This Holey Life by Sophie Duffy

And she hefts Imo off her blanket on the floor where she has been trying, unsuccessfully, to
roll over. While she does This Little Piggy, Olivia squats down next to Pat, mesmerised by her stilettos. Pat kicks them off. ‘You want to try them on?’
    Despite the dubious appearance of Pat, Olivia tries them on and struts up and down the room like she’s at an American beauty pageant.
    Even Rachel is transfixed. ‘What’s that picture on your arm?’
    ‘Oh, that old thing.’ Pat pushes up her sleeve for a clearer inspection; a dolphin, caught in a net of sun-damaged skin. ‘I got it done when I was a young girl. Had a bit too
much to drink,’ she shrieks with guttural laughter.
    ‘When I have too much to drink I wet myself,’ Olivia announces once the laughter has subsided. ‘It’s ’gusting. It goes all cold down my leg and into my shoes. But I
don’t do that anymore. I am three-years-old and I go to school.’
    ‘ Pre -school,’ Rachel corrects.
    ‘Come on, girls,’ Steve cajoles, jumping up, all jolly, clapping his hands like a mad vicar. ‘How about a five-minute run around the garden before we get back in the
car?’
    ‘Mind the beds,’ Dad shouts after them.
    Yes, the beds. The beautiful flowerbeds. Not a weed in the garden but dirty dishes in the sink and scum in the bath. That’s the way it’s always been. And I can’t see things
improving with the addition of Pat. Not with those nails.
    On the journey back, the children sleep, three girls in a row, three peas in a pod. A tug at my heart. A quickening in my stomach. Where has he gone?
    Steve is silent, not so much concentrating on the roads, as on his sermon. I can see him preaching internally, tomorrow’s expressions already across his face. That leaves me with my own
thoughts. So I turn them forwards, to the evening ahead: tea, chores, a bit of telly. A slushy film would be good; anything to stop me worrying about leaving Dad with that woman. Without me.
Without Mum. Anything to stop me thinking about my baby boy. My Thomas.
    Martin and Jeremy are playing chess at the kitchen table, listening to something classical when Steve and I struggle in with our three hungry, grumpy children.
    ‘How’s Dad?’ Martin swipes Jeremy’s bishop, not bothering to ask if we need a hand. A cup of tea. Anything. Though I think I can detect a note of interest in there
somewhere despite the fact he doesn’t lift his eyes from the chequered board.
    I tell him all about Dad, all about Pat, not sparing any detail, while I jig a grotty Imo up and down. She’s flushed and grabbing at her ear. Teething. Time for a feed and bed but Martin
has other ideas.
    ‘I’ve booked a table at that dodgy-looking Italian round the corner,’ he says. ‘By way of a thank you for having us,’ he adds, so quietly that perhaps I’m
imagining it.
    ‘You’re planning on leaving tomorrow as well then?’ I don’t bother keeping the surprise out of my voice.
    ‘Course,’ he says. ‘Why not?’ And he moves his queen with a flourish of his big fat hand, without noticing the quiver of his son’s lower lip. ‘Check
mate.’
    There’s no way Claudia’s going to take him back that easily. She’d be mad. Still, Martin’s blind faith means we have to forgo our usual Saturday night routine. I hope we
don’t regret this. Sunday is Steve’s most important day – not that he doesn’t work hard every other day of the week, like people think. We all need an early night but I
shouldn’t throw Martin’s offer back in his face. And, I have to say, a nice bowl of spaghetti would go down a treat. And a glass of Chianti. Maybe some garlic bread. We’ll have to
skip pudding obviously; it’ll be way past the kids’ bedtime, which has already come and gone. Maybe they do take-out. If only Imo would stop crying. Where’s the Calpol? The
Bonjela? The teething ring? Anything but my nipples? The prospect of teeth makes me want to cry too.
    Imo doesn’t stop crying. We