Read Online A Last Kiss for Mummy by Casey Watson - Free Book Online

evenings before. ‘Save him having to be up in his cot upstairs all the time for his naps,’ he’d explained. And I understood perfectly. Out of sight out of mind was the last thing that was required.
    ‘Come on, Emma,’ I said once she’d finished the first slice. ‘Come on, get a move on!’ She was flicking through the channels now, inertia kicking in. ‘Get upstairs, get yourself showered, and get dressed, quick smart. You might not care what Hannah thinks, but I do. You need to show her that you can set a good example to your child, and lounging about watching TV in your PJs isn’t one, in my book. Come on, take the rest of your toast up and get organised.’
    She huffed again, and I was reminded that in the normal course of things she’d be in school, probably huffing about having to sit through double maths instead. ‘A good example?’ she spluttered. ‘He’s not even two months old! It’s not like he’s going to start copying me, is it? Christ!’
    She stomped off then, slamming the door behind her for good measure, which made me flinch, expecting Roman to wake with a start and begin wailing, but he was obviously used to noise. He barely stirred.
    Emma was still upstairs when Hannah arrived on the doorstep fifteen minutes later, looking a picture of smiling efficiency.
    ‘Morning, Casey,’ she said cheerfully as I ushered her over the threshold. ‘Goodness, it’s warm in here after the nip in the air out there. Had to ramp the heating up for our little man, I suppose?’
    She shrugged her parka off as she went in, and cast around, looking for him.
    ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Not ideal for a woman at my time of life, it must be said, but needs must, eh? Cup of coffee?’
    ‘That would be lovely. Ah! There you are – look at you, all snug in your lovely basket!’ She plucked Roman from his bed and turned back to me in one smooth movement. ‘And where’s our little madam today?’ she asked.
    It was nothing personal, but I didn’t really like the way she called Emma ‘our little madam’. It was the sort of term a mother might use affectionately for her own teenager, and, though it wasn’t for me to say, in this context it just felt slightly inappropriate – as if she was already encouraging her to play that kind of role, despite Emma being a mother herself. It also riled me that Hannah was only young too and, though she was possibly the best social worker since the invention of sliced bread, had no personal experience of being a mum herself. (I’d checked.) Which didn’t mean she couldn’t do a brilliant job for Roman – some of the best midwives out there were childless, after all – but did mean it sat uneasily with me that she should slightly patronise Emma in that way. So I lied. I just didn’t want to give her further fuel to think of Emma like that.
    ‘She’s upstairs sorting out the baby’s laundry, I think,’ I mumbled. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on then I’ll nip up and tell her you’re here.’
    ‘Excellent,’ said Hannah. ‘Now, little fellow,’ she said, turning back to Roman, ‘how are you?’
    Once I’d chivvied Emma down (having first, of course, briefed her) I left her and Hannah to it, and got on with doing a bit of laundry myself. I was out in the conservatory – a welcome addition Mike had made to the house not long after we’d moved in – hanging it on my airer when I heard the door go, and by the time I returned to the living room Emma was back in position on the sofa, Roman in the crook of one arm, remote in the other hand, TV on.
    She glanced up. ‘She said she’ll see you Thursday,’ she told me. ‘And maybe phone you. Prob’ly to bitch about something else I’m doing wrong.’
    ‘Wrong?’ I asked. ‘What did she say you were doing wrong?’
    Emma pouted, seemingly lost for an answer. ‘Nothing,’ she admittedly finally. ‘But she doesn’t have to. I can just tell. She thinks I’m useless. “You should do this that way, you should do