Balancing Act by Joanna Trollope

bits and pieces. He would have to do what his famously frugal mother called ‘running a teaspoon round the fridge’. Well, he was good at that – an inventive user-up of whatever was on offer. And what seemed to be on offer for Ashley at the moment was not, in his view, acceptable. She was a major contributor to that company, but Leo didn’t think she was allowed the voice that such a contribution merited. It was affecting her and, in consequence, was affecting them. And these newdevelopments were going to affect them even more. Which was why, with an appetizing plate of something ingeniously put together out of nothing very much in front of her, Ashley was going to hear how different their life was going to be for the next year at least. Because, he, Leo, was going to tell her.
    It was weird, really, how something as trivial as irritation with Cheryl could be so galvanizing. Leo – famous, he knew full well, for being calm and easygoing – was also a master at procrastination and prevarication. Look at the garden. Look at his limping, part-time, half-hearted work. He could work twice as hard as he did; he could accept every teaching job he was offered, not just one in three; he could organize some garden people, at least, even if he didn’t want to get out there personally with a rotivator. But he did none of those things. His school reports hadn’t exactly said that he was lazy, but they had gone on a bit about his need for confidence and approval, his inability to risk aiming more than just a shade higher than he was already. And he was frustrated with himself. Always had been. ‘Come
on
, Leo,’ he’d say to himself. ‘Just do it.’ But there had been too few things that he had felt certain enough about to do. Except marrying Ashley. He had been full of conviction about marrying Ashley, and he had never ceased to marvel that she had married him. And now – at last, and so much more valuable to her than sorting the piffling garden – he had come up with an idea that filled him with energy and rare certainty. An idea that he was going to put to her while she ate the dinner he had made.
    ‘It’s the answer, really,’ Susie said.
    She was in her usual armchair in the sitting room at Radipole Road. One wall of the room was entirely lined with bookcases, painted deep blue, and Polynesia was sidling along the top of these, clucking in appreciation of her freedom. Thedoor to the hall was closed, just in case her notions extended to flying upstairs.
    ‘I hope you’re keeping an eye on her,’ Susie said, ‘in case she makes a mess.’
    Jasper had a box of guitar plectrums on his knee and was sorting them. They made small clicking sounds like dice as they slipped through his fingers. He said, ‘I’ll clear it up. I always do. It’s good for her to be out of the cage.’ He paused and then he said calmly, ‘Do we have to have this conversation every time she’s out? When you’re away, she’s out all the time.’
    Polynesia reached the end of the bookcase and was confronted by a large pottery vase. She peered at it.
    ‘Watch,’ Jasper said, looking up, grinning. ‘She’ll tick it off in a minute.’
    ‘Why don’t you bugger off?’ Polynesia said to the vase.
    Susie didn’t look up. She said, ‘That’s what she says to me.’
    Jasper was delighted. ‘Does she?’
    ‘She only loves you. You know that.’
    ‘I didn’t know she told you to bugger off.’
    ‘Since you presumably taught her to say it, I think you probably
did
know. Actually.’
    Jasper smiled at her. ‘Want a fight?’ he said kindly.
    She shook her head.
    ‘Bugger off,’ Polynesia said again to the vase. ‘Off.
Off.
South-west six.’
    Susie said, ‘I’d rather talk to you about … about Morris.’
    Jasper stopped sifting. He said, ‘Well, you’ve seen him and sorted him.’
    ‘He isn’t sorted. He’s in Grace’s spare bedroom.’
    ‘Dan offered to book a hotel room.’
    Susie sighed. ‘Jas, don’t be obtuse.