but her back stiffens. She tosses back her dark hair and stalks off, into the living room.
‘So is Art looking forward to his party?’ Mum chirrups down the line.
‘Yeah, I think so. Hey, speaking of which, I’d better go and get ready,’ I say.
‘Well, make sure you look nice for Art,’ Mum says meaningfully. ‘He works so hard. You should make more effort, darling, so he feels special.’
What’s she saying, that I’m some hopeless, loser wife, just along for the spending money, not really good enough for my golden husband? Thanks to her, and Morgan and Hen earlier,
I’m feeling more than a little bruised; not the best start for a party.
‘Okay, Mum.’ I’m itching to snap at her but she’s thousands of miles away and the last thing I want is to start an argument, so I just get off the phone, wave at Art and
head upstairs for my shower.
When I come down again I can hear Morgan and Art talking in the living room. I can’t make out what they are saying. They’re sitting side by side on the sofa and look up as I enter.
Art smiles with unmistakable relief. In contrast, Morgan looks annoyed. Still in her robe, she holds up two almost-identical black shoes. Both are narrow and elegant with high, spiky heels. They
make my feet hurt just looking at them.
‘What d’you think, Gen?’ she says. ‘I can’t decide.’
I glance at Art who, very subtly, rolls his eyes. I suppress a grin.
‘They’re both gorgeous,’ I say, honestly.
‘These are Manolos.’ Morgan holds one shoe higher than the other. ‘But I’m thinking of wearing these.’ She raises the other shoe. ‘They’re from a new
designer I found in New York. You wouldn’t have heard of her but she’s really building a reputation stateside.’
I stare at the shoes more closely. The second shoe is slightly sleeker than the first, with a marginally more pointed toe and thinner stiletto heels.
‘Like I say, they’re both lovely.’ I glance at Art again. He gazes up at me, appealing to be rescued. He’s still in his suit from work.
‘Hey, darling, you should go and change,’ I say, wandering over and resting my hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re right.’ Art smiles gratefully at me. He stands and leaves.
For a second, Morgan looks exasperated, though whether with me, Art or herself I can’t tell. Then she smiles and follows Art out of the room.
I take a breath and study myself in the mirror.
My hair is brushed now, curling over my shoulders. My fringe is still too long and there are still shadows under my eyes but, thanks to Bobbi Brown and Urban Decay, I don’t look as haggard
as I did earlier. The top I’m wearing is semi-fitted and suits my curves, though I’m sure Morgan thinks I could have chosen something more glamorous than a pair of GAP jeans to go with
them.
I turn sideways, eyeing the slight roll of my stomach. Before I was pregnant I had a flat tummy. Now I’m just like all the mums out there with stretch marks and bulges. Only without the
baby, of course. There’ll be here soon, some of those mums, full of chat about their kids. I’ll probably end up talking to the guys about their work; at least they won’t pity me.
I glance at my watch. This is always the worst moment before a party, when there’s nothing more to prepare but nobody’s here yet.
Will enough people turn up? Now I’m standing, waiting for our friends to arrive, I can’t help but feel a twinge of nerves. I make a face at myself in the mirror. It’s no big
deal. Just thirty-odd people coming round for snacks and a few beers. As with work, so with home: Art hates anything that looks or feels elitist.
I can hear Art humping the second of Morgan’s cases up the stairs. Looking in the mirror again, I can’t help but wonder what she really thinks of me. On the surface she’s all
smiles and appreciative noises, but underneath I suspect she thinks Art could have done better. In so many ways Art is echoing the career of their father
‘So is Art looking forward to his party?’ Mum chirrups down the line.
‘Yeah, I think so. Hey, speaking of which, I’d better go and get ready,’ I say.
‘Well, make sure you look nice for Art,’ Mum says meaningfully. ‘He works so hard. You should make more effort, darling, so he feels special.’
What’s she saying, that I’m some hopeless, loser wife, just along for the spending money, not really good enough for my golden husband? Thanks to her, and Morgan and Hen earlier,
I’m feeling more than a little bruised; not the best start for a party.
‘Okay, Mum.’ I’m itching to snap at her but she’s thousands of miles away and the last thing I want is to start an argument, so I just get off the phone, wave at Art and
head upstairs for my shower.
When I come down again I can hear Morgan and Art talking in the living room. I can’t make out what they are saying. They’re sitting side by side on the sofa and look up as I enter.
Art smiles with unmistakable relief. In contrast, Morgan looks annoyed. Still in her robe, she holds up two almost-identical black shoes. Both are narrow and elegant with high, spiky heels. They
make my feet hurt just looking at them.
‘What d’you think, Gen?’ she says. ‘I can’t decide.’
I glance at Art who, very subtly, rolls his eyes. I suppress a grin.
‘They’re both gorgeous,’ I say, honestly.
‘These are Manolos.’ Morgan holds one shoe higher than the other. ‘But I’m thinking of wearing these.’ She raises the other shoe. ‘They’re from a new
designer I found in New York. You wouldn’t have heard of her but she’s really building a reputation stateside.’
I stare at the shoes more closely. The second shoe is slightly sleeker than the first, with a marginally more pointed toe and thinner stiletto heels.
‘Like I say, they’re both lovely.’ I glance at Art again. He gazes up at me, appealing to be rescued. He’s still in his suit from work.
‘Hey, darling, you should go and change,’ I say, wandering over and resting my hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re right.’ Art smiles gratefully at me. He stands and leaves.
For a second, Morgan looks exasperated, though whether with me, Art or herself I can’t tell. Then she smiles and follows Art out of the room.
I take a breath and study myself in the mirror.
My hair is brushed now, curling over my shoulders. My fringe is still too long and there are still shadows under my eyes but, thanks to Bobbi Brown and Urban Decay, I don’t look as haggard
as I did earlier. The top I’m wearing is semi-fitted and suits my curves, though I’m sure Morgan thinks I could have chosen something more glamorous than a pair of GAP jeans to go with
them.
I turn sideways, eyeing the slight roll of my stomach. Before I was pregnant I had a flat tummy. Now I’m just like all the mums out there with stretch marks and bulges. Only without the
baby, of course. There’ll be here soon, some of those mums, full of chat about their kids. I’ll probably end up talking to the guys about their work; at least they won’t pity me.
I glance at my watch. This is always the worst moment before a party, when there’s nothing more to prepare but nobody’s here yet.
Will enough people turn up? Now I’m standing, waiting for our friends to arrive, I can’t help but feel a twinge of nerves. I make a face at myself in the mirror. It’s no big
deal. Just thirty-odd people coming round for snacks and a few beers. As with work, so with home: Art hates anything that looks or feels elitist.
I can hear Art humping the second of Morgan’s cases up the stairs. Looking in the mirror again, I can’t help but wonder what she really thinks of me. On the surface she’s all
smiles and appreciative noises, but underneath I suspect she thinks Art could have done better. In so many ways Art is echoing the career of their father
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