She had booked the painting holiday spontaneously between walking the dog and the supermarket shop. When the confirmation and ticket had arrived, she was terrified by what she had done, guilt ridden. How was she going to tell them? Who would collect Katy from school, iron the shirts, and sort out the re-cycling? Emma had quaked at the thought of telling Mike and put it off several times; the time was not right, he was in a mood, EastEnders was on. Eventually, hating her cowardice, she told him one night after dinner. He had settled down in front of the TV with a glass of wine. It’s now or never, she thought, speak now before the snoring starts. Had he heard her - he was watching the news.
‘Mike, I’ve booked a holiday, I’m going to France at the end of September.’
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, his expression one of bewilderment.
‘You are joking - why would you want to do that? You know I’ve got the AGM to prepare for and I’ll be in Stockholm for two nights.’