Three-And-A-Half Heartbeats Read Free Page A

in the scene that greeted her. She felt quite remote, a casual observer. Chloe was at the table in her special chair. She was up late and in her pyjamas, suggesting that she had been put to bed once but had resurfaced, probably so that she could see her mummy. Her mouth was full of tomatoey pasta, her hands gesticulating wildly as the day’s events were relayed to her daddy, who was carving a bloated loaf. She was a lively, energetic child, a chatterbox, thoroughly inquisitive and slightly naughty, all the things that Grace and Tom had hoped she would be and more.
    Bread in hand, Tom now sat slouched at the head of the table, his crisp cotton shirt visible beneath his favourite dark green jersey. His fingers toyed with the stem of a wine glass. He swilled the red wine around the bowl before throwing it into his mouth and instantly reaching for a refill.
    Grace watched, mesmerised, as Tom lunged forward quickly and jabbed two fingers in the direction of Chloe’s ribs. He stopped just short of actual contact, at which point Chloe threw back her soft blonde curls and screamed, spraying the area with pasta. Scrambling out of her seat, she dropped herself into Tom’s lap and nuzzled into his chest, smearing his jersey with her sauce-covered face. He kissed her forehead and tried in vain to smooth down her defiant curls, cuddling her tight.
    The sight of her little girl caused Grace’s stomach to twist with longing. Chloe still carried a wonderful layer of fat that meant to hug her was like folding a warm and comfortable cushion into your chest. Around each wrist was the fleshy bracelet that all small children have, as if she’d been constructed like a doll and there was a seam where her hand had been stuck on to her arm. Grace missed her. Even one day working away felt like too much.
    The carefully positioned lamps sent arcs of warmth around the room, the checked cushions in the window seats were plumped just so and at the far end of the scrubbed pine table sat a shallow blue bowl full of snowdrops, no doubt the fruit of Chloe’s labours. It was magazine perfect. Her perfect family in their perfect home. It was one of those images that would crystallise in her mind for her to look at whenever she wanted, like a favourite picture or landscape.
    She watched her husband sip his wine and stretch his long legs under the table, crossing them at the ankle. Grace wondered not for the first time how he managed to run the house and look after Chloe while still giving the impression that life was one long party. It fascinated her that he seemed to always have time for a natter and a glass of plonk, whereas she could barely find the time to think straight.
    Theirs was one of those relationships that people on the outside couldn’t fathom; he was the life and soul, whereas Grace came across as sober, her every action and syllable considered. The select few that were close to the couple, however, knew that Grace had evolved this persona as a counterbalance to Tom’s often reckless antics and sometimes irresponsible attitude. They had met during their final year at university, where he was reluctantly studying architecture and she was reading English literature, thinking it would be a good way to harness her love of words and help develop her creativity. They had grown into a single unit to which all the clichés really did apply – they genuinely were two halves of a whole, soulmates and all the rest. Trust, open and honest communication, extreme kindness and a strong friendship: these were the foundations on which their life together was built before Chloe came along. They had found their perfect formula.
    It had been no surprise to any of their inner circle that, following the birth of Chloe, Tom had jumped at the chance to give up the daily grind of travelling into London to a job that bored him stupid. He had long ago decided he would never become the next Norman Foster and he was sick of daily swallowing the bile of disappointment