Trying to be nice didn’t change anything. It just made the pair of them crabby about having to try to be nice. They were still far too close to each other, and far too tired to make any space. And now, Katie thought, on her way home on Wednesday night, I’ve got to haul myself round this stupid ballroom-dancing class again. ‘I’m home!’ she called, hanging her car keys on the hook by the kitchen door. She checked her watch: twenty past seven. The class was at quarter to eight, so she didn’t really have time to get changed out of her office suit or grab much to eat, but as long as Ross had sorted something out for the kids’ supper, the leftovers would fill a hole until they got back. Katie wasn’t sure she could face an hour of Angelica’s pointed remarks on an empty stomach. What she really needed was a glass of wine. Or two. Her eye skated around the kitchen, took in the unwashed spaghetti hoop pan on the hob, and the crumbs on the work surface, then fell on the wine rack, where a lone bottle remained from Friday night.
