Read The New Woman for Free Online Page B

feet against the bench, sounding like a herd of buffalo. ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Boy or girl?’
    ‘I don’t know. It’s going to be a surprise, like when you open a present on your birthday. We’ll be very, very happy when the baby arrives, whether it’s a boy, a girl, a rabbit, or even a woolly mammoth like you.’ Simon reached to tickle his son in that very ticklish spot between his ear and neck. Nico squirmed and giggled, then climbed onto Simon’s knee.
    Hope it’s a girl, thought Simon, picturing a toddling delight in a white dress. Mind you, Kate had never been a toddling delight of any kind. He was six when she arrived, and his one abiding memory was of the power of her lungs. His sister started the way she meant to go on. Opinionated. Strident. She was a burn-the-bra merchant, half a century too late. If she’d been born in 1900 she would have ended up under the king’s horse.
    ‘Whatcha reading?’ asked Nico.
    ‘I’m not reading anything, because there’s a great big ketchuppy head in the way.’
    ‘Haven’t got a big head.’
    Simon gave up on the paper. ‘How about a bit of cricket in the garden? Hang on, I’ll just wipe that face of yours . . . Where’s your bat? Got it? Okay, you can show me how it’s done.’
    Nico didn’t show him how it was done. In fact, he missed every ball, as usual. Simon had a nagging fear that his son was pathologically uncoordinated. He’d been anxious enough about this to mention it to Luke the previous weekend, when he and Eilish came for Sunday lunch.
    ‘Was I this hopeless?’ he’d asked, as Nico stood picking his nose and watching the ball roll gently by. ‘He’ll never be a cricketer.’
    Luke had laughed, which was good to hear. He’d seemed subdued that day. ‘The little chap is only four, Simon. Four! He can’t even write his own name yet. I don’t imagine Ian Botham was knocking ’em to the boundaries either at that age.’
    ‘But look at him! He’s not even interested.’
    They both looked. Nico had discarded his bat and was trying to touch his ear with his tongue.
    Simon felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Do yourself a favour,’ Luke said seriously. ‘Take this one off your worry list.’
    ‘Grandad Livingstone will be spinning in his grave.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter. Truly. Please remember that. These things do not matter . You must let Nico be his own person.’
    As they walked back to the house, Luke mentioned that he’d brought his collection of Biggles books. He was having a tidy-up, he said, and wanted Nico to have them. Simon was touched. His dad had read Biggles to him when he was a schoolboy—read every night for half an hour, no matter how late he’d come in from work. It had taken years, but they’d got through every single one.
    Today’s cricket game was proving as disastrous as every other . Look, Dad, a plane! Look, Dad, I can do roly-polies! When Nico started decapitating hollyhocks with his bat, Simon gave up.
    ‘Let’s take Mummy a cup of tea,’ he suggested, glancing hopefully at his watch. ‘She must have had enough sleep by now.’
    He felt virtuous as he rinsed the pot. His pregnant wife had been getting some rest and he was an exemplary father. He handed Nico the biscuit tin to carry, and together they went up the stairs and burst through the bedroom door. The room had been decorated by Carmela as only she could have done, in deep blue and burned orange. She blinked sleepily, her hair a dark fan on the pillow.
    ‘Tea,’ announced Simon.
    ‘And biccies,’ added Nico, dumping the tin onto her feet. He ripped off the lid and found a chocolate finger.
    Carmela yawned. ‘You are New Men,’ she said. Simon caught a distinct edge of sarcasm in her voice. ‘What time is it? Only eight? Hmm, not the longest lie-in in the history of the world.’
    After five years of marriage, Simon still found her accent seductive. Everything about Carmela was voluptuous, especially now when she was almost six