Not Quite Perfect. Annie Lyons

looks around her, trying desperately to remember what she is supposed to be doing on the internet. She finds her brain increasingly unable to retain this kind of information, like some kind of leaky bottle. The other day, she had stood in front of the fridge for a good five minutes before she remembered that she was looking for the cheese.

      She glances to her right and notices that Steve has left his BlackBerry at home. She looks back at the screen trying to ignore the urge that is starting to overwhelm her. She looks back at Steve’s phone. Its blue flashing light seems to tempt and console her at the same time: Go on, have a look. No one will ever know. It’s not as if you’re going to find anything incriminating anyway.

      Rachel shakes her head and turns back to the computer, desperately trying to remember what she was going to search for.

      ‘Oh bollocks!’ she mutters grabbing Steve’s phone and clicking it into life. She’s not sure why she’s looking or what she’s looking for, but almost without knowing it, she finds herself looking at Steve’s e-mails. One is from someone called Sam and is entitled ‘Coffee’.

      Hmm, thinks Rachel, never heard of Sam before. She clicks on the message feeling a bit sordid for checking up on her husband.

      Hi Steve, are you still OK for coffee at 11 today? Need to talk about rolling out training on new IT system to your team. Thanks, Sam.

      Rachel sighs, feeling guilty for even suspecting infidelity when all Steve is doing is having coffee with some geeky bloke from IT. Suddenly, her eye is caught by an e-mail entitled ‘Edinburgh’ and she has clicked on it before she’s had the chance to question her actions. The message, from Steve’s boss, Doug details, ‘our discussions regarding a possible move to start up a new office’ and was sent a month ago. Rachel is outraged. She reaches for her mobile and punches buttons until she finds Steve’s office number. It clicks straight through to his voicemail. Rachel flings the phone across the room with a growl of anger. Her heart is pounding and she has scared herself by flying off the handle so readily.

      ‘Mum?’ Lily appears at the door looking concerned, but not surprised by her mother’s outburst

      Rachel is caught off guard. ‘Darling, sorry, Mummy was just –’

      ‘When’s Daddy coming home?’ asks Lily interrupting her.

      Rachel is irritated by the question. ‘No bloody idea,’ she says.

      Lily looks unimpressed. ‘Don’t swear, Mummy. It’s rude.’

      Rachel watches her go, amazed that this bundle of morality is her child. Her mobile chirps into life and she sees the caller ID. She stabs the button and thrusts the handset to her ear, ready for a fight,

      ‘Rach? Everything OK?’

      Steve’s calm voice seems to fuel her anger. ‘No Steve, everything is not OK. Tell me, when exactly did you know about this move to Edinburgh?’

      ‘Rach, can we talk about this later?’

      ‘No, I want to talk about it now.’

      ‘Rachel, I’ve got a meeting and I’m going to be home a bit late. Sorry.’

      Rachel continues, not wanting to miss her moment. ‘Over a month. Over a sodding month, Steve, and you didn’t have the balls to tell me.’

      ‘Look, Rach, I’m sorry, really I am, but is it any wonder I didn’t tell you?’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Listen to yourself, Rach, any excuse for a row, any chance for a fight and you’re there, aren’t you?’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘Face it Rach, you do have the tendency to be a bit unreasonable. I was just trying to pick the right moment.’

      Rachel is struck dumb for the second time that afternoon and furious that Steve is stealing her moment of thunder. ‘Steve?’

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘Piss off.’ Rachel cuts him off before he can respond and immediately phones Sue.

      ‘Hi, love, are you OK?’

      ‘No, not really. Steve is being a prick.’

      ‘Had that rational chat then?’

      ‘Hmm.’

      ‘Do you want some company?’

      ‘Yes please.’

      ‘OK. I’ll be round in twenty minutes. I hope you’ve got a bottle chilling.’

      Rachel stalks downstairs to a peaceful living room with the children slumped coma-like now watching Tom and Jerry. Rachel watches with them for a while. She’d always hated Tom, and found herself as a child, rooting for the cheeky chancer, Jerry. On watching again, she realises that he’s actually a pretentious little tosser and Tom is the eternally tortured soul, whom no one understands.

      ‘Unbelievable,’ she mutters to herself as she heads to the kitchen. ‘I’m empathising with a cartoon cat now.’ She checks the fridge first for wine and then decides to be an über-mother by preparing something wholesome for the kid’s tea. On further inspection of the contents of the fridge, she decides that another dose of Omega 3 via the medium of fish fingers will do them no harm.

      As she scans the surprisingly tidy kitchen, her eye is caught by a picture Will did a month or so ago entitled ‘My Family’. It had made them laugh because he had drawn them all as Power Rangers. Rachel looks closely, smiling to herself, but this time notices the expressions on the faces. He has drawn himself, his siblings and Steve with enormous cartoon grins but she notices that her face is not smiling but slightly turned down. She tries to dismiss it with her usual humour, questioning whether he is a new Leonardo and is seeking to recreate the Mona Lisa, but something about it makes her feel sad and rather lonely. She is interrupted by a polite tap at the front door.

      ‘You took your time,’ she declares flinging it open.

      ‘I did?’ says Tom smiling.

      Rachel is momentarily flummoxed. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else’

      ‘Oh.’ Tom looks slightly disappointed and then grins again.

      ‘No, it’s OK. It’s nice to see you. Are you all right?’

      ‘Fine thanks, Mrs Summers. I’m just playing Postman Pat. I took this parcel in for you this morning.’

      ‘Oh, thanks very much.’

      ‘Where’s Postman Pat?’ Alfie inquires suddenly at Rachel’s legs, peering up at Tom.

      ‘I’m here and you must be Alf Thompson. Hullo Alf!’ says Tom putting on a Postman Pat Yorkshire accent.

      Rachel is impressed. ‘Good knowledge!’

      Tom winks at her. ‘My nephews and nieces have trained me well. I can do them all, Fireman Sam, Bob the Builder.’

      ‘Where’s Jess?’ says Alfie, oblivious to the mild flirting which is going on above his head.

      ‘She’s at home having a rest. We’ve had a busy morning delivering all these parcels.’

      ‘Where’s your van?’ continues Alfie.

      ‘Er, round the corner.’

      ‘Ha!’ laughs Rachel. ‘You’re rumbled mate!’

      Tom laughs. Alfie screws up his face with scepticism and runs back to the living room.

      ‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ Rachel asks, surprising herself.

      ‘Erm, OK, why not? Only if I’m not in the way though.’

      ‘Don’t be silly. You can keep us entertained with your repertoire of children’s characters.’

      Rachel leads him down to the kitchen just as her mobile