An Eligible Bachelor by Veronica Henry Page B

eye on how much was slipping through her fingers. Only the household bills and the council tax were paid by direct debit, because it was marginally cheaper. And when money was this tight, margins made all the difference.
    She lifted the cake board carefully and placed it in a white cardboard box, closing the lid with a sigh. She could really do with putting her feet up in front of the telly tonight, but she had to go through Ted’s spellings with him – he always had a test first thing Thursday morning – and make sure his PE kit was ready before forcing him into the bath. Then it was her favourite part of the day, when he snuggled up on her lap in his pyjamas and they read together – he would do one page, and she would do two, usually Dr Seuss or Roald Dahl. Once he was tucked up under his duvet, then she could flop down on the sofa and select her evening’s viewing – a pointless ritual, because she would always fall asleep after two minutes.
    Her days were long. Every morning she got up at six to put wood on the woodburning stove so the house would be warm by the time Ted got up. Then she made her daily batch of three dozen scones: she supplied a local craft centre with freshly baked goods for the lunches and teas they served in their café. While the scones were in the oven she had a shower; she had it timed to perfection so that they were pale gold in the time it took her to wash her hair and rough dry it with a towel. Havingextricated the scones, she made porridge or boiled eggs for breakfast, then she and Ted raced each other to get dressed. A ritual search for an essential item ranging from a Pokémon card to a plimsoll usually ensued, then Honor walked Ted down through the village to the school gates, where he joined the rest of his mates in the playground. Once she was back home, she embarked upon the rest of the day’s orders, which the craft centre phoned through at about quarter past nine.
    She often thought about going back to work properly, but she never wanted to have the dilemma of Ted being off ill. And she liked to pick him up at three fifteen. She didn’t like the thought of him trooping into aftercare, even though many of his peer group did. And she’d want the holidays and half-terms off. Apart from teaching, which she was hardly qualified to do, there were few jobs that would allow that flexibility. So she muddled through with her scones and her birthday cakes, as well as dinnerparty puddings for overworked hostesses who couldn’t quite face the ignominy of serving up a Marks & Spencer cheesecake, but it was a lot of labour for the money – she seemed constantly to be covered in flour, hot from the oven. Or tearing round trying to deliver on time – once she’d dropped Ted at school she had a two-hour window to bake whatever else was needed and deliver it to the craft centre in time for lunch.
    Today she’d done three quiches and two pissaladières and dropped them off at the craft centre, then rushed back to finish the birthday cake, which was going to be picked up later that afternoon by the wife of the unsuspecting Nigel. Taking off her apron and stuffing it intothe washing machine, she looked at the clock. It was five to three – not long enough to do much about her appearance. She double-checked the calendar on the cork noticeboard to make sure there was nothing she’d forgotten. She was meticulous about writing things down because otherwise she’d never remember. Ted’s social and sporting diary was hectic – certainly more than hers was. Beavers, swimming, football on a Saturday, parties most weekends, someone for tea at least once a week in order to help out some other working mother, and all of this underpinned by a complicated rota of lift-sharing. It was a social whirl, and Honor had to keep careful track of it all to make sure that she didn’t forget to give another child a lift or take them home for tea. Once she’d forgotten to collect one of Ted’s friends from a