possible vacancy and she should chase them up tomorrow. However, if she was going to make one business development call, she might as well do a few solid hours on the phone. She blocked out the next morning in her calendar.
Ginny groaned. It was a juggle, and she was fast getting to the point where Shine needed another consultant. To grow, she needed another pair of hands to help build business and bill clients. But she was hesitant, resistant even. She liked things as they were and people management had never been her forte. She’d have to think about it seriously though, and soon. But not now. She looked at her watch — getting on for six. If she hurried, she could make it for feeding time at the zoo.
Madeleine and Paul Bruce lived in a mouth-wateringly beautiful villa in the heart of Grey Lynn. It was a cracker: five big bedrooms, open-plan kitchen, two separate living areas, en suite … the works. However, despite the beauty of the house a lack of time had contributed to the understated shabbiness outside and organised chaos that often dominated indoors.
Bowling through the front door — Ginny didn’t bother knocking, particularly on nights like these — she headed straight to the back of the house where she could hear dinner was most definitely under way. In the kitchen, Molly, an eighteen-month old charmer with a head of golden curls, was smearing spaghetti bolognese on the tray of her highchair. As Ginny walked in Molly picked up a handful and dropped it onto the floor.
George, nearly four, was laughing out loud at his baby sister’s antics — and as a result getting more food on the table than in his mouth.
Madeleine was nowhere to be seen. Smart woman, Ginny thought.
‘Right, ratbags, what’s going on here?’ She dropped her bag on the breakfast bar.
‘Ginny!’ George rained food as he spoke.
‘Whoops! Finish your mouthful, buster, and then you can talk. And as for you, missy …’ Ginny snatched up paper towels. ‘I think you’d better start putting some of that into your mouth.’
‘Ginny? Is that you?’ Madeleine came rushing in. ‘I just had to get a bib for … oh, Christ!’ She took in the mess. ‘What are you two doing? Why can’t you even eat without trashing the place?’ Her voice was rising and the children looked at her warily.
Meticulously groomed before children, and once quite a clothes-horse, Mads always looked a bit frazzled these days. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a messy bun, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Once they might have been mistaken for smudged mascara — these days they signalled pure weariness. Her jeans hung off her and food and a rainbow of poster paint ran up the sides. Her T-shirt was clean, but probably not the one she’d put on that morning.
Ginny recognised the tone: Mads was escalating. Ginny grabbed the wine she’d picked up on her way over, twisted the cap off and sloshed a fair amount into a glass.
‘Mads, here.’ Ginny shoved the glass into her friend’s hand and propelled her through the open patio doors and over to a weathered Adirondack chair. ‘Sit. Drink.’
Back inside, Ginny gently closed the door and watched until Mads took a long sip. Her shoulders were still up around her ears with tension, but that would pass.
‘Okay then.’ She turned to the kids. ‘Who’s going to finish dinner first? There may be some ice cream in it.’
As they ate, she stacked the dishwasher and wiped down the surfaces. It wasn’t much, but if she could do it once or even twice a week, it took some of the load off.
She gave Molly and George small scoops of ice cream and, smiling at their delighted squeals, took the bottle outside and waved it at Madeleine.
‘Top-up?’
‘Yes, please.’ Mads held out her glass. ‘I’m a terrible mother. I always run out of patience. I’ve lost track of how often I’ve raised my voice at them this week. For no reason. They’re just being kids. I hate it. You’re a
Ginny groaned. It was a juggle, and she was fast getting to the point where Shine needed another consultant. To grow, she needed another pair of hands to help build business and bill clients. But she was hesitant, resistant even. She liked things as they were and people management had never been her forte. She’d have to think about it seriously though, and soon. But not now. She looked at her watch — getting on for six. If she hurried, she could make it for feeding time at the zoo.
Madeleine and Paul Bruce lived in a mouth-wateringly beautiful villa in the heart of Grey Lynn. It was a cracker: five big bedrooms, open-plan kitchen, two separate living areas, en suite … the works. However, despite the beauty of the house a lack of time had contributed to the understated shabbiness outside and organised chaos that often dominated indoors.
Bowling through the front door — Ginny didn’t bother knocking, particularly on nights like these — she headed straight to the back of the house where she could hear dinner was most definitely under way. In the kitchen, Molly, an eighteen-month old charmer with a head of golden curls, was smearing spaghetti bolognese on the tray of her highchair. As Ginny walked in Molly picked up a handful and dropped it onto the floor.
George, nearly four, was laughing out loud at his baby sister’s antics — and as a result getting more food on the table than in his mouth.
Madeleine was nowhere to be seen. Smart woman, Ginny thought.
‘Right, ratbags, what’s going on here?’ She dropped her bag on the breakfast bar.
‘Ginny!’ George rained food as he spoke.
‘Whoops! Finish your mouthful, buster, and then you can talk. And as for you, missy …’ Ginny snatched up paper towels. ‘I think you’d better start putting some of that into your mouth.’
‘Ginny? Is that you?’ Madeleine came rushing in. ‘I just had to get a bib for … oh, Christ!’ She took in the mess. ‘What are you two doing? Why can’t you even eat without trashing the place?’ Her voice was rising and the children looked at her warily.
Meticulously groomed before children, and once quite a clothes-horse, Mads always looked a bit frazzled these days. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a messy bun, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Once they might have been mistaken for smudged mascara — these days they signalled pure weariness. Her jeans hung off her and food and a rainbow of poster paint ran up the sides. Her T-shirt was clean, but probably not the one she’d put on that morning.
Ginny recognised the tone: Mads was escalating. Ginny grabbed the wine she’d picked up on her way over, twisted the cap off and sloshed a fair amount into a glass.
‘Mads, here.’ Ginny shoved the glass into her friend’s hand and propelled her through the open patio doors and over to a weathered Adirondack chair. ‘Sit. Drink.’
Back inside, Ginny gently closed the door and watched until Mads took a long sip. Her shoulders were still up around her ears with tension, but that would pass.
‘Okay then.’ She turned to the kids. ‘Who’s going to finish dinner first? There may be some ice cream in it.’
As they ate, she stacked the dishwasher and wiped down the surfaces. It wasn’t much, but if she could do it once or even twice a week, it took some of the load off.
She gave Molly and George small scoops of ice cream and, smiling at their delighted squeals, took the bottle outside and waved it at Madeleine.
‘Top-up?’
‘Yes, please.’ Mads held out her glass. ‘I’m a terrible mother. I always run out of patience. I’ve lost track of how often I’ve raised my voice at them this week. For no reason. They’re just being kids. I hate it. You’re a
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