to go with the pizza. I’m taking your advice, Sophie. I’m chilling. Now close the door like a good girl, I’m at a really terrific part in my book.’ Hilary repositioned her glasses and began to read with studied interest, much to Sophie’s consternation.
‘The door, pet,’ Hilary reminded her sweetly, grinning when her daughter shut it with a decisive bang.
‘You’re not getting up at all?’ Niall demanded five minutes later after Sophie relayed the news to him.
‘Nope,’ she said equably. ‘Duvet day!’
‘You can’t have a duvet day today. Sophie’s having a sleepover,’ he protested.
‘And?’ She arched an eyebrow at him.
‘Well . . . well . . . things have to be done, the food. The house needs hoovering,’ he blustered.
‘Sophie’s fifteen. I don’t need to hold her hand. Hoover if you want. It’s entirely up to you. Oh and here.’ She rooted in the drawer in her locker. ‘Give this to Millie for her shoes.’ She handed him some euro notes. ‘Can I get back to my book now, please?’
‘Do what you like,’ her husband said exasperatedly.
‘I certainly will,’ Hilary said.
‘Have you got PMT?’ he demanded, completely thrown by her totally uncharacteristic behaviour. She almost laughed watching him stand, legs planted apart, hands on his hips, jaw thrust out aggressively.
‘No, I feel perfectly fine. Please close the door when you go out,’ she said, rolling over onto her side towards the window, with her back to him, precluding any further conversation. There was silence for a moment and then she heard him leave the room. She felt as she’d felt the one
