Love Is... Read Online Free Page A

spread through my veins. I took another gulp and gazedup at the ceiling, then back down at our shabby kitchen. I squinted my eyes, trying to superimpose the building plans we’d had drawn up years ago onto the sixties-style laminate shambles in front of me. I knew exactly how it should look. I didn’t have far to go for inspiration. Every house on the street had been knocked through into their side-return and extended out back to create the trademark South West London statement kitchen. I took another sip and wondered if the white gloss Poggenpohl dream would ever be mine.
    â€˜Cheers,’ I said to the peeling work surface. ‘Me and my kitchen, living the dream.’
    I took another gulp and then checked my phone. It was 7 p.m. I called Nick. No answer. I took another gulp of wine and called Matthew to rant.
    There a clattering noise in the background when he answered. ‘Twice in one day,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m honoured.’
    â€˜Can you talk?’ I asked.
    He sighed. ‘I can talk, and I would love to talk. However, the real question is whether I will be allowed to talk.’ There was the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by wailing. ‘Shit. I mean, sugar,’ he said.
    â€˜Everything OK?’ I asked.
    There was silence, a muffled sound and then Matthew returned. ‘Little sod keeps falling off his chair.’ There was a faint sobbing in the background. ‘It’s this bloody booster seat. I’m sure it has an eject button. There you go, Zachary. Now eat your pasta.’
    â€˜Shall I call you back?’
    â€˜No, no. Are you OK?’
    I took another gulp of wine. I knew he would know better than to ask me directly about ‘the test’.
    â€˜Angelica, leave the vase.’
    â€˜I’m OK,’ I said. ‘It’s just—’
    Suddenly there was another crash followed by a scream. ‘Fuck. I mean, fudge. Fiddlesticks.’
    â€˜Look, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ I said.
    â€˜No, no.’ Matthew’s tone had an urgency to it. ‘We can talk now.’ He paused, then made a strange squealing noise. ‘Angelica, sweetheart, please don’t eat the broken glass.’
    I grimaced. ‘It sounds kind of hectic there?’
    â€˜Just another day in paradise,’ he said. ‘Zachary, eat the pasta, don’t stick it up your nose.’
    I thought for a moment about telling him the result, but I realised he’d probably guessed anyway. Besides, any mention would most likely provoke a diatribe about some study linking new parents to suicidal tendencies.
    â€˜Don’t suppose you fancy coming to a divorce party with me next Friday night?’ I asked.
    â€˜Angelica, I said no! Hang on, Ellie, I should really sweep up this glass.’
    I continued, ‘I need some company and Nick’s entertaining clients. Again.’
    His pitch suddenly increased. ‘A party?’ he said. ‘One that doesn’t involve soft play, chicken nuggets, or a balloon-wielding entertainer?’
    I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said.
    â€˜I’m in.’
    â€˜Don’t you need to arrange a sitter or something?’
    â€˜Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s about time their mother did some mothering.’
    The bottle of Pinot Grigio was almost empty by the time I heard Nick’s key in the lock. My throat dried up as Imouthed the words I would say to him. I downed the remainder of the wine, and mouthed them again. It was almost as if the act of saying them out loud would make them more final.
    We will never have children.
    I’d said it in my mind over and over all day: in the pauses between conversations with Mandi, in the lulls during the investor meeting, while Dominic sashayed around the office. Even wiping my bottom in the toilet had felt melancholic. Mine would be the only bottom I would ever wipe, I’d thought. I’d never change a nappy or