Out of Practice (18 page)

Lizzie claimed, in fact, that jungle warfare was no match for the drama that took place in their kitchen between seven and eight every weekday morning. Yet she still managed to hold on to her
prestigious Editorship and her sense of humour, and Will’s business seemed to be thriving – well, enough to pay for a cleaner anyway!

Eventually the door to the bathroom flew open with a billow of steam and a hit of eucalyptus from Milo’s potent shower gel. He smiled when he saw the boys, running up and
down the landing, still swathed in Holly’s lingerie. ‘Well it’s about time your scanties had an outing, isn’t it, Holls?’ He tucked the towel tightly around his taut
waist. ‘Although that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I bought them.’

He walked over to her and slid his hand around her middle, the camisole riding up slightly. ‘Why don’t you pop the boys in front of the TV for a bit, hmm? It has to be my turn to
have you all to myself?’ he said, kissing her lightly on the side of her neck.

He pulled her back against him, the towel damp and cold on the back of her legs. There was no mistaking his intention.

She wavered, trying not to dwell on the enormous list of things she had to do this morning or the outing she’d planned with the twins. It had been weeks since they’d made love and,
if she was honest, she missed the intimacy, the release from herself.

It was hard enough fighting her own exhaustion, but tiptoeing around Milo’s mood-swings was like living in an emotional minefield. She knew though, that she ought to make an effort, try to
reconnect. Obligation just didn’t seem the perfect catalyst for reigniting their exuberant sex life of old.

It didn’t help that Tom’s hearing was seemingly set on a hair trigger these days. At the slightest squeak of a mattress spring in the night, he was awake and crying. It could have
become a shared joke, a challenge even, to fool around somewhere different, but no . . . It had simply become something else for Milo to get mouthy and resentful about.

How was she supposed to flick a switch, she wondered, and feel turned on by a man who, she increasingly found, she sometimes didn’t actually like very much?

But in that moment, her rebellious body had no interest in all the petty slights and grievances that she stored up about her husband. She leaned back into him, a gentle moan escaping her, as his
lips touched the sensitive part of her collarbone. He certainly knew what she liked. She breathed in deeply, content to let her body find its own path back, secretly relieved there was still
something there, even if it was only in the bedroom.

‘Come on, Holls, a bit of exercise will do you good. You can do the house later,’ he persisted, believing in his own back-handed way that she still needed convincing. His hands gave
a gentle squeeze to the softness of her waist and Holly stilled instantly, his words effectively dousing the warm flickers of lust that had begun to grow within her.

She didn’t move for a moment, swallowing down instead the frustrated cry that was building in her throat. The boys were still tearing around on the landing, but her world seemed to slow
down around her, as her mind and her libido went to war.

She needn’t have worried about making a decision though, because from the corner of her eye, she watched in slow motion as Ben tripped forward across the landing, his foot caught in the
hem of the camisole he was using as a cape. He tumbled to the carpet with a thud, his cries instantly shattering Holly’s immobility.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ cursed Milo, exasperated, pushing Holly away from him and storming across the bedroom. He didn’t even look at her, as he threw his sopping towel to
the floor and pulled on his boxers.

Holly scooped up her crying child and pressed gentle kisses to his forehead, soothing him with the gentle rocking that he loved.

Over the top of Ben’s tousled head, Holly watched Milo put on his watch and tap the face three times, just as he always did, his movements jerky and agitated. It was a constant source of
amazement to her in fact, that someone with a touch of the OCD could actually be such a slob. Milo slid into his usual writer’s ensemble of skinny v-neck and jeans, wrapping a long knit scarf
around his neck several times. ‘I’ll be at the library all morning then,’ he said, without looking at her and went downstairs, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

‘Daddy messy,’ announced Tom solemnly, standing quietly and looking around the bedroom.

‘Daddy thoughtless pig,’ murmured Holly under her breath, wondering how long she could leave that towel on the bedroom floor before it smothered the remains of her libido
entirely.

Holly and the boys arrived in the kitchen a few minutes later, just in time to see Milo dump his coffee cup in the sink. ‘Have a good morning, yeah?’ he said,
kissing the top of her head distractedly as he walked past, his mind having clearly shifted into work mode. He gathered up his papers from the kitchen table and went to open the back door, touching
the handle repeatedly without turning it.

Holly dropped the overflowing laundry basket to the floor and watched, fighting the urge to interrupt his routine. She let him get to eight, knowing that his compulsive mind needed ten touches
of the doorknob to find its peace. ‘Milo?’ she said, her face a picture of innocence. ‘We’ll see you for lunch later?’

She watched the subtle twitch in his face as he nodded, then turned back to the doorknob. Holly shepherded the twins into their respective high chairs and took in the scene of devastation on the
kitchen worktop. The last of the milk dribbled lazily across the dark granite surface, wending its way between the crumbs and the butter and the discarded crusts from Milo’s morning
toast.

Six, seven, eight . . . ‘Oh and Milo? Don’t forget to phone your mother back will you? She’s already called three times this morning.’

His hand shook slightly now as it hovered above the doorknob and Holly felt a twinge of guilt for messing with his head. She may have laughed herself stupid when Lizzie had pointed out that no
man had ever been murdered whilst hoovering the sitting room, but it still felt a little petty to exploit such an easy target.

He paced at the door now, clearly agitated, and took a deep breath. ‘Fine, fine.’ He paused warily. ‘Anything else?’

Holly shook her head and the boys gave him toothy grins from between mouthfuls of dry Cheerios.

Five, six, seven . . . ‘Have a lovely day, darling,’ Holly couldn’t resist, smothering a smile, before scooping up the laundry and heading to the utility room, where
Milo’s running kit lay sweaty and discarded on the floor, and Holly could really begin to enjoy her ‘Day Off’.

Holly threw a huge bag of pasta into her trolley and prayed that none of her patients would judge her if they saw that, when it came to nutrition, it was probably a case of
‘Do as I say, not do as I do.’

She sped around the supermarket as if she were against the clock. In a way of course she was – the gentle jostling as the twins sat side by side in the trolley could quickly escalate to
full blown elbows-at-dawn if she wasn’t careful.

Holly made sure that, on the surface at least, their weekly shop was the epitome of perfect health: Smiley Faces and fish fingers buried beneath a veritable avalanche of cherry tomatoes and
avocados and bananas.

She popped in a few cans of Pedigree Chum for Eric’s planned sleepover later in the week, already looking forward to the prospect of some rewarding company, snuggled up on the sofa beside
her. She still couldn’t quite believe that Milo hadn’t batted an eyelid at the proposal, seemingly content enough with the explanation that Lizzie needed help with dog-sitting as she
was working long hours right now. Occasionally Milo would have a moan about Holly ‘being taken advantage of’ but, frankly, he was so self-involved at the moment, Holly suspected that
Eric could move in permanently and it would take Milo several weeks to notice.

She slid a multipack of illicit Curly Wurlys down the side of her trolley and was just thinking that they might yet make it round before one or both of the twins descended into meltdown.

Holly adopted a dash-and-grab approach to supermarket shopping, cursing herself for her lack of organisation and wishing she’d booked an internet delivery. Somehow the ability to plan
ahead, though, had rather deserted Holly since the move. Although now, she had to make sure that Tom’s little eyes were never given the opportunity to focus on all the goodies he was missing
out on, just to keep his brother’s little digestive system happy. Speed was of the essence.

The checkout was in sight and Holly was just rewarding herself by wedging a few bottles of Pinot and a huge bag of pistachios in the trolley when her plan fell apart.

‘Good morning to you, Dr Graham,’ trilled Cassie Holland, Larkford’s social conscience and epitome of political correctness, who was blocking the aisle and showing no intention
of moving. Her son Tarquin was slumped miserably in the trolley. ‘You’re just the person I needed to see. Could you be an angel and tell my Tarka that wheat-derived glucose syrups are
not the healthy choice for a growing boy. When I think of all the processing . . . Do, please, back me up, Dr Graham.’

Holly ground to a halt, unsure of how to respond to this request. She was all up for talking to her boys as though they were people not puppies and you would never catch her talking in a baby
voice, but Cassie seemed to have taken the notion a little too far. Indeed since Tarquin was barely three, the need for a thorough explanation of food manufacturing processes seemed to be
stretching the imagination a little.

Cassie held up two packets, making no effort at all to move aside. She shook them a little when Holly didn’t immediately answer and her eyes slid across to examine Holly’s trolley as
if she couldn’t help herself.

‘Well? Could you explain to Tarka for me? Should we go for cereal with no additives and use our own runny honey? Or are we better to try the one with organic glucose syrup?’

Cassie was still blocking the aisle, her feet firmly planted and her poncho flaring out to make her look even more formidable than usual. It was clear that Holly was going to have to offer some
form of opinion.

‘Either’s good, to be honest, Cassie. They’re both reputable brands. Keep it simple and you can’t go wrong, I say.’ Holly smiled and squeezed past on her way to the
checkout, relieved to have got away so lightly. She may have only lived in Larkford a short while, but already she’d been Cassie’d more times than she cared to admit. Holly’s
heart sank as Cassie nipped in behind her in the queue and loomed alongside the twins, keen to chat.

Looking distinctly unsatisfied at Holly’s blatant lack of interest in her oatmeal dilemma, Cassie gave her a sympathetic look. ‘It’s so hard getting our little men to make the
right choices about their diet, isn’t it? I mean, our household is completely organic, but we still have to be their guiding light, don’t we?’

Her beady eyes fell on the three bottles of Pinot Grigio, wedged in place with a large bottle of bleach and some out-of-season asparagus from feck-knows-where and her jaw tightened.
‘Obviously not everyone can lead by example, and when you’re working you have to cut corners somewhere.’

Swallowing her instant dislike for anyone who referred to their son as a Little Man, Holly took a calming breath. She could see that Cassie was trying very hard indeed to be supportive. She was
trying even harder not to leap upon Holly’s un-organic, un-green, un-recycled trolley-full and rip it limb from limb. In fact she was trying so hard that Cassie’s face had taken on an
uncomfortable squirrelly look as if she were holding in some particularly offensive wind.

Tom tugged on Holly’s sleeve. ‘Scooze-me, Mummy,’ he said, sounding like a particularly eloquent Jersey cow. ‘Choccie snack for Tom?’ He held up a bar of Dairy Milk
pilfered from Holly’s nemesis and weekly undoing, the checkout display.

Holly took a deep breath and gently took it from his clutching fingers. ‘No, darling. No chocolate. Would make Ben poorly.’ Normally she would have been on the ball to avoid this,
fully prepared with a game, a joke or a snack to distract them, but obviously her attention had been elsewhere and now she was paying the price.

Tom’s eyes welled up and his little legs began to work furiously to be free of the trolley. ‘Tom like choccie!’ His tiny face began to turn purple and his wails became
increasingly distraught.

Cassie made no move to step aside and Holly could have sworn that there was more than a hint of smug satisfaction to her sympathetic smile. ‘So hard,’ she murmured.

Holly gave up all pretence of politeness, swallowed a selection of swear words, and turned her back on Cassie. She was actually annoyed with herself these days, disgusted even, wondering where
her fighting spirit had gone. It seemed that she’d become so accustomed to editing her opinions at work, and then at home, that the habit now seemed to have spilled over into her own time. In
fact, she’d become so practised at rephrasing her opinions to make them more palatable, that she was in grave danger of either losing the ability to stand up for herself completely or losing
her temper in an entirely unprofessional outburst.

She took another deep breath, hoping today wouldn’t be
that
day, and made do with cursing under her breath all those sanctimonious women, who thought that working for a living
made you a bad parent. Surely she would be an even worse parent, if she let her children struggle by on the pittance that Milo brought in every month. You can’t fund an organic idyll on
tuppence in loose change after all.

Holly quickly unloaded her shopping to be scanned, as Tom grizzled in resentment in the trolley. Marion on the check-out, bless her heart, had assessed the situation in a heartbeat. She leaned
over and took a packet of crisps from the till display. ‘Is Ben alright with these?’ she queried and Holly nodded gratefully. Once each child was munching quietly, she stacked the
shopping through, wondering at how Marion knew to quickly pack the illicit goodies into bags before anything else.