Rosie Thomas 2-Book Collection One: Iris and Ruby, Constance. Rosie Thomas

the hips and her hair looked as if it was discreetly coloured to blot out the grey, but she was well-dressed and her jewellery was subtle but expensive. She looked exactly what she was, a prosperous wife and mother with her own business, who had driven up to London from the country to have lunch. With her ex-husband. She was a woman with a history.

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘I think …’ Lesley began.

      The blood still hammered in her head, and the knife lay on her plate. She jerked her eyes away from it and they settled on his glass of wine, just refilled by the waiter. She eased herself out of her seat and slid her thighs into the narrow space between their table and its neighbour. Then she bent down so her mouth was close to his ear.

      ‘I think you are a selfish, self-satisfied, pompous idiot. You are a pathetic father and you were a lousy husband. Fuck you.’

      Then she snatched up the wineglass and tipped the contents into his lap.

      Even as he exclaimed and rocked backwards with wine cascading between his legs, she was stalking away across the restaurant.

      Waiters and napkins descended on Sebastian. He let them swab him down and as he was attended to he raised his eyes to the two men at the next table. They exchanged the briefest glances that said Women, and She always was a nightmare, before his neighbours discreetly resumed their conversation.

      Lesley walked out into the street. She was disorientated; for a moment she couldn’t even remember where she was. She turned away, wanting to get as far from the restaurant and Sebastian as possible, and stumbled for several blocks before she realised that she was heading in the opposite direction from the car park. She stopped and made herself think, and slowly the familiar geography closed around her again. She retraced her steps, taking a parallel back street to avoid having to pass the plate-glass window of the restaurant. She was sure that Sebastian would still be sitting there, sluicing down the rest of the wine and enjoying his beef and the certainty of its provenance.

      She reached the underground car park where she had left the car, and plunged into the reeking depths. Her heels clicked, pit-pat, on the gum-blotched floor.

      When she was inside her car, and had made sure that the windows were closed and the central locking was activated, she lowered her head to rest on the steering wheel. She thought she would cry, here where there was no one to see her, but as she waited for the relief of tears she suddenly realised that she felt better.

      The picture of Sebastian with the red arc of wine falling towards his lap came back to her. She could see his face quite clearly, transfigured with shock and disbelief. She hadn’t stayed around for long enough to catch the fury that would have followed, but that was quite easy to imagine.

      Instead of crying she laughed. She lifted her head and stretched her arms as if she were just waking up from a long sleep.

      She sat in the car park for a little while longer, reliving the scene in the restaurant. After that she repaired her makeup and drove home.

      Ed was already back from school. He was sprawled in front of the television with a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, milk dribbling from the spoon as he lifted it to his mouth. ‘Ed?’

      ‘Yeah, hi, Mum.’

      ‘Ed?’

      ‘Yeah?’

      Lesley waited but his eyes didn’t move from the television screen.

      ‘How was your day?’ she asked.

      ‘OK,’ he answered at length. Another milky spoonful followed a sloppy trajectory towards his open mouth.

      She crossed the room in two steps and snatched the bowl from his hand. An arc of white droplets sprayed through the air and spattered the cushions.

      Ed sat upright and stared at her. ‘Mu-um,’ he complained.

      ‘Look at me when you talk to me.’

      ‘I am looking. What’s up?’

      ‘Don’t ignore me. I’m your mother. Don’t sit there gaping at the TV and dribbling food, just answer me. Maybe even ask me a question in return.’

      ‘What’s happened? Just calm down, Mum.’

      Lesley had never struck either of her children. Now she was too angry to stop herself. She aimed a wild slap at the side of Edward’s head, the dish wobbling in her other hand and spilling more milk down her skirt and on the floor. The blow hardly connected but it made her fingertips tingle and burn. Ed gaped, his eyes and mouth forming three shocked circles. She turned off the television and silence seeped between them. Lesley’s throat felt as if it was full of sand.

      ‘Now. Pick up your things. Put them away where they belong. Then go upstairs and start your homework.’

      He stood up and swept his coat and school bag off the table. Then he marched out of the room without looking at her.

      She mopped up the puddles of milk, rinsed the bowl and put it in the dishwasher. In the household diary she read that Andrew would be out that evening at a dinner with clients, so that would mean a simple supper just for Ed and herself. She opened the freezer, took out a labelled plastic box of her own pasta sauce and left it on the draining board. Checking that there were bags of salad leaves in the chiller drawer of the refrigerator, she saw a bottle of Andrew’s good Sancerre. She lifted out the bottle, poured herself a full glass and took a long swig. Then, holding the chilled curve of the glass against her cheek, she walked out into the garden.

      Late roses lingered on the bushes, the outer petals faintly bruised with the chill of autumn. It seemed to Lesley that everything she looked at, every leaf and twig, the stone bird bath and the diamonds of latticed trellis, had grown a bright, hard margin. There was an extra cold clarity to the world, each painfully intricate detail thrown into relief by her despair. A white butterfly settled on a furled spike of lavender, its powdery wings closing as the stalk shivered in the breeze.

      A stronger gust of wind shook the bush and the butterfly was blown away.

      Ruby and Iris sat in the garden, the trickle of the little fountain loud in the stillness. The late afternoons were now beginning to be touched with a chill as the sun faded. Iris’s feet were propped on a padded stool and Auntie had draped a thin blanket over her legs.

      ‘That was my dad on the phone,’ Ruby remarked.

      They had fallen into one of the silences that Ruby now understood to be companionable, able to be broken if one or other of them had anything they wanted to say, or equally to be left to stretch into a long chain of minutes. At first she had felt uncomfortable and had tried to talk – about anything, any nonsense that came into her head – just to fill the vacuum. Then she had noticed that Iris didn’t hear anyway. Her eyes went absent.

      Sometimes her head fell back and her mouth dropped open, and Ruby knew that she was asleep, but at other times she was awake and lost in herself.

      Iris stirred. ‘Who?’

      ‘My dad. On the phone.’

      ‘When?’

      Ruby was growing accustomed to this too. Now and again, Iris would forget something that had just happened. Mamdooh would carry in the tray of mint tea and Iris would drink hers and when he had taken the tray away she would say sharply, ‘Where’s Mamdooh with that tea?’

      ‘We’ve already had tea,’ Ruby would tell her. ‘Do you want some more?’

      This time she said, ‘Just now. You spoke to him and then you called me to the phone.’

      Iris’s mouth moved as if she was trying out the proper response, and the furrows radiating from her lips deepened as she found her place back in the present. ‘Oh yes.’

      ‘Mum must have been on to him. He never usually phones just for a chat. He’s more of a “not now, sweetheart” kind of a person, really.’

      ‘He’s not