A Perfect Home Read Online Free

there’s a huge stain on the floor?’
    â€˜Oh, that was an accident with Ben and some raspberries. And Macavity –’
    â€˜I’ve only just laid that floor – it took me weeks to sand and varnish. Now I’ll have to do it all over again.’
    Claire took a deep breath.
    â€˜The stain is behind the sofa. No one will notice,’ she said.
    â€˜I’ll notice. Every time I walk in there I’ll know it’s there.’
    â€˜I’m sure it will fade with time.’ Claire tried to sound optimistic.
    William ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. ‘Can’t you just try to look after the place a bit more?’
    â€˜I do, I really do but …’ Claire began, but he held up his hand to stop her like a policeman holding up a line of traffic. He picked up his wine glass and left the room.
    A surge of rage welled up inside Claire and, picking up a fairy cake, she threw it towards the empty doorway. It fell short and rolled across the quarry tiles to where Macavity sat inelegantly licking his back leg. He sniffed it for a few seconds and wandered away towards the fish pie on the Aga.
    Claire sat down as the rage turned into a familiar lethargy. After all these years the house was finished; William had made a beautiful home, and now Claire felt that he almost resented having to share it with his family.
    She looked at the flowers on the table and thought of her grandmother’s florist stall in the little northern mining town where she had lived. As a child Claire would sit on a stool in the corner and watch her grandmother making up bouquets and wreaths in the freezing early morning air of the market. All the flowers have something to tell us, she used to say. They all have their own special message, their very own language. Claire tried to remember – red carnations were for longing and white for faithfulness but what were yellow? She closed her eyes and could see the reels of shiny satin ribbon that her little fingers had longed to unravel and the rolls of pastel-coloured wrapping paper laid out on the trestle table. Her grandmother’s soft northern accent filtered into her mind: You don’t ever want to be given yellow carnations, Claire. Only disappointment comes with those.
    She slowly put the fairy cakes, one by one, into the tin. Had she become a disappointment to William? Or was the disappointment life itself? Ever since Jack had died he seemed to have become obsessed with the house, shutting her out, burying himself in DIY. It had been years since they visited Jack’s grave together, she couldn’t remember the last time William had even mentioned his name.
    After a few minutes she heard drilling coming from the living room and then the sound of Ben crying upstairs. Emily appeared in the doorway, her long toffee-coloured hair tangled, her sleepy eyes half closed.
    â€˜Ben’s awake,’ she mumbled.
    â€˜I know,’ said Claire. ‘I’ll be up a minute. You go back to bed.’
    â€˜Did Daddy have his ice cream?’ Emily walked up to the table. She looked at the cupcakes and then at Claire. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I won’t tell anyone you made them.’
    â€˜I’m starving.’ Oliver stood beside them in his rumpled stripy pyjamas, the fisherman’s hat still on his head. ‘Is there anything to eat?’
    â€˜You’ve brushed your teeth. You’ll have to wait till breakfast. Now go to bed please.’
    â€˜I’ll brush them again, I promise. I’ll never get back to sleep without some food.’ Oliver collapsed onto a kitchen chair as if weak with hunger, despite having eaten two helpings of spaghetti bolognaise and a bowl of ice cream for tea.
    â€˜Have one of these, then,’ she said, picking up a fairy cake.
    â€˜No, I mean proper food,’ he said wrinkling up his nose in disgust. ‘You know, like from a shop.’
    â€˜Claire! There’s