Annie Lyons - Not Quite Perfect

‘I would like to thank the judges for this great honour. I am truly humbled, but I have to say that I could never have achieved it without the singular devotion of one woman: Emma Darcy, this one’s for you, babe.’

Babe? Emma looks up confused as Richard grabs the microphone and starts to sing a heartfelt version of Dido’s ‘Thank You’. As she looks closely at his face, she is astonished.

‘Martin! Is that you?’

She is even more surprised when Stephen Fry picks up the backing vocals and the people in the room join in too, all turning as one to smile at Emma.

‘Oh. It’s another bloody dream,’ mumbles Emma as her brain tunes in to the song playing on her radio alarm clock. She opens her eyes feeling queasy at the thought of the day ahead. ‘Today is the one I day I will not, must not be late,’ she says to the room.

‘Drop you at the station, gorgeous girl?’ asks Martin returning from the shower and pausing to kiss his fiancée.

‘Brillo pads. Thanks, handsome.’

‘Can I suggest, endearing as it is, that you don’t use the phrase “brillo pads” in this meeting?’

‘Right-ho. Good point.’

‘Or “right-ho”.’

‘Understood,’ she says with a small salute.

On boarding the train, Emma makes a beeline for her favourite seat: second carriage from the front, facing forwards in a two-seater. She pulls out the manuscript and her notes. A few stops later a man listening to an iPod takes the empty seat next to her. They have a barely perceptible tussle over elbow territory, and she is just settling into her work when he cranks up the volume and starts to hum along.

Emma is considering making a comment when she notices that he is reading her notes. She snatches them to her chest, like a schoolgirl trying to prevent her neighbour from cribbing.

‘Sorry,’ he says grinning.

‘It’s fine but actually would you mind turning down your music please,’ says Emma trying to sound as reasonable as possible.

‘Sure. Sorry, again.’

Emma looks at him for the first time. He’s quite good looking in a public school sort of way. His smile reveals a dimpled cheek, which reminds her of Martin.

‘You must be busy, having to work on the train,’ he says gesturing at her papers.

‘Oh, I’ve got this pitch meeting today with an author. I’m an editor you see,’ she says proudly.

‘Oh wow. You’re an editor – that must be fascinating. Who’s the lucky guy?’

Emma smiles, enjoying some innocent flirting. ‘He’s a relatively new writer called Richard Bennett. His novel is amazing but I’ve heard a rumour that he’s a bit of a lothario,’ she says conspiratorially.

The train is making its final, slow passage into Victoria past the gasholders and dormant power station that Emma thinks makes this part of London look abandoned.

‘Men eh?’ smiles the man. ‘Well I hope he doesn’t give you too much trouble.’

‘Thanks, I’m hoping I can charm him.’

‘I have no doubt you will. Well good luck –?’

‘Emma. Emma Darcy.’

‘ Emma Darcy . Like a character in a novel. I hope you get your book, Emma Darcy,’ he smiles and then disappears into the crowd of commuters. Emma gathers her belongings, takes a deep breath, and steps off the train into Monday morning chaos.

‘Want breakfast naaaaaow!’ yells Alfie.

‘Ok, Hitler-in-a-nappy. Mummy’s going as fast as she can.’ Rachel throws crisps, a drink and a packet of something claiming to be 100% fruit into Will’s lunch bag and counts down the seconds until the microwave gives its final ping . She snatches open the door to find that the milk has boiled over and Alfie’s porridge now resembles molten lava with a temperature to match. ‘Bollocks!’ she mutters as quietly as she can, emptying the rest of the carton of milk into the bowl in a desperate attempt to cool it down. It now has the consistency of slurry and Rachel knows that this will not pass the Alfie taste-test. She bins her first attempt and gives the microwave a cursory wipe before starting again.

‘Naaaaaow Mummeeee!’

‘Look, young man, either you wait or you work out a way of making it yourself. I’m doing my best, OK?’

‘‘kay,’ says Alfie uncertainly. ‘Mummy cwoss.’

‘I am not cross,’ and then she catches sight of his chubby jowls and blue eyes and smiles, ‘Mummy’s sorting it, sausage.’

‘Cuddle, cuddle,’ he implores, and Rachel gives in, nibbling at his soft little neck.

‘Nooo, Mummy,’ he giggles.

‘Right you, into your chair and, Lily! Will! Breakfast time!’

‘Coming!’ shouts Will. ‘Just got to take this penalty to win the World Cup for England.’

‘I’m having a poo!’ bellows Lily.

‘Breakfast in paradise, darling?’ asks Steve, grabbing a banana on his way through.

‘Oh yeah, baby, it’s like a week in Mauritius.’

‘Bless you, Mummy. Achoo! ’ says Alfie mishearing.

Rachel removes the second batch of cereal from the microwave and pours a pot of something pink, gloopy and organic all over it.

‘Naaaaaooooo, Mummy, want bananaaaaa!’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Alfred!’

‘Maaaarrrrm,’ shouts Lily, ‘I’ve run out of bog roll!’

‘Did you teach her to call it that?’ Rachel asks Steve.

‘Darling, I thought you were the queen of spade-calling. Got to dash.’

‘You’re a bit early, aren’t you?’

‘Lots to do, my sweet. Got to start early so I can be home on time. Let’s talk later. Properly? Over a bottle of something nice? Love you.’ He plants a kiss on her cheek and on each available child’s head.

‘Bye Lils!’

‘Bye, Daddy. Love you.’ Her voice is sweet and charming and then changes as she shouts, ‘Maaarrrm!’

‘OK, Lily. I’m coming!’

‘Mummy, banana!’ insists Alfie.

‘OK, OK. Will, please can you sort out your brother while I attend to your sister.’

Lily looks disappointed at Rachel’s entrance.

‘I want Daddy.’

‘Well, unfortunately you have Mummy.’

‘Oh.’

Five minutes later, the ladies of the house come downstairs to a suspiciously peaceful kitchen.

Rachel looks pleased and then horrified. ‘Will, what have you done?’ she cries, seeing that Alfie’s face is smeared with the remains of a packet of Giant Chocolate Buttons, which his obliging brother has tipped over his cereal.

‘What? He likes them.’

Rachel is about to open her mouth when her phone beeps with a text. It’s from her friend, Sue: ‘Fancy Baby Bump and Grind aka Bounce and Rhyme at the library at 10?’

Rachel fires off a reply: ‘In the absence of an offer from George Clooney, you’re on. Got to pop home after school run. Save me a tambourine.’ And then as an afterthought, ‘Shall I text Christa?’

The answer pings back: ‘Good idea.’

Christa, who has recently moved from Switzerland, is clearly pleased to be asked: ‘ Danke viels . Roger and I would that love. Bis bis .’

Rachel smiles and takes a deep breath, making ready to coax, cajole and nag her family out of the house.

Emma walks into Allen Chandler’s impressive, marble lobby. She smiles at Derek on reception, who gives her a wink and a thumbs-up.

‘Hold that lift!’ orders a voice.

Emma turns to see Joel Riches marching through the door radiating an air of self-importance. He ignores Derek, who in turn shakes his head in disgust. Emma is tempted to pretend she hasn’t heard, but knows this won’t work. Joel is a persistent force in her life. Every book she publishes or pitches for, he’s there ‘thinking outside the box’ or ‘campaigning above the line’, ready to disassociate himself from things which don’t work and take the glory for things that do. As a member of the ‘say what you mean and mean what you say’ club Emma loathes him.