Read Online Love in a Warm Climate by Helena Frith-Powell - Free Book Online Page A

sentence as a single mother. It has to be just right. This is one of those moments they might never forget, like the first time they ride a bike or wear a school uniform. I have to make it as painless as possible for them.
    But how do I explain that their father has gone? I just can’t do it to them. This must be what it’s like when you have to tell people someone is dead. There they are, all innocent and unknowing, and you’re just about to shatter their world. I can’t shatter their world – not yet anyway, not before a cup of tea.
    So instead of telling Edward that his father is probably with a small-breasted woman called Cécile, I tell him he can’t go to school in Charlotte’s fairy dress. This probably has a more immediate effect on him than the other news would have had.
    â€œWhy not? I love it,” he wails, keeling over on the bed, lookingdangerously close to having a tantrum or at least bashing himself on the headboard.
    â€œBecause your teacher might not like it.” I know they don’t go for school uniforms in France, but a fairy dress might be pushing it. “And you look a bit, well, a bit like a girl and you might get teased.”
    Edward sits up. “I look like a girl?” he asks.
    â€œYes,” I say, stroking his hair again. “I’m sorry to say you do.”
    â€œYuk. I hate girls,” he says looking disconsolately at his fairy dress.
    Charlotte looks around the room. “Is Daddy downstairs in the shower?”
    â€œNo, Daddy has gone to London,” I say, making an effort not to betray anything in my voice. “He had to leave for work early.”
    â€œBut he was supposed to be here for our first day at school,” wails Emily. “It’s not fair.”
    â€œI know, I know,” I say consolingly. “I’m afraid he had to go back to work urgently. But as a special treat you can have pain au chocolat for breakfast. A French breakfast for my French schoolchildren.”
    If anything can console Emily it is chocolate.
    â€œYipppeee!” she yells. Didn’t take her long to get over the absence of her father. Maybe I should eat some chocolate too and hope for the best?
    â€œLast one to get dressed is a rotten banana,” yells Charlotte, running towards the door. I watch them. Charlotte is a smaller version of me, or at least the me I used to be before I became a mummy with a tummy; Emily is more like my mother: a total rebel. She’ll be reading books on nihilism before she’s ten. Or possibly even writing them.
    Half of me feels like lying down and going back to sleep. So what if I’m the rotten banana? I can’t muster the energy to do anything at all. I’m exhausted. My brain feels as messy as a ball of wool that’s been dragged around the house for several hours by an over-excited Daisy. The thought of getting dressed, even getting up, fills me with despair.
    I wonder where Nick is now. Probably already back with Cécile. She could be tying his tie for him as I lie here wondering how the hell my marriage ended. Hopefully she’ll accidentally strangle him.
    What am I supposed to do? I need to think about our future, about moving back home, packing everything up again (lucky I didn’t throw away those £ 8 collapsible boxes), finding a house, taking the children out of school, finding them another school. I wonder where I put Simon the removal man’s number. I didn’t think I’d ever need it again, let alone two weeks into our new life. The list of things to do is endless and horrible. I don’t want to dwell on any of it now; it makes me feel physically sick. But I can’t possibly stay here alone with no job and rely on Nick the faithlessbastard for handouts.
    I think back to how excited we were when Mr Vorst called us to tell us our offer had been accepted. I had the feeling of a whole new world opening up. And now of course it is already