gorgeous toy-boy husband, two beautiful babies, this amazing house – must be worth millions – not to mention
the sixty-grand car parked outside. It’s not fair. I’d love to get my hair done every month at Nicky Clarke, or have enough clothes to fill a whole spare bedroom.
And
she owns
her own business. She can pull a sickie whenever she bloody feels like it.
Meanwhile I clear up her kids’ shit, chop her onions, do what I’m told. You could fit everything I own into a couple of holdalls. My boyfriend’s a total loser, and I can hardly
even afford our rent. In three years I’ll be thirty, and I’ve got nothing to show for it.
The only thing I’ve got that she hasn’t is freedom. I’m bloody well going to make the most of it while I still can.
I swing round. ‘Actually, Clare, I’m going out tonight, so I will finish early and take some time off, if that’s OK.’ I don’t give her a chance to change her mind.
‘About five? It’ll give me time to get ready and do my hair.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, that’s fine. Are you going anywhere nice?’
‘There’s a new club opened in Stockwell, thought I’d give it a go.’
‘Sounds . . . fun.’
‘I’ll be back to start at seven tomorrow, usual time,’ I add, rubbing it in. ‘Don’t worry if I don’t come home before then, though.’
She’s gone by the time I come back downstairs. I call Kirsty, and then raid the larder for something edible. This is easier said than done, since Clare is the sort of person who keeps
wheatgrass smoothies and tofu in her fridge, whereas I’m more your Red Bull and frozen pizza kind of girl. But eventually I locate some doughnuts she pity-bought last week from the hospital
fundraiser, and settle down with a cup of tea in front of Jeremy Kyle. M Y SISTER STOLE MY LOVER – AND NOW SHE WANTS A THREESOME ! Perfect.
The doorbell goes just as two bleach-blonde slappers lay claim to a bald lardarse with hair coming out of his ears.
‘I like the cinnamon frosting,’ Xan says, thumbing sugar from my top lip; ‘adds a nice touch.’
A bolt of lust shoots straight to my groin.
Xan saunters past me into the sitting room and sits down. ‘Hope you didn’t overdo the doughnuts, though. I thought we’d do lunch.’
I blink. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve got the twins—’
‘Bring them.’
‘No. I’ve got a thousand things to do, and anyway, I don’t think Clare would like it.’ I go back into the hall and pointedly open the front door. ‘No. Absolutely
not.’
‘Come on. You know you want to.’
‘I told you, I can’t.’
‘I promise I won’t tell.’
‘As if I’d believe
you
.’
Xan laughs and pushes the chocolate lava cake towards me. ‘You’d have a lot more fun if you just did what I told you.’
‘Yeah, and I’d end up getting arrested.’
I give in and reach for the cake fork, but before I can take a bite Xan catches my hand and turns my forearm over. Carefully, he fits his fingertips to the livid pattern of bruises circling my
wrist. ‘He’s got a firm grip,’ he comments, ‘your boyfriend.’
I pull my arm away. ‘He just doesn’t know his own strength.’
‘Oh, I think he does.’
I open my mouth to deny it. ‘The cupboard door swung back and hit me.’ ‘The phone distracted me when I was ironing.’ ‘I caught my hand in the car door.’
I’ve got so used to making excuses for Jamie, the lies automatically trip off my tongue. Last weekend, Mum remarked on a half-moon scar on my knee, and instantly I rushed to explain it away:
I was carrying some wine bottles out to the recycling bin, I slipped on some wet leaves, must have fallen awkwardly—
‘You did that when you were seven,’ Mum said, looking at me strangely. ‘You fell over the campfire at Brownies, don’t you remember?’
I busy myself with the twins now, wiping noses and cleaning hands. It’s not Jamie’s fault. I know every sad bitch who’s ever had her eye blacked by her boyfriend says
the sixty-grand car parked outside. It’s not fair. I’d love to get my hair done every month at Nicky Clarke, or have enough clothes to fill a whole spare bedroom.
And
she owns
her own business. She can pull a sickie whenever she bloody feels like it.
Meanwhile I clear up her kids’ shit, chop her onions, do what I’m told. You could fit everything I own into a couple of holdalls. My boyfriend’s a total loser, and I can hardly
even afford our rent. In three years I’ll be thirty, and I’ve got nothing to show for it.
The only thing I’ve got that she hasn’t is freedom. I’m bloody well going to make the most of it while I still can.
I swing round. ‘Actually, Clare, I’m going out tonight, so I will finish early and take some time off, if that’s OK.’ I don’t give her a chance to change her mind.
‘About five? It’ll give me time to get ready and do my hair.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, that’s fine. Are you going anywhere nice?’
‘There’s a new club opened in Stockwell, thought I’d give it a go.’
‘Sounds . . . fun.’
‘I’ll be back to start at seven tomorrow, usual time,’ I add, rubbing it in. ‘Don’t worry if I don’t come home before then, though.’
She’s gone by the time I come back downstairs. I call Kirsty, and then raid the larder for something edible. This is easier said than done, since Clare is the sort of person who keeps
wheatgrass smoothies and tofu in her fridge, whereas I’m more your Red Bull and frozen pizza kind of girl. But eventually I locate some doughnuts she pity-bought last week from the hospital
fundraiser, and settle down with a cup of tea in front of Jeremy Kyle. M Y SISTER STOLE MY LOVER – AND NOW SHE WANTS A THREESOME ! Perfect.
The doorbell goes just as two bleach-blonde slappers lay claim to a bald lardarse with hair coming out of his ears.
‘I like the cinnamon frosting,’ Xan says, thumbing sugar from my top lip; ‘adds a nice touch.’
A bolt of lust shoots straight to my groin.
Xan saunters past me into the sitting room and sits down. ‘Hope you didn’t overdo the doughnuts, though. I thought we’d do lunch.’
I blink. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve got the twins—’
‘Bring them.’
‘No. I’ve got a thousand things to do, and anyway, I don’t think Clare would like it.’ I go back into the hall and pointedly open the front door. ‘No. Absolutely
not.’
‘Come on. You know you want to.’
‘I told you, I can’t.’
‘I promise I won’t tell.’
‘As if I’d believe
you
.’
Xan laughs and pushes the chocolate lava cake towards me. ‘You’d have a lot more fun if you just did what I told you.’
‘Yeah, and I’d end up getting arrested.’
I give in and reach for the cake fork, but before I can take a bite Xan catches my hand and turns my forearm over. Carefully, he fits his fingertips to the livid pattern of bruises circling my
wrist. ‘He’s got a firm grip,’ he comments, ‘your boyfriend.’
I pull my arm away. ‘He just doesn’t know his own strength.’
‘Oh, I think he does.’
I open my mouth to deny it. ‘The cupboard door swung back and hit me.’ ‘The phone distracted me when I was ironing.’ ‘I caught my hand in the car door.’
I’ve got so used to making excuses for Jamie, the lies automatically trip off my tongue. Last weekend, Mum remarked on a half-moon scar on my knee, and instantly I rushed to explain it away:
I was carrying some wine bottles out to the recycling bin, I slipped on some wet leaves, must have fallen awkwardly—
‘You did that when you were seven,’ Mum said, looking at me strangely. ‘You fell over the campfire at Brownies, don’t you remember?’
I busy myself with the twins now, wiping noses and cleaning hands. It’s not Jamie’s fault. I know every sad bitch who’s ever had her eye blacked by her boyfriend says
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