Not Quite Nice Read Free

children. She stood up, held out her face and sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’
    ‘I showed them how to cook chocolate crunchies.’ Theresa held out a piece for her daughter.
    Ignoring the sweet, Imogen swept past the wailing children and hissed into Theresa’s ear. ‘I will not have my children eating this rubbish.’ She grabbed Theresa by the elbow and dragged her into the kitchen space. ‘They have allergies. You can’t shovel this muck down their throats. Sugar, butter, biscuits? If this is what you live on, it certainly explains why you’re so overweight yourself, Mummy.’
    Theresa tried to defend herself but her daughter didn’t draw breath. ‘Never, ever, will you throw a stunt like this again. Do you understand?’
    As she watched her daughter, advancing on her like a furious schoolteacher, Theresa wondered for a moment who was the parent and who the child.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling stupid for apologising to her own daughter. ‘I had to do something to entertain them. They’re not the easiest children, Imogen.’
    ‘What did you say? I don’t know how you have the nerve . . .’ Imogen wiped the perfectly clean kitchen top with a damp cloth. ‘So, you’ll be wanting to get off now, Mummy. It’s a long way from Wimbledon to Highgate. Same time Wednesday?’
    ‘No.’ Theresa winced. Why did she feel so bad about claiming her own life? ‘I can’t do Wednesday, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Do you notice, Mother,’ Imogen flung the cloth into the sink, ‘how selfish you’re becoming?’
    Theresa felt herself stammering her reply. ‘I’m meeting up with some friends.’
    ‘Friends?’ Imogen scoffed. ‘Can’t you meet them another night? You know Wednesday is my Pilates class.’
    Theresa braced herself and said ‘I can’t really change it. It’s a one-off. Schoolfriends, you know.’
    Imogen wore a cold smile. ‘Schoolfriends? You’re fifty-nine years old. Why? How?’
    Theresa felt her heart thudding, just like when she herself had been brought before the headmistress for disobedience. She said quietly: ‘They found me on Facebook.’
    ‘Facebook?’ Imogen threw her head back and laughed. ‘Facebook! Listen to yourself, Mummy. You’re going on sixty, not sixteen.’ She went back to rinsing the already sparkling sink. ‘You don’t think I have time to play about on computers and the Internet, do you?’
    ‘I’m on the Internet all day at work, other things come through now and then,’ said Theresa, wondering how it had come to this, what had happened that she felt it necessary to explain herself to her daughter.
    ‘Oh really!’ Imogen turned off the tap and pushed up her sleeves. Theresa could see that she was really spoiling for a fight. ‘Perhaps I should phone Mr Josephs and tell him what you get up to on his time?’
    ‘Jacobs,’ Theresa corrected, under her breath. ‘Please, Imogen, I’m not in the mood.’ Theresa pulled away and went to the sofa to pick up her coat and bag. She noticed that the three girls were now sprawled out on the floor, happily playing with paper and crayons. How come it was never like this during her sessions with them?
    ‘Anyway, Imogen,’ she said, putting on her coat, ‘for your information, Mr Jacobs has let me go.’
    ‘He sacked you?’ Imogen tutted. ‘I’m not at all surprised.’ She paused her kitchen cleaning, then perked up. ‘You mean you don’t have a job any more? You won’t be going to work? Oh God, Mummy, how marvellous. If you’re not working, you’ll be able to come here more often and do days now as well.’
    Theresa knew that she was cornered.
    But why did she have to think of coming here as something bad? This was family, after all. The people who really had first claim on her time. She felt awful for resenting them. Was it she herself who was the problem? She steeled herself and resolved to work harder at being the perfect grandmother.
    ‘Of course I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘But you know,