Thursdays in the Park Read Free Page B

chest.
    ‘He’s a lovely child.’
    He nodded proudly. ‘So’s your granddaughter.’
    Which was true. Ellie mostly took after her mother – strong, blonde and single-minded – but Ellie’s was the cherubic blondeness of babyhood, coupled with George’s vast, limpid brown eyes.
    ‘I’d better be off.’ Jeanie called to her granddaughter and moved towards the buggy.
    ‘Maybe see you again,’ the man suggested.
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘I take Dylan every Thursday now. My daughter works and the childminder’s going for radiotherapy at the hospital on a Thursday – she’s had breast cancer.’
    ‘Oh . . . I hope she’s all right,’ Jeanie muttered politely.
    ‘It gives me a chance to see Dylan,’ the man went on, then stopped. ‘Sorry, that sounds callous. I didn’t mean I was happy she had breast cancer . . .’ He tailed off.
    ‘No, I’m sure not.’ She smiled at his confusion. ‘Well, bye then.’ Jeanie hurried off to scoop up her granddaughter in an effort to save the man further embarrassment.

3
     
    Jeanie tossed the hot penne with the tomato and basil sauce and tipped it into a large blue earthenware bowl. It was quiet in the big kitchen, the sun casting a soft, golden glow on the garden beyond the French windows. This was the room she liked best, and where they spent most of their time. To Jeanie the Georgian house had a stiff, solemn nature, and although the rooms had high ceilings and good proportions, it felt somehow sad. But the kitchen was south facing and, since they’d put in the windows on to the terrace, full of light. George had wanted an Aga when they’d refurbished the old kitchen, but Jeanie had insisted on a sleek, modern Bosch gas range, and warm terracotta tiles to replace the dreary linoleum. It was now a bright, clean room, the glass-fronted dresser painted in National Trust Woodlawn Charm blue, the colour picked up on the cornices and door.
    George had seemed very pensive since he got back from golf, and now he sat silently at the end of the kitchen table,a glass of red wine in one hand, his corduroy slipper flapping gently to and fro on his crossed foot. A copy of
Time
magazine was in front of him on the wooden table, but he wasn’t reading it; he was staring at his wife.
    ‘Why were you so late back?’ he asked.
    Jeanie’s heart sank.
Here we go
, she thought.
    ‘I went to look at a new organic salad producer. In Potter’s Bar. I told you.’
    ‘But you said that was at two. You can’t have been there five hours, surely.’
    Her husband’s eyes drilled into her, as if he was trying to search her soul. The tension, even at a distance, was palpable.
    ‘I went back to the shop afterwards. I needed to do stuff.’ She sighed and plonked the bowl of penne on to the table with unnecessary force.
    ‘Ah . . . so when did you get back to the shop?’
    ‘Stop it, George, please.’
    She always found herself responding to George’s ludicrous monitoring as a reflex, before she remembered that by answering she was giving his anxiety credence.
    ‘Stop what? I was just enquiring about your day. Isn’t that what husbands are supposed to do?’
    Jeanie saw him take a deep breath, and knew that the inquisition was over for the time being. To give George his due, he did try and control himself once the involuntary spasm had passed.
    ‘How was the game?’ she asked, placing beside her husband a block of fresh Parmesan she had taken from the deli cabinetin the shop. George was usually full of his golf, regaling her with tales of skulduggery committed by his Thursday partner. Danny, if her husband was to be believed, enjoyed cheating more than he enjoyed the game itself.
    But this evening George just pushed his glasses back up his nose and took the serving spoon his wife proffered.
    ‘Oh . . . OK. Danny won as usual.’
    ‘And?’ Jeanie grated some cheese over her pasta.
    She saw her husband take a deep breath.
    ‘Jeanie.’ He paused, then planted his hands squarely on the table