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

credit on a car for himself, designer suits, a new briefcase and not considering her feelings at all; Alfie, who had left so many plates on his bedroom floor that she’d trod on at least two mouldy pieces of toast when she’d ventured into his room with a pile of clean pants earlier. Katie, who had actually asked her to drop her off down the road from her dance class last Saturday because – apparently – she was embarrassing.

She shook her head. No, she wasn’t going to have that kind of life. The kind of life where you’re the wind beneath everyone else’s wings and don’t get to spread your own.

Getting out her battered little notebook, she began to write.

Chapter Five

The following Monday, Clare’s wake-up was a little more rom-com and a little less EastEnders. For a start, the sun was shining. She’d slept well. Toby had remembered to put his dirty pants into the laundry basket. This was shaping up to be an unusually Good Start to the week.

She’d decided over the weekend, while running errands and taxiing children to football matches and catching up on Corrie – that perhaps she’d gone about it all the wrong way.

In fact, if anything, she felt a bit annoyed at herself for becoming a cliché – or at least she would be if she didn’t love her new shoes so much. Like a character in a movie, she’d gone down the ‘looks’ route when she’d wanted to shake up her life. But actually she didn’t want lustful looks on the bus as much as respect in the boardroom (and perhaps a bit of help at home).

As it was, her new look had only served to make her realise just how little attention Toby paid her – which had made her feel even worse.

But maybe Steph was right – maybe she ought not to worry too much about Toby’s apparent lack of interest. His personality transplant had happened pretty much as soon as he’d started his new role. It was bound to be stress, rather than any massive problem with their marriage, right? He’d told her Hayley had a boyfriend – she was his PA and that was it. And as he settled down into his new job, perhaps the old Toby would emerge again to replace the frantically busy, distracted new version.

But the moment she walked into the kitchen, her resolve failed her. Not a soul looked up, despite her chirpy ‘Good morning!’ The kids had been out or in their rooms for most of the weekend, Toby had spent half of Saturday morning at the salon, so this was the first time the whole family had been in the same room at the same time for two days. And nothing.

Toby was silent, sitting behind his paper. The kids were poring over cereal and phones simultaneously.

‘Don’t suppose you can flick the kettle on for me?’ said her husband, who had obviously sensed her come in but hadn’t felt the need to glance in her direction.

‘Sure,’ she said. She walked loudly and deliberately over to the counter and pushed the switch.

She wondered, for a second, whether her life was just a stage set, and she was the only actor without a script. Maybe she should take a leaf out of Bill Murray’s book and act outrageously, just because she could? It would certainly sort out the invisibility question once and for all.

‘Mmm, what to have, what to have …’ she said, watching her family carefully. Not one of them looked up. ‘Hmm,’ she said again. ‘Breakfast! The meal of champions! Breaker of the night’s fast. Setting oneself up for the day.’

Nothing.

She began to pour herself a bowl of cereal then stopped. Far too ordinary. Instead, she grabbed an enormous glass bowl and her soup ladle, tipped the majority of Alfie’s Honey Pops into it and flooded the whole dish with milk. Then she plonked it on the table between her children, slopping a little of its contents dangerously close to Katie’s phone and, pulling up a chair, took an enormous ladleful.

‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Yummy.’

Katie, not looking up, moved her phone protectively away from the splash of milk.

‘Got to love Honey Pops!’ Clare said, almost desperately, willing someone to look up. Forgoing the spoon, she dipped her face into the bowl and bit into the sticky cereal. ‘So tasty!’

‘Uh huh.’ This was from Toby, still hidden behind his paper.

Clare leaned forward and pushed the page down to reveal her husband with his carefully coiffed mop, new silk tie and lilac shirt. ‘Anything interesting?’ she said, a honey pop falling from her chin and landing wetly on the market reports.

Toby glanced up at her, then looked again, more intently. Here it was. Here was the moment.

‘Clare?’ he said.

‘Yes, darling one? Light of my life? ITV’s answer to Jeremy Vine?’

‘Do you think you could pick me up a packet of Y-fronts today if you go to the shops?’

‘Sure,’ she said, feeling a dribble of milk roll slowly down her chin.

‘OK, thanks,’ Toby said, flicking the paper back up in front of his face.

What would it take? she wondered. Perhaps she should stage a naked protest outside the studio, glue herself to his laptop, or dress up as Piers Morgan in the bedroom to get his attention. You seem surprised to see me, she imagined herself saying. Come here and let me patronise you.

At the bus stop, she even wondered for a moment whether she ought to take a leaf out of Mr Flasher’s book. Today he was wearing his traditional raincoat, this time with apparently bare legs (despite the fact it was four degrees and windy), white sports socks and a pair of crocs.

While his attire wasn’t on trend, it was certainly memorable – and of course left anyone who saw you pondering the slightly fascinating, slightly repulsive possibility that you might be a pervert.

She nodded and smiled as he glanced up. Perhaps nobody noticed him either.

Sitting on the bus, she felt a little teary