Not Quite Perfect. Annie Lyons

she asks.

      ‘Naaaaooo,’ croons Alfie, teasing.

      ‘Boo-hoo.’ Rachel feigns weeping.

      Alfie laughs. ‘Mummy, cry again.’

      Rachel plays along for a bit, and then says, ‘Sleep now, baby boy.’

      ‘Mummy sing,’ demands Alfie and after a couple of rounds of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star his eyelids droop and Rachel creeps out.

      Steve is watching the news as she skulks back into the living room, uncertain of what to say next. He flicks off the TV and pats the space next to him, eyes imploring. ‘Sit. Please?’

      She does so grudgingly, not wanting to be the one to give way and hating herself for it.

      ‘Friends?’ he asks stretching out an arm like a peace offering.

      Realising it would be churlish to refuse, she leans towards him. ‘Look, Steve, I know we need to talk but I’m just too tired tonight.’

      ‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we see if Emma or your mum can babysit at the weekend? We’ll go and have lunch, talk properly, get drunk and say sod ‘em all! Waddya reckon?’

      Rachel chews her lip and looks at her husband. Dear dependable Steve, her best friend and constant; she finds it impossible to stay angry with him for too long. ‘Sod ‘em all!’ she says, kissing him on the cheek and feeling instant relief. ‘I’m going up. Are you coming?’

      ‘Just going to watch the end of Match of the Day 2,’ he says, picking up the remote and flicking on the television again.

      She nods and pecks him on the cheek before climbing the stairs, exhausted by life and longing for the passion and energy of her twenties.

      Chapter 2

      The cavernous room is filled with a murmuring hubbub as two thousand or so publishers, authors and their celebrity guests look towards the stage in anticipation. Stephen Fry stands at the podium, smiling; wise and waiting for hush.

      ‘Esteemed guests, ladies, gentlemen and publishing scamps, it is my unbridled pleasure and bowl-clenching joy to announce that the winner of this year’s Best Novel Category is the astounding, Red Orchid by Richard Bennett.’ Thunderous applause. The crowd is on their feet. Richard rises to greet his public pausing only to kiss his beloved editor, Emma Darcy. There are cheers from the Allen Chandler table. Richard is greeted and embraced by Stephen Fry. A sea of photographers capture the moment with a myriad clicks and flashes. The applause is enthusiastic and heartfelt. Richard speaks to his people.

      ‘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