The living room was already clean, it was always clean, but he cleaned it again. Hoovered the carpet in straight lines. Wiped the surfaces. Rearranged the cushions. Moved them back. The kitchen: counters scrubbed, the hob degreased, the fridge contents reorganised by food group. He checked the toilet, bleach, fresh towel, new soap.
He checked the garden, the patch of grass behind the flat, barely large enough for a dozen children, which would have to do because Gemma had vetoed the church hall on grounds of cost and Neil had vetoed the park on grounds of January. The party was here. In the flat. Twelve six-year-olds in four rooms. Gemma handled the logistics like a NATO peacekeeping operation.
Freddie woke at seven. Exploded out of bed like a mortar round.
‘IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY.’
‘Happy birthday, mate.’
‘I'M SIX. That's a WHOLE HAND plus a BIT.’
‘Technically it's a hand and a thumb.’
‘Thumbs count, Dad.’
‘Thumbs absolutely count.’
By ten, the flat was transformed. Balloons taped to every surface, Spider-Man red, blue, black. Streamers across the kitchen doorway that would catch an adult in the face at least four times. Pass the parcel wrapped in eleven layers, a mini chocolate bar between each. Owen's speaker in the corner, playlist loaded. The garden cleared for running, the only structure a trestle table with paper plates and the promise of cake.
Gemma arrived at eleven with Owen, two trays of sandwiches, and the cake, Spider-Man, three tiers, exactly as specified. She set it on the kitchen counter and surveyed the flat. She'd lived here. She knew its architecture.
‘You've cleaned.’
‘I always clean.’
‘You've cleaned differently. You've cleaned with intent.’ She looked at him. ‘Is Rory coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘As...’
‘As Mr Cavanaugh. Freddie's art teacher. A colleague.’
‘And your parents?’
‘Arriving at two. Leaving at three. My mother has book club.’
‘Your mother's book club has saved more family gatherings than penicillin.’ She straightened the cake. ‘Neil. It's going to be fine.’
‘I know.’
‘Your eye's twitching.’
‘My eye is not twitching.’
‘Both eyes are twitching. You look like a man trying to blink in Morse code.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘He's coming to achildren's party. He'll eat cake. He'll be brilliant with the kids. Your parents will see a teacher. That's all.’
‘That's all.’
‘That's all.’
The children arrived in waves. Twelve of them. Loud, sugar-anticipating, vibrating with an energy that rattled the walls. Parents delivered them at the door with the expressions of people releasing hostages, relief, guilt, and the immediate calculation of how many hours of freedom they'd just purchased.
The garden was chaos within minutes. Twelve children running in a space designed for two, the screaming constant, joyful, the primal noise of children in packs. Musical statues in the living room, Owen on the speaker, Gemma doing face painting at the kitchen table, three cats, two tigers, and a Spider-Man down, now attempting a dinosaur with limited green paint and unlimited client demands. Neil counted heads every four minutes because counting was what he did.
Miss Greaves arrived with a card signed by the entire Year 1 class. Martin Clarke brought his two kids, who immediately knocked over the pass the parcel, scattering eleven layers across the carpet. Sue Dhillon came without children but with a bottle of prosecco and an expression that suggested she intended to enjoy herself.
At half past one, the doorbell rang.
