Beneath the Dark Ice by Greig Beck

Antarctica, Present Day
In the final seconds before impact, John "Buck" Banyon, arguably one of the wealthiest hotel owners in North America, released the U-shaped steering column. He folded his large arms over his chest, obscuring the hand-stitched, gold lettering across a bomber jacket that simply read "Buck." He knew he was as good as dead as soon as the engine restart had failed and all the other backup systems which had at first gone crazy winked out one by one. There was no time now for another restart and bailing out was a joke in this weather. He snorted at the white-filled cockpit screen and whispered a final "fuck it," as the altimeter told him the ground was just about in his face.
Banyon had invited his senior executive team and their wives or lovers on a reward-for-service flight in his private jet, the Perseus--a one-day flight out of southern Australia over the Antarctic. He had made the trip several times alone and this time he hoped to show his young Turks that there was more to Buck Banyon than making money and eighteen-hour days. There was such rare and exotic beauty here; you could keep your wildlife colonies--he could see a fucking penguin at the zoo any day. But down here he had seen things only a handful of people on earth had witnessed: rare green sunsets where the sun hovered at the horizon for hours and a band of emerald flashed out between ice and sky; floating ice mountains caused by the stillness of the air creating the mirage of an ice peak which seemed to lift off and hover hundreds of feet above the ground.
He should have known better; you fall in love with the Antarctic and she'll hurt you. Buck had forgotten one thing; she was as beautiful as she was unpredictable. Even though he had checked the meteorology ser vice before leaving, the icy continent had surprised him with a monstrous katabatic flow jump. She hid them behind mountains and deep crevices; and then when you were close enough she revealed them in all their ferocious power--mile-high walls of snow and wind and fury that climbed rapidly over a rise in the landscape.
Light that was once so clean and clear you could see for hundreds of miles in all directions suddenly became confused and scattered by rushing snow and ice. The result was a freezing whiteout where the sky and the ground became one and there was no more horizon. In seconds, temperatures dropped by a hundred degrees and winds jumped by that amount again. A rule book didn't exist for what to do when you were caught within one; you just avoided them--and once inside them, a plane just ceased to exist.
Buck's ten passengers were not as calm as he was; the cacophony from the main cabin resembled something from one of Dante's stories on the torments of hell. Martinis and cocktails were voided onto the plush velvet seats which the passengers were crushed back into as they felt the combination of velocity and steep descent.
The seventy-foot white dart fell at roughly 500 miles per hour towards the Antarctic ice on a terminal pitch; its small but powerful turbofan jets had ceased to function in the blasting icy air above the blinding white landscape. As it plummeted towards the desolate ice plains below it was all but silent, save for a high-pitched whistling that could have been mistaken for a lost snow petrel calling to its fellow wanderers. This too vanished in the louder scream of the ferocious katabatic storm pummelling the skin of the sleek metal bird.
The initial impact, when it came, was more like the sound of a giant pillow striking an unmade bed than the metallic explosive noise of 30,000 pounds of metal impacting on a hard surface. A funnel-shaped plume of snow and ice was blown a hundred feet into the air, followed by a secondary spout of rock, debris and a hollow boom as the once sleek Challenger jet at last struck solid stone. The plane penetrated the ice surface like a bullet through glass, opening a ragged black hole into a cavern hundreds of feet below. The echoes of the impact reverberated down into the tunnels for miles, bouncing off walls and ceilings as the silent stone caught and then transferred the terrible sounds of the collision.
Silence once more returned to this subterranean world--but only briefly.
The creature lifted itself from the water and sampled the air. The vibrations from the high caverns drew forth a race memory dormant for generations as it dragged itself from its primordial lair in confusion. In its darkened world it had long learned to be silent, but the noises and vibrations from the ceiling caverns excited it and it rushed towards the high caves, making a sound like a river of boiling mud.
It would take hours for it to reach the crash site, but already it could detect the faint smell of molten alloy, fuel and something else--something none of its kind had sensed in many millennia. It moved its great mucous-covered bulk forward quickly, hunger now driving it onwards.
Excerpted from Beneath the Dark Ice by Greig Beck.
Copyright © 2009 by Greig Beck.
Published in September 2010 by St. Martin's Paperbacks.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
(Continues...)

Dr. Placebo, Book Two by Nkosi Moyo

From the minute he saw her in the crowded Wal-Mart store, he knew trouble would soon follow. If he played his cards right, however, no one would even know. If he played his cards right, things could turn out to be no trouble at all. Now the question was; could he still do it? Did he still have what it took? Those were questions he couldn’t answer at that very minute. It bothered him that, even for a second, he’d doubted himself. He hated that. He hated it because he knew that no amount of self-doubt would prevent what was to follow. There was no way of avoiding it. A familiar feeling churned through his stomach. His chest rose as he took in a deep breath. This was a feeling he knew well. Even though he’d never seen her before, he knew right there, he’d have to do it.

He found himself gripping his shopping cart so tightly his nails dug into his palms. The resulting pain was only a minor distraction. Without prying his eyes off her, he brought his hands together and rubbed them briefly, before grasping the shopping cart handle again. A voice he hadn’t heard in a while whispered softly in the back of his mind. Right now he was on the verge of breaking commandment number one: Never let them know you’re watching.
He looked around. The crowd in the grocery section of the department store was a mixture of those who seemed to be in a great hurry but had no idea where to find what they wanted and those who appeared to be in the middle of a leisurely stroll whose only purpose was to admire the store displays. No one was looking at him. He felt sure no one had noticed him leering at her. A sigh of relief left his lips. Commandment number two – Never let anyone else know that you’re watching – had not been broken.
He looked ahead. She was still there, walking along and stopping at the entrance of each aisle. She appeared to be pondering whether or not she needed anything from each aisle she came to. Turning to one side, he looked at a shelf. He had to appear casual. He had to look like he had nothing but shopping on his mind. So far, no one had noticed that he had been staring at her. But what about those security cameras, hooded behind their black glass domes, dotting the ceiling of the store? Was it possible that one of them had caught him in his moment of captivation? Even if one of them had caught him, did it really matter? He felt sure that nothing in his demeanor betrayed what was running through his mind. Even if other shoppers noticed the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead, they wouldn’t know their cause.
He wiped his forehead, and the cold and clammy layer of wetness left a shiny smudge on the back of his hand. He looked at it briefly before wiping his forehead again, this time with his upper arm.
He turned his head back to the side aisle. She was still there, now almost towards the far end. He had to make sure he didn’t lose her. He wasn’t going to allow this one to get away. He knew her type well. She was the type that would keep him awake at night. If this one was going to keep him up at night, it wasn’t going to be because he had managed to let her get away. It was going to be because she was his current project. Yes, project was a much better term for it. He nodded slightly in satisfaction, happy with how he had made the switch to referring to them as projects instead of victims. That had been very clever of him. After all, what he engaged in were victimless incidents. They were incidents, not crimes. Of course that wasn’t the view that law enforcement would take. That’s why extreme caution was warranted. As long as he stuck to the commandments, Dr. Placebo, Book Two by Nkosi Moyo 3 he would be fine. These would continue to be victimless incidents and not crimes.
He gripped the handle of his shopping cart and began to follow her. The sweat that had collected on his palms surprised him. Was he that much out of practice? How long had it been since he’d had such a project? He couldn’t remember. Anyway, that was not so important. It was far more important that he make sure that he didn’t lose this one. Tilting his head from one side to the other, he peered through the crowd. She was getting too far away from him for comfort. The crowd suddenly seemed to be much thicker than it had been just a few minutes ago. He had to hurry in order to catch up with her.
Suddenly, she was no longer there. He had lost her! How had he allowed this to happen? He couldn’t even tell where he had last spotted her. The pressure that welled up in his chest was unbearable. He was sure he wasn’t going to be able to suppress the scream that he felt building up inside. The urge to dash screaming in the direction he had last seen her was overwhelming. But what good would that do? He had to calm himself down. He had to calmly but briskly walk after her. He had to find her. He had to find her right now.
As suddenly as she had disappeared, she came briefly into view again as she turned into an aisle. With his nostrils flared in determination, he took off towards her. He wasn’t going to take his eyes off the entrance of the aisle he had seen her enter. The crashing sound that followed startled him as well as a few others in the immediate area. In his haste he had failed to see another shopper coming out of one of the aisles. Their carts had collided, causing everyone around them to stop what they were doing and stare.
A petite girl who didn’t look old enough to be pregnant clung to the handle of the offending cart. Her swollen belly, appearing to weigh about as much as her tiny frame, was partially exposed where her pink T-shirt should have met her brown knee-length skirt. He wasn’t sure if that was a fashion statement or if she simply couldn’t afford clothes that fit.
He spoke first. “I’m sorry.”
For what seemed like an eternity, she said nothing. She just stood there, mouth partially open. Finally she said, “I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention. Sometimes it’s hard to pay attention to everything when I’m trying to keep them in line.” She motioned to three kids standing next to her.
He looked at the kids and concluded that she was dressed the way she was not as a fashion statement but because she couldn’t afford better fitting clothing. Looking at the children’s dirty bare feet, he wondered whether the store’s “No shoes, no shirt, no service” policy only applied to grownups. The children, a boy who looked to be around eight years old and two girls probably seven and five years old, looked at each other before appearing to find some fascination with the store’s floor tiles.
He said, “That’s okay, ma’am. No harm done. Have a nice day.” He smiled before pulling his cart back, redirecting it and moving on.
He had told the pregnant girl that no harm had been done but he wasn’t too sure about that. Had that short delay caused him to lose subject of his next project? His eyes quickly focused on the frozen-food aisle he had seen her go into. Rapidly, he made his way towards it. His head was already leaning into the aisle before he could fully turn into it. There she was! He stifled a gasp as he took in her physique. Since he was standing behind her, he could look at her without any fear of being spotted by her. Every inch of her body exemplified feminine athleticism. Her snugly fitting white T-shirt tucked into her tight black jogging shorts made for a pleasing clothing-to-skin ratio.
He was still trying to determine whether or not she had any panties on beneath her jogging shorts, when she turned to open one of the upright freezer doors. With the smoothness of a seasoned veteran he turned and opened a door as well. Normally, the cold temperatures were unbearable to him in this area of the store. Today, however, was different. Today he had a project on his mind.
It was about time he got back into working on such projects regularly. But what if he made a mistake? What if he was caught? That would be the end of everything. There was no way something like that could be kept out of the headlines. Not only would the Athens and University of Georgia papers splash it all over their front pages, the Atlanta paper too would probably find the story too juicy to overlook. Then there was the possibility of TV news crews. He could picture them camped outside his apartment, waiting to catch a glimpse of him. Of course that would be assuming he was out on bail. The fact he was a twentyeight- year-old male teacher at an all-girl private school could quite easily fuel the story nationwide. All that notoriety would kill him. It would kill his parents too.
Carefully, he stole a look in her direction. She still had the freezer door open. She appeared to be comparing the nutritional information labels on her selections. That made sense. She looked like the type that would do that. Her shape of body didn’t come from just chomping down anything that was put in front of her. She made her selection, putting it in her cart before proceeding down the aisle. He had to see her from the front. He needed to see her from the front. Walking past her and then turning around to look at her wouldn’t be a good idea. That would be a good way of violating the first commandment. Turning his cart, he began to walk away from her. He was going to walk up the next aisle and then re-enter the aisle she was on from the direction she was facing. That way, if their eyes happened to meet, he would look just like another shopper wandering around in the store.
Walking quickly, he made it through the next aisle. Assuming what he was sure was the facial expression of a shopper deep in thought, he entered the aisle he had left her in. He made sure not to immediately look for her. That would be stupid. He hadn’t got where he was and successfully completed all his other projects by being stupid. From the corner of his eye, he could see that she was still in that aisle. He hoped the sweat that was once again collecting on his forehead would not betray him. He looked up and down the freezer shelves, and all the while his focus was on her. Once again, questions flooded his mind about the possible consequences of embarking on this new project.
There was still time to safely back out. He could sleep well at night knowing there was no possibility of being caught. But could he really sleep well if he didn’t go through with this? When he felt the moment was right, he cast his eyes in her direction. The second his eyes fell on her face, everything changed.
All doubts melted, evaporating into the air around him. Abandoning this project would not help him sleep well at night. Not taking the project is what would keep him awake at night. For the first time in a long time he looked at his endeavors and saw a clear victim. He could no longer pretend that he was engaging in victimless incidents. There was a definite victim here. He was the victim. He had to follow this through. How could he resist that kind of beauty? He was powerless to do anything else. An unfamiliar sadness descended on him. Who was really in charge in these situations? Had he been fooling himself all these years by thinking that he was in control? Wasn’t it the power of the subjects of his projects that controlled him?
He looked away from her. As they walked past each other going in opposite directions, she appeared oblivious to his presence. A distinct scent trailed behind her. It was a scent he expected a woman like her to have. It was mild yet seductive and refused to be ignored. How could he expect himself not to take her as his next project? His earlier thoughts slowly evolved into feelings of anger. Feeling like a victim didn’t sit well with him. He wanted to be in charge. He wanted to be in control. He wanted to be sure that what he did took place because he decided he wanted it to happen. He was the man, he was in charge and nothing was going to convince him that what he engaged in entailed victims, himself included.
He reached the end of the aisle. Turning, he checked to see if she was still in the same aisle. She was. He knew he was going to have to act quickly. If he wasn’t careful he would lose her in the crowd again. He had to follow her. Maybe there was a victim after all. However, there was no question about who the victim was. He was the victim. He was a victim of that fateful day by the river.
Continues...

I Don't Know How She Does It by Allison Pearson

Home
Monday, 1:37 a.m. How did I get here? Can someone please tell me that? Not in this kitchen, I mean in this life. It is the morning of the school carol concert and I am hitting mince pies. No, let us be quite clear about this, I am distressing mince pies, an altogether more demanding and subtle process.
Discarding the Sainsbury luxury packaging, I winkle the pies out of their pleated foil cups, place them on a chopping board and bring down a rolling pin on their blameless floury faces. This is not as easy as it sounds, believe me. Hit the pies too hard and they drop a kind of fat-lady curtsy, skirts of pastry bulging out at the sides, and the fruit starts to ooze. But with a firm downward motion-imagine enough pressure to crush a small beetle-you can start a crumbly little landslide, giving the pastry a pleasing homemade appearance. And homemade is what I'm after here. Home is where the heart is. Home is where the good mother is, baking for her children.
All this trouble because of a letter Emily brought back from school ten days ago, now stuck on the fridge with a Tinky Winky magnet, asking if "parents could please make a voluntary contribution of appropriate festive refreshments" for the Christmas party they always put on after the carols. The note is printed in berry red and at the bottom, next to Miss Empson's signature, there is a snowman wearing a mortarboard and a shy grin. But do not be deceived by the strenuous tone of informality or the outbreak of chummy exclamation marks!!! Oh, no. Notes from school are written in code, a code buried so cunningly in the text that it could only be deciphered at Bletchley Park or by guilty women in the advanced stages of sleep deprivation.
Take that word "parents," for example. When they write parents what they really mean, what they still mean, is mothers. (Has a father who has a wife on the premises ever read a note from school? Technically, it's not impossible, I suppose, but the note will have been a party invitation and, furthermore, it will have been an invitation to a party that has taken place at least ten days earlier.) And "voluntary"? Voluntary is teacher-speak for "On pain of death and/or your child failing to gain a place at the senior school of your choice." As for "appropriate festive refreshments," these are definitely not something bought by a lazy cheat in a supermarket.
How do I know that? Because I still recall the look my own mother exchanged with Mrs. Frieda Davies in 1974, when a small boy in a dusty green parka approached the altar at Harvest Festival with two tins of Libby's cling peaches in a shoe box. The look was unforgettable. It said, What kind of sorry slattern has popped down to the Spar on the corner to celebrate God's bounty when what the good Lord clearly requires is a fruit medley in a basket with cellophane wrap? Or a plaited bread? Frieda Davies's bread, maneuvered the length of the church by her twins, was plaited as thickly as the tresses of a Rhinemaiden.
"You see, Katharine," Mrs. Davies explained later, doing that disapproving upsneeze thing with her sinuses over teacakes, "there are mothers who make an effort like your mum and me. And then you get the type of person who"-prolonged sniff-"don't make the effort."
Of course I knew who they were: Women Who Cut Corners. Even back in 1974, the dirty word had started to spread about mothers who went out to work. Females who wore trouser suits and even, it was alleged, allowed their children to watch television while it was still light. Rumors of neglect clung to these creatures like dust to their pelmets.
So before I was really old enough to understand what being a woman meant, I already understood that the world of women was divided in two: there were proper mothers, self-sacrificing bakers of apple pies and well-scrubbed invigilators of the washtub, and there were the other sort. At the age of thirty-five, I know precisely which kind I am, and I suppose that's what I'm doing here in the small hours of the thirteenth of December, hitting mince pies with a rolling pin till they look like something mother-made. Women used to have time to make mince pies and had to fake orgasms. Now we can manage the orgasms, but we have to fake the mince pies. And they call this progress.
"Damn. Damn. Where has Paula hidden the sieve?"
"Kate, what do you think you're doing? It's two o'clock in the morning!"
Richard is standing in the kitchen doorway, wincing at the light. Rich with his Jermyn Street pajamas, washed and tumbled to Babygro bobbliness. Rich with his acres of English reasonableness and his fraying kindness. Slow Richard, my American colleague Candy calls him, because work at his ethical architecture firm has slowed almost to a standstill, and it takes him half an hour to take the bin out and he's always telling me to slow down.
"Slow down, Katie, you're like that funfair ride. What's it called? The one where the screaming people stick to the side so long as the damn thing keeps spinning?"
"Centrifugal force."
"I know that. I meant what's the ride called?"
"No idea. Wall of Death?"
"Exactly."
I can see his point. I'm not so far gone that I can't grasp there has to be more to life than forging pastries at midnight. And tiredness. Deep-sea-diver tiredness, voyage-to-the-bottom-of-fatigue tiredness; I've never really come up from it since Emily was born, to be honest. Five years of walking round in a lead suit of sleeplessness. But what's the alternative? Go into school this afternoon and brazen it out, slam a box of Sainsbury's finest down on the table of festive offerings? Then, to the Mummy Who's Never There and the Mummy Who Shouts, Emily can add the Mummy Who Didn't Make an Effort. Twenty years from now, when my daughter is arrested in the grounds of Buckingham Palace for attempting to kidnap the king, a criminal psychologist will appear on the news and say, "Friends trace the start of Emily Shattock's mental problems to a school carol concert where her mother, a shadowy presence in her life, humiliated her in front of her classmates."
"Kate? Hello?"
"I need the sieve, Richard."
"What for?"
"So I can cover the mince pies with icing sugar."
"Why?"
"Because they are too evenly colored, and everyone at school will know I haven't made them myself, that's why."
Richard blinks slowly, like Stan Laurel taking in another fine mess. "Not why icing sugar, why cooking? Katie, are you mad? You only got back from the States three hours ago. No one expects you to produce anything for the carol concert."
"Well, I expect me to." The anger in my voice takes me by surprise and I notice Richard flinch. "So, where has Paula hidden the sodding sieve?"
Rich looks older suddenly. The frown line, once an amused exclamation mark between my husband's eyebrows, has deepened and widened without my noticing into a five-bar gate. My lovely funny Richard, who once looked at me as Dennis Quaid looked at Ellen Barkin in The Big Easy and now, thirteen years into an equal, mutually supportive partnership, looks at me the way a smoking beagle looks at a medical researcher-aware that such experiments may need to be conducted for the sake of human progress but still somehow pleading for release.
"Don't shout." He sighs. "You'll wake them." One candy-striped arm gestures upstairs where our children are asleep. "Anyway, Paula hasn't hidden it. You've got to stop blaming the nanny for everything, Kate. The sieve lives in the drawer next to the microwave."
"No, it lives right here in this cupboard."
"Not since 1997 it doesn't."
"Are you implying that I haven't used my own sieve for three years?"
"Darling, to my certain knowledge you have never met your sieve. Please come to bed. You have to be up in five hours."
Seeing Richard go upstairs, I long to follow him but I can't leave the kitchen in this state. I just can't. The room bears signs of heavy fighting; there is Lego shrapnel over a wide area, and a couple of mutilated Barbies-one legless, one headless-are having some kind of picnic on our tartan travel rug, which is still matted with grass from its last outing on Primrose Hill in August. Over by the vegetable rack, on the floor, there is a heap of raisins which I'm sure was there the morning I left for the airport. Some things have altered in my absence: half a dozen apples have been added to the big glass bowl on the pine table that sits next to the doors leading out to the garden, but no one has thought to discard the old fruit beneath and the pears at the bottom have started weeping a sticky amber resin. As I throw each pear in the bin, I shudder a little at the touch of rotten flesh. After washing and drying the bowl, I carefully wipe any stray amber goo off the apples and put them back. The whole operation takes maybe seven minutes. Next I start to swab the drifts of icing sugar off the stainless steel worktop, but the act of scouring releases an evil odor. I sniff the dishcloth. Slimy with bacteria, it has the sweet sickening stench of dead-flower water. Exactly how rancid would a dishcloth have to be before someone else in this house thought to throw it away?
I ram the dishcloth in the overflowing bin and look under the sink for a new one. There is no new one. Of course, there is no new one, Kate, you haven't been here to buy a new one. Retrieve old dishcloth from the bin and soak it in hot water with a dot of bleach. All I need to do now is put Emily's wings and halo out for the morning.
Have just turned off the lights and am starting up the stairs when I have a bad thought. If Paula sees the Sainsbury's cartons in the bin, she will spread news of my Great Mince Pie forgery on the nanny grapevine. Oh, hell. Retrieving the cartons from the bin, I wrap them inside yesterday's paper and carry the bundle at arm's length out through the front door. Looking right and left to make sure I am unobserved, I slip them into the big black sack in front of the house. Finally, with the evidence of my guilt disposed of, I follow my husband up to bed.
Through the landing window and the December fog, a crescent moon is reclining in its deck chair over London. Even the moon gets to put its feet up once a month. Man in the Moon, of course. If it was a Woman in the Moon, she'd never sit down. Well, would she?
I take my time brushing my teeth. A count of twenty for each molar. If I stay in the bathroom long enough, Richard will fall asleep and will not try to have sex with me. If we don't have sex, I can skip a shower in the morning. If I skip the shower, I will have time to start on the e-mails that have built up while I've been away and maybe even get some presents bought on the way to work. Only ten shopping days to Christmas, and I am in possession of precisely nine gifts, which leaves twelve to get plus stocking fillers for the children. And still no delivery from KwikToy, the rapid on-line present service.
"Kate, are you coming to bed?" Rich calls from the bedroom.
His voice sounds slurry with sleep. Good.
"I have something I need to talk to you about. Kate?"
"In a minute," I say. "Just going up to make sure they're OK."
I climb the flight of stairs to the next landing. The carpet is so badly frayed up here that the lip of each step looks like the dead grass you find under a marquee five days after a wedding. Someone's going to have an accident one of these days. At the top, I catch my breath and silently curse these tall thin London houses. Standing in the stillness outside the children's doors, I can hear their different styles of sleeping-his piglet snufflings, her princess sighs.
When I can't sleep and, believe me, I would dream of sleep if my mind weren't too full of other stuff for dreams, I like to creep into Ben's room and sit on the blue chair and just watch him. My baby looks as though he has hurled himself at unconsciousness, like a very small man trying to leap aboard an accelerating bus. Tonight, he's sprawled the length of the cot on his front, arms extended, tiny fingers curled round an invisible pole. Nestled to his cheek is the disgusting kangaroo that he worships-a shelf full of the finest stuffed animals an anxious parent can buy, and what does he choose to love? A cross-eyed marsupial from Woolworth's remainder bin. Ben can't tell us when he's tired yet, so he simply says Roo instead. He can't sleep without Roo because Roo to him means sleep.
It's the first time I've seen my son in four days. Four days, three nights. First there was the trip to Stockholm to spend some face time with a jumpy new client, then Rod Task called from the office and told me to get my ass over to New York and hold the hand of an old client who needed reassuring that the new client wasn't taking up too much of my time.
Benjamin never holds my absences against me. Too little still. He always greets me with helpless delight like a fan windmilling arms at a Hollywood premiere. Not his sister, though. Emily is five years old and full of jealous wisdom. Mummy's return is always the cue for an intricate sequence of snubs and punishments.
"Actually, Paula reads me that story."
"But I want Dadda to give me a bath."
Wallis Simpson got a warmer welcome from the Queen Mother than I get from Emily after a business trip. But I bear it. My heart sort of pleats inside and somehow I bear it. Maybe I think I deserve it.
I leave Ben snoring softly and gently push the door of the other room. Bathed in the candied glow of her Cinderella light, my daughter is, as is her preference, naked as a newborn. (Clothes, unless you count bridal or princess wear, are a constant irritation to her.) When I pull the duvet up, her legs twitch in protest like a laboratory frog. Even when she was a baby, Emily couldn't stand being covered. I bought her one of those zip-up sleep bags, but she thrashed around in it and blew out her cheeks like the God of Wind in the corner of old maps, till I had to admit defeat and gave it away. Even in sleep, when my girl's face has the furzy bloom of an apricot, you can see the determined jut to her chin. Her last school report said, Emily is a very competitive little girl and will need to learn to lose more gracefully.
"Remind you of anyone, Kate?," said Richard and let out that trodden-puppy yelp he has developed lately.
There have been times over the past hyear when I have tried to explain to my daugher-I felt she was old enough to hear this-why Mummy has to go to work. Because Mum and Ded both need to earn money to pay for our house and for all the things she enjoys doing like ballet lessons and going on holiday.
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