Alice Ross - A Winter's Wish

A tiny part of Stan dared to hope they might enjoy a relaxing baby-free evening, along the lines of how they used to spend Sunday evenings in Life Before Maddy, or LBM, as he secretly termed it. He should’ve known better.

‘Schools,’ he spluttered, almost choking on his wine. ‘But she’s only nine months old.’

‘Precisely,’ confirmed Bea, stabbing an anaemic-looking prawn with her fork. ‘Some people reserve a place before their child’s even born. If we’re not quick, her year will be full.’

Stan ripped a sheet of kitchen tissue from the roll on the table and dabbed at his mouth. One of his colleagues whose daughter went to St Hild’s was constantly pleading poverty due to the astronomical fees. And his wife was a GP! How on earth Bea thought they could afford such an extravagance when she’d packed her job in, he was more than intrigued to know.

‘How much are the fees?’ he asked innocently, opting for the tread-lightly approach rather than the confrontational. The latter would undoubtedly lead to yet another row, which, after spending all day assembling Maddy’s new wardrobe, he didn’t have the energy for. Nor did he want to waste the thirty quid he’d spent on the takeaway, which would inevitably end up in the bin if Bea kicked off again.

He watched as her slender arm stretched across the pine table and plucked a prawn cracker from the packet, her emerald engagement ring glinting in the overhanging kitchen light.

‘Well, it’s not the cheapest,’ she conceded. ‘But it’s a fantastic school. Think what a great start it would be for her, Stan. You only have to look at all the successful people who’ve been there to see how having the name behind you helps you get on. And imagine all the influential contacts she could make.’

Stan scooped up a forkful of Chow Mein, carefully considering his reply. He didn’t believe in all that public school crap – the nepotism, the elitism. He’d gone to the local comp and worked his butt off to get where he was. There was no substitute for hard graft in his book.

‘I’ve heard great things about Buttersley Primary,’ he ventured. ‘A couple of guys from work send their kids there, and they’re always saying what a great little school it is.’

Bea’s gaze dropped back to her plate. Stan could almost see her brain working out how best to respond. God, it was like a game of chess: each player attempting to second-guess their opponent’s reaction, before daring to make a move. It wasn’t that long ago they used to be so relaxed in one another’s company, tell each other about their day, bitch about work colleagues, giggle at the pathetic office politics surrounding them. Now they were like two adversaries – strangers with completely opposite goals.

‘I’m sure it’s a lovely school,’ she eventually batted back. ‘It’s just … not what I want for my daughter.’

Stan flinched. ‘Er, I think you mean our daughter. And it would be lovely for her to go to the local school. She’d have her little mates around her. Have them over for tea. All that sort of stuff. If she goes to St Hild’s we’ll never be out of the car ferrying her backwards and forwards, and—’

Bea set down her knife and fork with a great sense of purpose. ‘Well, if you’d rather not put yourself out for the sake of our daughter’s future, then I’ll do all the ferrying.’

Stan sighed inwardly. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he’d realised he shouldn’t have added that bit about the ferrying. But the fact that St Hild’s would mean a forty-mile round trip every day wasn’t the main reason he didn’t want Maddy to go there. He honestly did think it would be lovely for her to feel part of Buttersley. And it wasn’t as if the village school was full of glue-sniffing, drug-snorting reprobates. Perfectly nice children went there, from respectable families. Surely that would suffice until Maddy was eleven at least. But before he could bolster his case, Bea had rocketed off on a super-charged tangent.

‘And what about horse riding? Or tennis?’

Stan shook his head in an attempt to clear it. ‘What are you talking about now?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘ Our daughter, of course. I think it’s important we decide what extra-curricular activities we’d like her to be involved in.’

Stan set down his fork and scratched his head. ‘But she can’t even walk yet. How on earth do you expect her to hold a tennis racket?’

Bea gave an exasperated tut. ‘Honestly. Sometimes I think you’re not remotely interested in Maddy’s future.’

Stan gawped. ‘Of course I am. But don’t you think it’s a bit early to be talking about all that stuff? You’ll be booking the church for her wedding next.’

In one swift move, Bea scraped back her chair and thrust to her feet. ‘Now you’re being facetious. And the way I’ve been feeling lately, that’s the last thing I’ll be doing,’ she huffed, before strutting out of the room.

Stan pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, surveying the remains of the barely touched meal. Thirty quid down the drain. Precisely the direction in which his marriage appeared to be heading.

He knocked back the remains of his wine, and poured another glass before starting to clear away the detritus. He heard Bea stomping up the stairs, a couple of loud sniffs informing him she was crying. He could follow her up and apologise – although what he’d be apologising for, he had no idea. But he couldn’t face another showdown. It didn’t matter what he said lately, it was wrong. The whole thing was wearing him down, sapping his energy, making him miserable. And miserable was the one thing he never, in a million years, would’ve thought Bea would ever make him …

Stan had met Bea in Thailand. She’d been on a gap year after university, exploring the Orient with three girlfriends. Stan had been there on a fortnight’s holiday with the lads. He’d bypassed uni, failing to see the point of three years messing about, only to emerge with the same meaningless bit of paper as thousands of other kids, plus a mountain of debt. He’d known exactly what he wanted to do – be an accountant – and so he’d gone for it. Following impressive A-level results, he’d accepted a position as an accounts clerk at a small, local company.

He’d used the opportunity as a springboard, taking advantage of the excellent training package. He worked hard and studied hard, sailing through the mountain of exams with flying colours. In fact, so focused had he been on his career, that girls hadn’t really featured in his life. Oh, he went out with the lads at the weekend and had the occasional – very occasional – one-night stand. And he and the lads went on holiday every summer – a booze-ridden couple of weeks in Marbella, Magaluf or Marmaris, or anywhere else beginning with M with cheap booze and plenty of totty. But, other than that, he didn’t really have much to do with the opposite sex. A couple of his mates were going out with girls they’d paired up with at school, already, at the tender age of twenty-two, talking about mortgages and babies. Stan hadn’t been interested in any of that. Until he met Bea.

It had been on the beach, under the heat of the midday Thai sun. Stan and one of his mates had been messing about with a Frisbee, which accidentally hurtled straight into Bea’s neck as she came out of the sea.

‘Ow,’ she yelled, holding the Frisbee in one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. ‘That bloody hurt.’

Stan opened his mouth to apologise, but no words came out. He’d been completely bowled over by the vision before him – the lean, toned body with skin the colour of golden honey; the scraps of red bikini, concealing bits he couldn’t even bring himself to think about; the cascade of dripping wet raven hair; the flashing huge green eyes—