Never Mind Miss Fox by Olivia Glazebrook Page B

Martha repeated, turning to query him.
    Eliza did not wait for an answer but went on, “Eliot says in New York it gets so hot there’s a hot draft if you leave the window open.”
    Clive opened his mouth. He seemed to be about to say, “That’s impossible,” again.
    â€œEliot says—”
    â€œPlease stop repeating everything Eliot says,” he cut in. His voice was dry and cool as if it too had been conditioned.
    Eliza was so surprised she could do nothing more than gape at him.
    Martha put her fingertips to her eyebrow for a second, then took them away again and said, “Clive—”
    â€œWhat?” he rounded on her. “Would it be too much to ask for a conversation about something other than Eliot fucking Fox?”
    â€œShut up, Dad!”
    â€œSit down!  ”
    The driver braked and Eliza tipped in a heap to the carpeted floor of the cab. She yelped, “Ow, my head!” and started to cry.
    â€œStop the cab!” Martha was frightened.
    â€œI’m going to walk,” said Clive.
    â€œNo; we are.”
    Martha scooped Eliza up off the floor and onto the pavement. She slammed the door behind them.
    â€œShe’s fine, ” said Clive out of the window. “Stop making a fuss—” But his face was as white and frightened as Martha’s.
    The traffic lights changed and other cars began to hoot. The taxi sped away.
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    â€œI hate him I hate him,” Eliza said. “My head hurts.”
    â€œIce cream is good for hurting heads,” said Martha, and so they stopped at their change of buses for pancakes and ice creams. They dawdled, eating at a café table and discussing Eliot.
    â€œI wish she was here,” Eliza said. “I wonder what flavor she would have. What kind of ice cream did she eat in France?”
    â€œIt was a hundred years ago! I can’t remember.”
    â€œOh, please, Mum, tell me more stuff.” Eliza was insatiable. “Did she speak French as well as you? Did she wear nice clothes? Did she play the piano then?”
    â€œYes! Yes to all those things,” laughed Martha. “Why don’t you ask Tom about her? He was the one who really knew her.”
    â€œHe loved her,” gloated Eliza, licking the back of her spoon.
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    Back at the flat there was no sign of Clive. Martha said, “I bet you he’s gone for a run.”
    Eliza checked the cupboard. “Correct,” she said. “No shoes. I hope he runs into a big hole. Hey, Mum”—she hung around Martha’s neck for a moment, smackering the side of her mother’s face with big, open kisses—“I’m going downstairs to listen to my iPod”— kiss —“Eliot gave me some clavier music to put on it”— kiss-kiss —“That’s another word for a piano.” She let go and scooted downstairs, calling over her shoulder, “Tell Dad not to come and say good night. It’s bad night.”
    If it were just the two of us, Martha thought, smiling, we could be like this always.
    This thought was an occasional, luxurious indulgence, like a chocolate truffle. She would only allow herself to daydream about a life without Clive if he gave her an excuse—if he had been nasty, as he had today. It did not happen often. Sometimes she wished it would, so that her fantasies might be excused, but Clive was a fair, decent and proper husband who did not often slip up. Today, however, he had been a bully. She wanted an apology.
    First, however, she would treat herself to five minutes of an imaginary life. As she undressed for the shower—swallowed Nurofen—crouched to pee—she let a picture be illuminated in her head: herself and Eliza sharing a two-roomed flat, perhaps in Hampstead, perhaps near Eliot’s house. Now she saw the three of them—Sunday breakfasts—walks on the Heath—back and forth to the school together. Naked, dreaming,