Rise and Fall of a Domestic Diva by Sarah May Page A

felt as though blood wasn’t being pumped evenly round her head, so that she kept losing her balance and falling suddenly into things as she staggered over to the wardrobe it had taken Robert and her five nights to build, and that they both hated, ignoring her mobile, which had started to ring. There was the jackethanging up. She felt the envelope in the inside pocket and pulled it out. The envelope was empty. Had she taken it out at workand left it there? Maybe it was in the caror downstairs somewhere.
    She ran downstairs into the kitchen, walking into just about everything there was to walk into on the way, including Flo, who was there on the floor in her bouncy chair, reaching out excitedly for the furry stars hanging from the bar above.
    And there was Robert, standing at the bench by the cooker with a screwdriver in his hand and the motor from the old Morphy Richards blender in pieces beside him.
    He was wearing his favourite T-shirt, which said he’d run the New York Marathon in 1998only he hadn’tand smiling.
    ‘Kate’ he said, sounding pleased to see her. ‘I heard you stumbling around up theredon’t worry, she’s down here with us.’
    ‘Who is?’ she said, distracted, her eyes scanning the kitchen surfaces. No letter.
    ‘Flo.’ He paused. ‘She’s got some kind of bruise on her forehead.’
    Kate stared down at Flo, then back at Robert. ‘Nursery. When did you get home?’
    ‘About forty-five minutes ago.’
    ‘What’s the time now?’
    ‘Almost six.’
    ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ She yawned.
    ‘You were out cold so I just left you.’
    Upstairs, her mobile started to ring again. Kate yawned and took in the scene in the kitchen. The light was falling strangely on Robert, making him look guilty, as though he was trying to make amends for a crime he hadn’t committed yet.
    ‘Was my suit jacket on the bed when you went up earlier?’
    He shook his head. ‘Haven’t a clue. Heywhere are yougoing?’ he said as she grabbed the car keys from the rack below the cupboard.
    ‘I left something in the car,’ she called out, disappearing through the front door.
    Outside, the rain hammered on her back as she searched the car with forensic precisionand failed to find the letter.
    She went back indoors. It had to be somewhere.
    In the kitchen, Robert was standing with the screwdriver still in his hand and the abstract, easy-to-please look on his face that he assumed when he was concentrating intently on something his future didn’t depend on. ‘Find it?’
    ‘Robertwhat are you doing?’ she said, irritably.
    ‘Just mending this.’ He nodded at the motor on the bench, nonchalant, pleased with himself. Something was wrongcarrying out impromptu repairs, midweek, just wasn’t something Robert did. Ever.
    ‘But that broke over two years ago.’
    ‘Did it?’ He looked at the motor again, less confident now, but still enthusiastic. ‘Oh.’ He started smiling again.
    ‘Why now? Why tonightwhen I’ve been going on to you about that blender for over two years?’
    Robert shrugged. ‘I thought I’d have a go at mending it.’
    ‘I don’t even use it any morewe bought the red KitchenAid instead because I got sick of waiting for that one to be mended.’
    He stared blankly at her as she walked over to the units and opened the cupboard door, and he carried on staring blanklyat the red KitchenAid this timeon the shelf inside. ‘I didn’t know we had that.’
    She slammed the door shut. ‘We’ve had it over two years.’
    ‘I haven’t seen you use it.’ He realised as he was saying this that it was the wrong thing to saythat it could even be classified a criticismbut he was getting himself lost; he couldn’t remember what it was they’d been talking about or why hewas holding a screwdriver in his hands. He stared at the disembodied motor unit on the bench in front of him, wondering when exactly he’d had the idea of trying to fix itwhen exactly he’d felt enthusiastic enough to take on