Head high, she swept out of the room. A second later, head even higher, she swept back in, snatched up the money and was gone again.
Tom glanced at Jane.
Jane shrugged.
Not my daughter – he could almost hear her thoughts. He sighed, raised his eyebrows, then stood.
“Right, let’s go. Kelly can meet us there when she’s ready.”
“If she wants, “Jane said.”Don’t make her.”
Don’t make things more difficult: more words they couldn’t say. He took Jane’s hand. “Is the Italian going to be all right?”
“It’s fine. I don’t feel that sick any more, in fact, I’m hungry!”

In the car on the way to the restaurant, he said, “Do you think she’ll …?” then he stopped.
“Meet us there? Buy her Mum a gift? Just give her time, Tom, she’s a good kid.”
“I know, but she’s angry right now.”
“It isn’t easy – new house, new step mum and now,” she glanced down, “new baby brother or sister.”
Tom half-smiled. “I heard her on the phone to a friend – apparently it’s gross!”
“The baby?”
“The thought that we’re having sex!”
Jane laughed at him. “I remember feeling like that when Mum got pregnant with Lucy, I was 12 then, not quite as old as Kelly.”

They were sitting near the window, menus open, drinks on the table, one space still vacant. The waiter lingered nearby and Tom looked at his watch. “We should order.”
“Give her a few minutes more,” Jane said. “Look, there she is!” Kelly was hurrying up the path to the restaurant, her arms full. “I think she’s got her Mum something too.”
Tom exhaled. Mothers’ Day might be going to work out.
Kelly burst into the restaurant, then thrust her package at Jane. “Happy Mothers’ Day.”
Jane flushed, then started to open her gift.
As she did, Kelly said, “Dad, I need more cash to get a gift for Mum!”

For the Book Analyst Writing Group

POV 1
She could see him, still in the hall, jacket on.
“Are you stopping, Daniel?” she called. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
She filled her hands with cups and saucers, the little set they found at that fair up past Whitby. It had been a bargain, even if it had been hard to keep it intact, two teenagers and a five year old in the house.
She glanced into the hall again. It was hard to match up the ruddy cheeked five year old, always trying to keep up with his brothers, with the six foot man who was hesitating out there. It wasn’t like Daniel to dither she thought as she placed the cups out carefully. She poured boiling water into the matching teapot, swirled it, tipped it out and refilled it, all the time fending off the fear that Daniel was hesitating for a reason.
‘Mum’s always together’, she’d heard one of the boys say, and she did keep it together, for them, but this year, last year, … she couldn’t word what had happened, still too raw. She ran the back of a finger under her eyelashes and glanced into the hall again. He seemed lost in thought and she was glad Tony was down in the garage.
She carried the pot and cups over to the table, laid them just so, appreciating the glow of the apricot china against the pale yellow Formica surface. She’d managed to keep that nice, no stains and not too many scratches. Daniel stepped forward, stopped, and then finally came into the kitchen.
“Mum. I need to tell you something.”

I slip off one glove, can’t touch the cup through leather, other skin, can’t feel the heat rise. I want my capillaries to dilate, my fingers to glow, something good, so I slip off my glove. Keep my face down, eyes gaze at coffee swirls, listen to the machines in background whirr. I wait.

He’s watching me, behind the counter. I’m alone, object of curiosity, objectified, warm air on my décolletage, wish I had a scarf, more fur, to shield, drape, hide me. Watch the patterns on the table swirl, white formica stained where he has wiped, cleaned, wiped again, white dance on white spins before my eyes in time with the whoosh and swirl of the drinks machine.

Silk on my skin, silk lining in my dress, my coat, no shield. I can’t go back, won’t go forward, not ready, not yet. Automat coffee, automat life, never tasting quite right, not like the fresh version everyone else is living, having, man behind the counter, going home to his kids, his wife, dinner on the table for him. Not me.

The coffee’s black, too bitter, cooling, can’t face the dregs, still hold the cup, hope of warmth fading. False life, false hope, but as long as I sit here, stay here, nothing will move on. I leave the last inch of coffee, a promise that there’s something more. Soon, I’ll leave, before he wipes the table one more time, before he stacks the chair. Soon, I’ll move my legs, one foot then the other, slip out from warmth to the cool night air, from limbo to action, the next step. But for now, I wait.

For the Book Analyst Facebook Group Writing Exercise

Alongside the exercises we’ve been doing on writing with constraints as part of the Experimental Writing module, I’ve been inspired by some of the writing exercises that Nikki Young has found and Maddy at WritingBubble has been doing too. Here’s an attempt at a 10-1 story: 10 words on the first line, 9 on the second and so on. I struggled most with the single word at the end – I wanted a 1 word sentence rather than a sentence split over two lines! 10 to 1 “I don’t feel appreciated, you never notice what I do.” “I always notice, even if I don’t say anything.” “So, why don’t you say thank you? Ever?” “I’m grateful, really I am.” “Would you notice if I left?” “Of course I would, love.” The laundry mounted up. Dishes went unwashed. She left him. And an A-Z story, staring each sentence with the following letter of the alphabet. A to Z As she walks down the street she plans her day. Both boys had been fractious, and her sleep had been broken. Coffee is the first thing on her agenda. Depositing the boys at nursery had been a relief. “Escape,” she thinks, cup in hand, but she turns towards home. For a second she isn’t a mother, isn’t due back at midday. God knows who thought two and a half hours of funded childcare was enough to do anything. Hurrying down the street, she flings open the front door, slams it shut and throws off her coat. Ignoring the dishes, the laundry, she opens her notebook. Just enough time, she thinks, as she glances at the clock. Knowing herself, she doesn’t open the computer, doesn’t log on to a virtual world of tempting ways to waste the morning. Leaving her phone in her coat pocket means she’s less likely to be interrupted, too. Mind blank, pen in hand, she stares at the page. No idea what to write, again. Precious moments slip by as she procrastinates. Quite some time back she realised that mother-writer was uncomfortable, impossible. Rarely could she wait for the muse to strike. She has to write now. These hours are it. Under two hours, she notes as she glances at the clock, and not one word on the page. Very often, she struggles for inspiration in the first hour, hour and a half. When twelve o’clock comes, though, when she should be racing down the road, her pen is usually racing across the paper. X, y,z, a, b, c, she doodles random letters, waiting for the words to emerge. Yesterday’s story mocks her, seems flat as she looks back at it for inspiration. Zooming on her way to nursery again, late again, she thinks about the words she finally managed to write, the speed with which they escaped from her pen when the block released, and how she can make more time to write tomorrow.