Not Quite Perfect

Joel’s face remains fixed in a smile, but his eyes betray panic.

‘Oh, didn’t Digby tell you?’ says Emma without mercy. ‘We got it. Isn’t that fantastic?’

‘Congratulations, Emma. You must be delighted. I suppose Jacqui and I will have to do our best to market the unmarketable, eh?’

Emma is almost impressed by this neat left hook, but nothing can dampen her mood today. ‘I’m sure you will, Joel. See you later,’ she says, skipping back down the corridor like a schoolgirl who’s just got one over on the mean kids.

Diana Darcy looks at herself in the mirror and is satisfied. Despite the onset of grand-motherhood and the advent of her sixties, she senses that she is still a good-looking woman. Her mother taught her that to dress well is to live well, and it is a sentiment she carries with her still. Sometimes, when she is shopping in town or out with the children in the park, she notices the fat people, the unkempt, the careless and their appearance disgusts her.

‘Mum, don’t be such a snob!’ Rachel hisses as her mother wrinkles her nose at another overweight child in a tracksuit getting wedged at the top of a slide.

‘Rachel, dear, it’s just indicative of our society. I read about it in the paper. Overweight mothers breed overweight children. It’s tragic really.’

Diana pats her hair, fixes a bracelet onto her wrist and dabs a little of her perfume behind each ear. She checks her appearance once more, smoothing her skirt and removing a hair from her black cashmere jumper.

‘Ah, my vision, my life.’ Edward appears at the door, bowing in a mock-romantic gesture.

‘You old fool,’ laughs Diana fondly. ‘Right, I’m going to meet daughter number one and those recalcitrant children for coffee. What are your plans?’

‘Oh don’t worry about me. The Telegraph crossword beckons. Do we have any Kit Kats?’

‘No. No chocolate for you, not with your cholesterol,’ she scolds him like a mother with a sixty-two-year-old toddler.

‘Very good ma’am. Anything else ma’am?’

‘Yes. You can stop being cheeky and maybe put in those bulbs? It’s a glorious day. Much too nice to be sitting indoors.’

‘All right, my darling. Have a wonderful time. Send them all my love.’

The phone rings and Diana answers with impatience. ‘Hello?’

‘Diana, darling. It’s Rosie. Are you well? Good, good,’ she continues without waiting for Diana to answer.

‘Rosie, I’m just off out to meet Rachel.’

‘Of course, you run along, darling. I wanted to speak to Teddy anyway.’

Diana balks at Rosie’s use of this name. It’s a vestige of the past, of Edward’s university days, before he knew Diana. She hands the phone to Edward. He looks nonplussed and holds the phone to his ear.

‘Oh Rosie, it’s you. How the devil are you?’

Diana feels suddenly invisible as Edward is lost in conversation with one of his oldest friends. She knows it’s ridiculous to feel jealous after nearly forty years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, but somehow Rosie can provoke this feeling. She has tried to bond with her, but all the time she has this nagging sense that Edward should have married her instead. Rosie has it all; the brains, the career in Fleet Street, the contacts. She’s the mother the girls might have preferred; the one who can get them the jobs, the restaurant bookings and, even now, she’s wooing the grandchildren with trips to the Cbeebies studio and tickets to film premieres. Diana should be grateful and magnanimous, but she feels churlish and undermined.

She rallies herself now, pecking her husband on the cheek, mouthing ‘Be good,’ and sweeping out of the door without a backward glance.

She loves driving into town, finding a parking space and having a potter around the shops before she meets Rachel, who is always late.

‘I’ve got three children to manage, Mother. You’re just one person,’ Rachel observed when her mother brought it up.

‘Rachel, darling, you were never on time before you had the children.’ This is true and Diana was quite pleased by her quick-witted observation, which had made Rachel laugh.

She pulls into the car park situated behind a budget supermarket branch, which Diana can’t bring herself to use. Rachel laughs at her mother’s superciliousness, but Diana knows she is right. She doesn’t expect everywhere to be as nice as Waitrose, but she knows that they keep the lighting dim so people can’t see what they’re buying. Also, the entrance hall smells of urine, which to her mind can never be conducive to a happy shopping experience.

Diana finds a space by the exit. She is just placing a ticket on her windscreen when she hears two squeaky voices: ‘Granny, Granny, Granny!’ Diana turns at the cacophony of excited greetings to see Lily and Alfie waving frantically from their pushchair as a weary-looking Rachel plods across the car park towards her.

‘Rachel, you’re on time,’ she says with a wry smile.

Rachel rolls her eyes. ‘And good morning to you too, Mother.’

‘Just my little joke,’ trills Diana dismissively. She has never found smalltalk easy, particularly with Rachel, who often seems so quick to take offence. ‘Now who wants some cake?’

‘Meeeeee!’ chorus Alfie and Lily with glee.

They reach the coffee shop and Diana leads the children to a table, while Rachel places their order. Alfie and Lily scramble onto the furniture and Diana sinks into an armchair blinking at the sunshine, which is filtering in through the window. She looks over at her daughter and notices how tired she is looking. Her shoulders are hunched, as if she’s doing battle with life, not like the cocky teenager who used to give her so much trouble.

‘Here we are.’ Rachel puts down the tray with care just as Alfie kicks the table spilling milk from the too-full cups.

‘Alfie!’ shouts Rachel with more force than she intends. Two middle-aged women look over unimpressed.

‘It’s all right. There’s no use crying over spilt milk, as my mother would say,’ declares Diana, smiling at the women, trying to make up for Rachel’s outburst.

Irritated, Rachel hacks at a chocolate muffin with her teaspoon, setting the portions in front of the children, who fall on it like hungry lion cubs.

Diana sips her coffee and wrinkles her nose. ‘Too hot,’ she complains.

Rachel remains silent, but can feel her annoyance increasing by the second. Most people could make comments like this, but with her mother the negativity is suffocating. Rachel can’t remember the last time Diana paid a compliment. She takes a sip of her own coffee, burning the roof of her mouth, but refusing to acknowledge it.

‘I tell you what you should do,’ says her mother without any small talk, ‘you should bring the children over one day and treat yourself to a trip to the hairdresser’s’

‘Why? What’s wrong with my hair?’ says Rachel immediately offended.

‘Nothing, darling, nothing. It just looks as if it could do with a cut. You could make a day of it. Go to Bluewater, have some lunch and get yourself some new clothes.’ This body blow is dealt with a quizzical look at Rachel’s baggy grey jumper.

‘Look, Mum, I know you’re trying to be nice, but you sound like you’re criticising me.’

‘Well, if you don’t want to.’

‘No, I’d love to, really. Thank you.’ Rachel doesn’t have the energy for this conversation today.

‘So,’ says Diana, changing the subject, ‘how is my favourite son-in-law?’

Rachel’s reply is curt: ‘Your favourite son-in-law wants to move us to Edinburgh as it happens.’

‘What?’

‘That’s right. He wants your grandchildren to grow up on a diet of fried Mars Bars and in a climate more akin to the North Pole.’

‘Oh darling, but you can’t go, surely?’

‘I don’t know, Mum, we need to talk about it. Are you still OK to have the children this weekend?’

‘Of course. Oh Rachel, we’d never see you.’

‘I know, I know. Oh Mum, I just don’t know what to do any more.’ The tears spring easily into Rachel’s eyes and Diana is suddenly lost.

‘Oh look darling, there, there.’ She pats Rachel’s hand and smiles with embarrassment at the women on the next table, who are looking over nosily. ‘Come on, don’t cry. I’m sure you’ll sort it out.’

Lily and Alfie have noticed their mother’s tears and Alfie starts to cry as well, his face a mess of chocolate muffin and snot. Lily offers her arms to her mother and scolds him. ‘Stop it, Alfie, and give Mummy a cuddle.’

Rachel can’t believe that her children are the ones comforting her instead of her mother. She wonders at how they must appear; her mother looking awkward and embarrassed and her, a crumpled mess with two small children covering her in sticky kisses and fierce little hugs.

Miranda’s PA, Andrea, has dressed one end of the boardroom with fresh flowers and bottles of Moët. At the opposite end, a table is lined with chairs, as if Allen Chandler is about to announce a major football signing or host the ratification of an international treaty. Miranda has e-mailed the company to make sure that Richard is welcomed properly into the fold and the designers, always first at the mention of free booze and Twiglets, are already gathering, making the place look cool and a little untidy.

When Joanna and Richard enter the room, the atmosphere prickles with excitement as if a couple of celebrities have just walked in. The assembled company part to make way for them and Emma notices a lot of the females nudging each other as they clock Richard who, with his floppy schoolboy hair and grinning demeanour, is looking undeniably handsome.

Ella sidles up to her friend and whispers in her ear. ‘Well, isn’t he just the dish of the day?’

‘Can’t say I’d noticed,’ smiles Emma.

‘Liar.’

Miranda is a stickler for punctuality, so the clock has only just struck three o’clock when she booms out her welcome: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to be able to gather you together today to witness a truly exciting event. As most of you will know, we have been working tirelessly to lure Richard to Allen Chandler. I am delighted to announce that he has accepted our offer. Richard, we normally get our authors to sign in blood but for you we will make an exception. Would you do the honours?’

A cheer goes up and Richard bows to the crowd, who laugh. The contract is signed and the photographer ushers Richard and Miranda into the shot. Emma is mortified when Miranda drags her into the frame and is amused to see Jacqui muscling in on the action too. Emma hears her spelling her name to the journalist.

‘That’s Moss, as in Kate Moss. No, no relation but thank you, people often wonder if she’s my sister.’

Emma watches as Joanna whisks Richard over to meet Digby, who embraces him tightly, much to Richard’s surprise. She is feeling a little light-headed due to a combination of early-afternoon champagne and last night’s excesses. She wanders over to the window to take in the view. She is suddenly aware of someone standing next to her and turns to find Richard at her side.

‘Hello, Emma Darcy,’ he says with a smile.

‘Hello, Richard Bennett. Welcome to the family. I see you’ve met Digby.’

Richard chuckles. ‘It was like being hugged by a bear. He seems like a decent chap.’

‘He is. Actually most people here are.’

‘Miranda terrifies me.’

‘So she should.’

‘And what about you, Emma Darcy? Do I need to be scared of you?’

Emma looks him in the eye. ‘Petrified.’

‘That’s what I thought. Well, I shall make sure I wear my thickest body armour to all our meetings. When is our first meeting by the way?’

‘How are you fixed next Monday? I thought we could meet at Kew seeing as it’s the backdrop for so much of the book.’

‘Sounds perfect. By the way, I just wanted to say what a fantastic time I had last night. I think we’re going to work really well together, don’t you?’

She looks up at him. He really is very attractive, just her type in many ways and if she were single then she’d probably be having some pretty inappropriate thoughts about him. As it is, she intends to just enjoy the ride. ‘Yes I do as a matter of fact.’

‘Right, well I have to be somewhere. I’ll see you on Monday. Looking forward to it.’ He kisses her on the cheek before he leaves.

‘Lucky cow,’ says Ella, nudging her friend as they watch him disappear down the corridor.

‘I know,’ laughs Emma, putting an arm around her. ‘I’m a very lucky girl indeed.’

Martin looks at the table and feels pleased with his efforts.

‘Chicks love candles and flowers. Chuck in the champagne and you’ve got yourself a night to remember,’ says Martin’s best friend, Charlie, helping himself to another chocolate digestive.

‘Yes, thank you, mate. With comments like that, I’m starting to feel sorry for Stacey. Now, isn’t it time you buggered off?’

‘I’ll have you know, my Stacey is very well looked after, thank you,’ says Charlie patting his groin.

Martin groans and rolls his eyes. ‘They say romance is dead and now I see they’re not wrong.’

‘Oi, I’m romantic! I’m always buying Stace flowers.’

‘Erm, I don’t think the ones with the orange discount stickers count, mate.’

Charlie shrugs. ‘They’re still flowers, aren’t they? Only mugs pay full price.’

‘Of course they do, Charles. Now, don’t you have a home to go to? Emma’s going to be back soon,’ says Martin, rearranging the flowers on the table like a professional.

‘All right, all right, I get the message. Muff before mates. I know.’

Martin ignores him. ‘See you later, Charlie,’ he says, wresting the biscuit tin from his grasp.

‘See you later, geeze,’ says Charlie, heading for the door.

Martin looks at the table again and checks his watch. Emma should be home in around half an hour so he turns on the oven and goes upstairs to the spare room to print out the details of the weekend away he is planning. He sits back in his office chair and feels happy. Charlie may mock, but he and Stacey are practically married and soon Martin and Emma will be settled too. He gathers up the printed pages and practically skips downstairs as he hears Emma’s key in the door.

‘Well, if it isn’t the sexiest, cleverest, most beautiful editor in the world.’ Martin folds her in his arms and kisses her on the mouth.

‘Mmm, I should almost fail to get a book and then succeed in getting a book more often,’ she says, pulling him towards her. ‘Shall we just skip the dinner and go straight onto pudding?’

‘All in good time, my little sexpot. I have many surprises for you first. Come in, come in.’ He leads her to the kitchen. ‘Look! I bring you good things to eat and flowers, candles and –’ he pulls open the fridge, swiping out a bottle, ‘champagn-a!’ he says in a mock-Italian accent.

Emma’s stomach does a little flip at the thought of her third dose of champagne in less than twenty-four hours but is touched by his kindness. ‘Thank you darling.’

‘And for my final trick –’ continues Martin, fanning out some printed pages in front of Emma like a magician. ‘Ta-da!’

Emma studies them. ‘What’s this? Wow! The Clevedon? For this weekend? That’s amazing. You spoil me!’ she cries, wrapping her arms round his neck.

‘Well, you deserve it,’ says Martin, stroking her face and kissing her tenderly. ‘I love you so much, Em. Now, sit down. Chef Love has a feast to prepare and you, my darling, have champagne to drink.’

Emma sits back in the comfy kitchen chair, propped up with mismatched cushions. She kicks off her shoes and accepts the glass of champagne Martin has poured for her.

‘Here’s to you, Emma Darcy, editor-extraordinaire. Congratulations.’

They knock their glasses together and Martin strides over to the work surface to check on the bubbling pot of bolognese. He lifts the lid and scoops up a spoonful, blowing it before taking a tentative taste. ‘Ooh, hot, hot, but oh so good,’ he grins. Emma laughs and sips her champagne feeling cosy.

‘So, who did you end up drowning your sorrows with last night?’ asks Martin.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, when I last spoke to you, you were on your way home, but you sent me a text at about ten telling me not to wait up.’

The lie is out of Emma’s mouth before she has a chance to stop it. ‘Oh, it was just Ella. We were going to go for one and ended up staying for more. How was the match?’ she asks, changing the subject.

‘It was great. I scored a hat trick,’ grins Martin proudly. ‘I’m top goal-scorer this season. Expecting an England call-up any day.’

‘I’m proud of you, darling. Hopefully that means I’ll get to give up this publishing lark and hang out with Coleen Rooney,’ laughs Emma as the phone rings. She picks it up and hears Martin’s mother’s voice.

‘Emma?’

‘Hello, Daphne. How are you?’ Emma has an uneasy relationship with her mother-in-law to be. She’s never been anything less than civil, but Emma knows she doesn’t really like her. It’s partly due to the fact that Martin is an only child and she’s fiercely over-protective, but she also once overheard her remarking to a neighbour that Emma was a ‘flibbertigibbet’. Rachel had snorted with laughter. ‘I’d take that as a compliment, sis. You should hear what Steve’s mum calls me.’ Emma knows she’s right but does want to get along with her prospective mother-in-law and she knows she tries too hard.

‘Well, I can’t lie Emma. I’ve had the most terrible bowel problems of late.’

Emma sits eyes-wide listening to Daphne’s very detailed descriptions. She does her best to avoid looking at Martin, who has picked up the gist of the conversation and is doing his best to make her laugh.

‘Well, that must be terrible,’ says Emma, biting her hand to stop herself from giggling. ‘I had no idea it could come out that colour.’ Martin mimics someone sitting on the toilet and Emma sticks two fingers up at him.

‘So, are you looking forward to the weekend?’ says Daphne abruptly changing tack.

‘Er, yes. Actually, I only just found out about it myself,’ she replies slightly annoyed that she wasn’t the first woman in Martin’s life to know.

‘Oh good, because we’re so looking forward to seeing you.’

Emma is confused and then notices that Martin is looking sheepish. She glances again at the hotel booking, realising that it’s just around the corner from his parents’ house. Daphne is twittering on about seeing her engagement ring and how much they are looking forward to her becoming their daughter-in-law.

‘Yes, we’re really looking forward to seeing you too. Martin’s just made me a lovely dinner, so shall I get him to call you later?’ says Emma eventually. She replaces the phone, fixing Martin with a look.

‘OK Em, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you and we’ll only need to pop round for half an hour or so.’

‘It’s OK,’ says Emma pecking him on the cheek. ‘It’s probably a good idea. Kill two birds and all that.’ She takes another sip of her champagne. ‘Now, where’s this dinner you’ve been promising me?’

Chapter 6

Rachel watches Will disappear in a flurry of seven-year-olds. He looks small and even though she knows he doesn’t give their partings a second thought, she still feels sick to her stomach when she thinks about him growing up. She turns away quickly, trying to avoid conversation with the other mothers, but fails.

‘Rachel! Hi!’ It’s Verity, the toothy, overly keen year two PTA representative. Rachel has made it her life’s work to avoid people with the word ‘representative’ in their title. Today she is particularly keen to be on her way as Steve is starting work late so that he can drop Lily and Alfie at pre-school. Rachel is eager to enjoy some quality time with this week’s Grazia and a skinny latte.

‘Rachel,’ says Verity again with a sincere smile, the ‘like me, like me!’ vibes oozing from every pore. ‘I just happened to notice that you hadn’t signed up to help at our annual Nearly New Sale.’

Rachel’s heart sinks. It’s not that she objects to helping at school events, it’s just that socialising with the school committee members is more competitive than the Olympics. Last term, she had nearly come to blows with another mother when she suggested that they buy some cheap costumes for the end of term production from the pound shop. The mother had told Rachel that she was ‘creatively repressed’ and ‘morally corrupt’ for not making Will’s crab outfit herself. Rachel had then spent a miserable weekend constructing a papier-mâché crustacean that Will had refused to wear. Since that day, Rachel had vowed never to let middle-class guilt get the better of her again.

‘Oh sorry, I didn’t see the letter home. When is it?’

‘It’s on Saturday.’

‘Oh, we’re busy, we have a family do,’ says Rachel too quickly.

‘Week,’ finishes Verity.

‘Ahh, I think we might have something on that day too,’ she says knowing she has been rumbled.

‘Really?’ says Verity her tone changing, ‘because it would be a shame if people didn’t make the effort for their child’s school, don’t you think?’

‘Erm, sorry, Verity, I really have to go.’

‘Fine, Rachel, that’s fine. Just don’t expect to be voted onto the school committee. Ever.’ She delivers this final utterance like a judge who has just issued the death penalty.

‘Fingers crossed,’ mutters Rachel and scoots out of the school gates. Her mobile rings. It’s Emma.

‘Tartface! What news?’

‘We got the book!’

‘You are kidding me? A thicky like you?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Seriously little sis, well done. That’s very good news. When do we celebrate? I could do with a night out.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How about drinks tomorrow? At the Pickled Pig?’

‘OK, great. You can buy me a drink and tell me how clever I am.’

‘Don’t push it. See you around eight.’

Emma tosses her phone into her bag and returns to the manuscript before her. She really wants to get started on The Red Orchid, but has promised that she’ll wait until Miranda has read it through first. Saskia, the brilliant but slightly fluffy fiction designer, pokes her head over her pod.

‘Hieeeeee!’

‘Hello, Saskia.’

‘Coming to Joely-Joel’s meeting?’

‘What meeting is that? The one where he patronises everyone in sight?’

‘Noooooooooooo sill-ee!’ trills Saskia. ‘It’s our monthly review of all the scrummy books coming up in the next three months,’ she adds cheerfully, curling her hair around her fingers in the manner of a six-year-old. In fact, today she is dressed just like a six-year-old apart from the inappropriate T-shirt with the slogan ‘Spank Me Hard’. This is teamed with a red check puffball skirt, blue and green striped legwarmers and silver ballet pumps. Her hair is pulled into two bunches like a Pekinese dog’s. It probably looks very hip, but Emma shudders at the sight of her and the dawning realisation that her opinions are starting to align themselves with those of her mother.

The prospect of a meeting in the company of Poochy Poo and marketing’s answer to Goebbels makes Emma want to quit her job and do something more fulfilling, like treating sewage. She takes heart at the fact that Philippa will be there and although she never gets a word in because of her fool of a boss, she’s a silent, eyebrow-raising ally of sorts. When Emma reaches the meeting room, Joel is sitting at the head of the long table talking in a loud voice on his mobile.

‘Yep, yep, will do, OK, of course I can sort it. Speak soon, boss. Bye!’

Emma plonks herself next to Philippa.

‘On the phone to his mother again?’ she whispers with a wink. Philippa grins.

Saskia bounces in, her arms full of print-outs which she always refers to as her ‘children’. She takes her seat and Joel begins.

‘So the purpose of today is to review the past three months, look forward to the next three, see where we are and where we want to be. OK, people?’

No one speaks so Joel continues. ‘So, Emma. Talk us through the latest on these.’ He fans out copies of a crime series set in Cornwall written by an eighty-year-old female author. Joel doesn’t wait for her to speak. ‘You see, I think we should either bin these or look to re-jacket. Book Data seems to indicate around a twenty per cent sell-through, which is very poor.’