The Ballroom Class by Lucy Dillon Page B

was just as much fun as Daddy, than she did about proving to Daddy that she could still be fun. But you’ve got to try, she told herself. It’s when you stop trying that you know it’s over.
    When she looked up, Jo’s expression was sympathetic, not disapproving, but Katie felt guilty all the same.
    ‘Well, you’ve been busy, haven’t you?’
    ‘I have,’ she protested. The redevelopment project was going to be massive, with new shops and new housing and if she performed well, there was every chance she’d get promoted by the end of the year. If she made it that far. Katie gazed hopelessly round the messy kitchen. Last night’s clean washing was still in the dryer. That night’s dirty washing would still be in a pile in front of the washing machine if she hadn’t hidden it in the pull-out vegetable drawer. ‘Really, I don’t know where the week goes. It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about Hannah’s birthday, it’s just that I can’t make personal calls at work and then  . . .’
    Her voice wobbled dangerously, with sheer exhaustion.
    Before she knew it, Jo had swept across from the other side of the kitchen and was wrapping her in a warm hug. She smelled of babies and fabric conditioner, and Katie was overwhelmed with a desire to burst into tears, right on Jo’s velvety shoulder. She didn’t dare speak in case she did.
    ‘Give yourself a break. You’re under a lot of stress,’ murmured Jo, patting her back. ‘I know how hard you work.’
    ‘It’s not just that,’ mumbled Katie.
    It was the pressure, the constant pressure from everyone, to do everything, at home, at the office, with the lawyers, with the developers, with Ross  . . .
    But Jo was talking over her head, as if she’d forgotten she used to work twelve-hour days as a matter of course.
    ‘Seriously, Katie, you’ve got to get your priorities right. You and Ross. Sort it out. Sod work. There’ll always be another job.’
    But if I don’t work, we won’t have anywhere to live , thought Katie, wildly. If I don’t work, the kids won’t see the inside of a softplay centre again, let alone have birthday parties there. If I don’t work, and I have to leave it to Ross to support us, it’s definitely game over for our relationship. I can’t even rely on him to recycle the newspapers.
    The weight of responsibilities crushed her chest so hard that for a second she couldn’t breathe. How could Jo possibly understand? She had unlimited credit cards, a husband who put a roof over their head and two cars in their drive, and a mother who was permanently on hand for emergency babysitting.
    ‘Hmm?’ said Jo, pushing her to arms’ length so she could scrutinise her face. ‘If you need some time together, tell me. I can take the kids – honestly, I don’t mind.’
    Katie knew she wouldn’t mind, and also that Hannah would be thrilled to spend more time in Molly’s pink-tastic playroom.
    ‘It’ll work out,’ she said, and reminded herself horribly of her own mother, and the cover-all clichés she trotted out when she didn’t want to acknowledge her unhappiness. Katie knew she was going the same way: the more stressed and desperate she got, the more she felt obliged to pretend otherwise. The only difference being that at least she knew she was doing it, and she wasn’t teaching Hannah to mix her gin and tonics.
     
    The chicken tasted better than normal, and Katie knew it was because Jo had discreetly done something to it while she was getting the pudding out of the freezer. She knew how to do things like that. Then again, Jo had the time to read the home sections in the back of magazines – the ones that told you what seasonings to scatter to make ready-meals taste like restaurant food. Somehow, it even looked better on the plate.
    That might have been the candlelight, though. Katie gazed at her dining table, which spent more time as a newspaper-covered easel than a centre of witty dinner conversation. It had been Ross’s job