Read Online Drip Dry by Ilsa Evans - Free Book Online

courthouse where the nervous-looking female is apparently in imminent danger of losing custody of her children to her more affluent ex-husband. He is impeccably dressed, with impeccable credentials, and has an obviously impeccable lifestyle complete with requisite impeccable blonde girlfriend (actually, she looks a lot like the weather-woman). The children’s mother, on the other hand, has what definitely looks like a smear of Vegemite on the front lapel of her crumpled suit, and keeps jumping nervously every time somebody makes even a moderately loud noise. I vote that she lets him have the children, enjoys a prolonged holiday, and then returns when he has had enough – which, by the look of those kids, shouldn’t take very long at all. After all, I know from experience that it is the every-second-weekend parent who is worshipped, Vegemite-less and cannot do a thing wrong. And has a life.
    I also know that she won’t give them up without a fight, and I can’t say I blame her.
    It’s a funny world.

TUESDAY
Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
    Matthew 19:19

TUESDAY
    8.00 am
    There were two things on my mind as I woke this morning. The first was CJ’s birthday party this afternoon, and what I needed to get done beforehand, and the second was the imminent arrival of Alex this afternoon. Actually, also on my mind was the fact that Keith, my other ex-husband, would be present at the birthday party, and that I didn’t really want Ben around while he was here . . . and that there is a hole in my bathroom floor, and that my mother has gone ahead and made CJ’s birthday cake, and that the day already feels hot and sticky, and to remember to say happy birthday to CJ, and that my sister gave birth to twins yesterday. So, I suppose there were really a lot more than two things on my mind as I woke this morning. In fact, now that I think of it, my mind was a veritable cauldron. No wonder I needed a coupleof headache tablets before I could even think about coffee.
    Well, at least I did remember to say happy birthday when CJ got into bed with me for a cuddle at the crack of dawn. So now I am leaning against the kitchen counter, freshly showered and dressed in a rather attractive new lemony shift-dress, waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the birthday girl hand-pick her cereal. This has been a morning ritual ever since she once managed to score a faulty cornflake that had somehow adhered itself to several of its mates and formed an unattractive and unchewable lump. Apparently the experience was traumatic. As I watch her examine each flake in minute detail, I resolve to restrict her to toast in future.
    â€˜CJ, just pour them in already, will you?’
    â€˜No way! Then I get the yucky ones.’
    â€˜We’re running late! And you’re not even dressed yet!’
    â€˜Okay, this’ll do.’ She pushes the cereal box aside and pours some milk over her eight carefully selected cornflakes. ‘Oh! Did you do my cupcakes for today?’
    â€˜All thirty of them. They’re in an ice-cream container and I’ve put them in your schoolbag so don’t crush them.’
    â€˜Cool! But I wish you’d sabed one of my presents for today.’
    â€˜Well, CJ, if you remember I tried to, but you insisted that you wanted them all on Saturday.’ I turn off the kettle and pour hot water over my coffee granules in the plunger as a semi-dressed Benjamin saunters in and slides into the chair next to hisyounger sister. He picks up the cereal box and pours a liberal amount into his bowl and all around it. Now there’s someone who definitely goes for quantity over quality.
    â€˜Mum, you know the smell next door?’ Ben looks at me while he pours his milk, with predictable results. ‘At Dad’s new joint?’
    â€˜You habn’t said happy birthday to me yet, Ben.’
    â€˜Here.’ I throw him the sponge which he places neatly next to his plate