Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

the kitchen, but evidently everyone had assumed that she’d be there to clear up their post-breakfast debris.

There was a pint of milk on the side, its lid sitting next to it, slowly going off with the warmth of the central heating. A teabag lay on the floor next to the bin where someone had obviously missed their shot but hadn’t considered picking it up and trying again. The sink was full of cereal bowls, and as she stepped across the room, there was the unmistakable crunch of cornflakes under her shoe.

Even Toby had left his cup on the table, half-filled with coffee he’d not thought fit to share. His glasses lay on top of the newspaper he’d abandoned on the side and it was all she could do to stop herself dropping them on the floor and crunching them beneath her heel.

Maybe he’d find her more attractive if she was in soft focus anyway.

It was 3 p.m., an hour and a half before the kids would arrive home and at least another two before Toby would appear. But why should she spend her time cleaning up their mess? Seeing it, spread in front of her, was like a slap in the face.

Her phone pinged as the kettle boiled.

TOBY: Going to be late this evening. They’ve given me a segment on street lights to do. I couldn’t say no. And obviously there needs to be some night-time shots.

CLARE: Oh. But I didn’t even see you this morning!

TOBY: I know. I’m really sorry – Hatty’s been trying to get me some extra filming and I couldn’t say no.

CLARE: Hayley?

Clare’s mind latched on to the idea of Toby staying late with his PA.

TOBY: No, Hatty. Hatty Bluebottle. She’s one of the producers.

Now Toby mentioned the name, she remembered Hatty from her days as a presenter. A decade or so ago, Hatty had been the person who’d read Clare the news as she’d sipped her morning tea in bed, and the face who’d greeted her when she’d browsed the trashy magazines on the news-stand. A firmly fixed anchor in the news cycle, she’d covered everything from elections to the Golden Globes.

Then she’d fallen from grace – got on the wrong side of the kind of magazines that Clare sometimes picked up – a little guiltily – at the petrol station. The kind that plastered pictures of celebrity couples when they were loved up but even more when they were breaking up, celebrated both weight loss and the ‘flaunting of curves’ that came with wearing a swimming costume and not being a size zero, and ripped into any well-known woman who dared to venture out for milk without her lippy on.

When Hatty had had her infamous breakdown – she’d burst into tears during a news broadcast and had to rush off the set – memes had started popping up almost instantly online; and the gossip rags and websites had been full of it.

Each mag had chosen a different picture of Hatty looking awful, and chosen headlines like ‘Tears for Careers’ and ‘Batty Hatty’. Now, thinking of Hatty as a real person, Clare felt suddenly guilty as if she’d been part of the character assassination herself.

She knew that Hatty still worked behind the scenes at ITV but hadn’t realised Toby was now on first-name terms with her.

To save her aching thumb from further texting, she dialled his number quickly.

‘Toby?’

‘Yes?’

‘I wanted to say—’

‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Yeah, of course, Sebastian – won’t be a sec. Yeah, just the wife …’ Then, to her: ‘Sorry Clare, I’m a bit busy.’

She’d wanted to share the adventure she’d had that morning – the moment of fun she’d injected into her week. Even though it was a bit embarrassing. Even though she hadn’t got through. Maybe it could lead to a bigger conversation – she could talk about how she felt. Really talk. Really get listened to.

But it clearly wasn’t the right time.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, OK. See you later?’

‘Sure.’

Taking a deep breath, she poured herself a cup of instant coffee – choosing haste over taste – and pushed open the door to the living room. There, too, plenty of work had been left for her to do. A pile of dirty washing sitting layered like some sort of inedible trifle where Alfie had tipped out his gym bag. Crisp crumbs on the arm of the sofa. Something sticky seeped against her trousers as she sat down.

Bastards.

An hour later, she was still sitting there, ignoring the mess and taking a moment to watch the news. She’d struggled to resist the urge to clear up; sitting with debris scattered everywhere made her feel twitchy. She wasn’t Marie Kondo, but she did like a well-hoovered carpet.

A key scraped in the door and suddenly her two children entered the house. ‘Mum?’ Alfie called almost straightaway.

‘In here.’

‘Hi,’ he looked around the door, his face frowning as he took in the mess still scattered around the room. ‘Everything all right, Mum? You’re home early.’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t you … didn’t you get a chance to clear up before work?’ he said, with the innocence of someone who doesn’t realise that the lion they are approaching hasn’t eaten for several days.

‘Funnily enough, no,’ she smiled. ‘Fancy helping me do it now?’ She looked at him, trying to feign an innocent expression.

‘Oh.’ The question stopped him in his tracks. Did he fancy clearing up? He seemed to ponder for a minute. ‘Do you know what,’ he said carefully. ‘I would, but I’ve got so much homework … maybe Katie …’ Already his head had disappeared from view.

‘Katie?’ called Clare.

‘Down in a bit!’ called her daughter, from halfway up the stairs – already savvy enough to have read the situation before approaching her mother.

Both of them expected, of course, that by the time they did emerge from their important ‘homework’ (for which, without doubt, they would need their laptops, phones and use of the internet) she’d probably have cleared up much of the mess and got their dinner on the table.

Because