The Boss's Proposal by Cathy Williams Page A

armful of painting work done at school, which, from experience, Vicky knew would have to be housed at least for a few days until they could be discreetly relegated to the bin.
    In her mind, she played guiltily with the thought of bashing the kitchen and the small dining room into one, so that she could have a decent-sized kitchen, big enough for a sensible eating area, maybe even some kind of bar arrangement as well where she could stick a couple of stools. Chloe would like that. It would remind her of the ice-cream bar they’d used to go to once a week in Sydney, where the tall stools were as much of an attraction as the fifty-one different types of ice-cream.
    And then, if there was a bit more free wall space, she could have a notice board or two and Chloe’s infantile works of art would see the light of day for a bit longer than they did at the moment.
    She pushed the nasty, treacherous little thought away and entered into the gist of her daughter’s conversation, which today revolved around a stuffed human project in the small class she was attending. Bradley, the name that cropped up most frequently in her daughter’s conversation, had apparently hijacked the efforts of the class by accidentally sitting on one of the vital body parts that was destined to be the stuffed figure’s head. At this, Chloe laughed until tears came to her eyes and Vicky allowed herself a few moments of unadulterated pleasure, listening to her daughter’s uninhibited conversation and bubbling laughter.
    â€˜Now we’ll have to make a new head,’ Chloe confided, ‘Miss Jenkins took the buttons off but the smiley mouth took us ages to do and we’ll have to do a new one.’
    â€˜What buttons?’
    â€˜The buttons for the eyes , Mum!’ Chloe said impatiently. ‘I’m hungry. What’s for tea?’
    â€˜Something nourishing and full of goodness,’ Vicky said, slowing down to pull into her drive, and her daughter’s face fell. She grinned to herself. ‘Chicken casserole with potatoes and carrots.’
    â€˜Can I have ketchup with it?’
    â€˜No reason why not.’
    Her thoughts continued to drift like flotsam and jetsam.
    The bedrooms. There were the bedrooms. Yes, they were absolutely fine, but really, just say building work did take place—which it wouldn’t, of course—then wouldn’t it be nice to knock a couple of those bedrooms together so that she could have a good-sized room for herself with the luxury of an en suite bathroom? Maybe even a dressing room? Nothing big, but big enough for her to actually see her jumpers and maintain the odd crease-free shirt for work.
    And Chloe’s room would benefit from having those dated fitted cupboards removed and replaced by a free-standing one in some cheerful, modern colour that her daughter would like.
    â€˜I can’t eat that many carrots, Mum.’
    Vicky glanced down to discover that there was a small mountain of orange on her daughter’s plate and she hurriedly rectified the situation and tried to gather her thoughts into a less wayward direction.
    In the morning, she would phone Mandy and explain that there had been some hideous mistake, that she wasn’t at all interested in having any building work done—at least, not at that moment in time. She would stop letting her thoughts drift in pleasing circles that involved bigger bedrooms and bar counters in kitchens. Instead, she would think of wallpaper, paint effects and possibly getting rid of some of the heavier furniture.
    By the following morning, her thoughts had turned full circle and she’d managed to persuade herself that she would meet with the architect after all.
    Wouldn’t it, she thought reasonably, draw attention to herself if she summarily turned down the whole thing without even assessing the cost? If she met with Andy Griggs, then she could say quite truthfully, no doubt—that it was all going to be too