and chuckled as Carson has played the courtly jester to Lulu’s bossy queen.
“It was a delicious cup of tea, Princess Lulu.”
And now they’re having a tea party. How bloody precious!
“It’s not tea, silly,” she chastises. “It’s gin.”
I press my fist tighter to smother a snigger. Honestly, this isn’t my influence. If I was drinking hard liquor from a teacup, my first choice wouldn’t be gin.
“Gin?” he replies. “I thought I was invited to a tea party in the princess suite, not a gin joint.”
“Gin is what my granny drinks.”
“Well, if it’s good enough for granny, I guess it’s good enough for a tea party.”
“Gin party,” she corrects. “Granny says when you’re in need, a real friend will take your hand. Then put a glass of gin in it.”
“I think me and your granny would get along well.”
“You’d probably make her all giggly.” I can almost see her scrunching her nose. “She’d say ‘Carson Hayes is a fine thing’.”
My daughter does a decent impersonation of my mother. And I’d have to agree with her. Whether in a tux or running gear, or dressed for a few beers down the pub, Carson Hayes is a fyne thing, indeed.
And a naked Carson Hayes is a demigod. Something my mother might imagine but never see.
Anything you don’t see with your own eyes there’s a doubt about. Her words echo in my ear. But I banish the thought of him naked to the dirty linen closet of my brain.
“What does she call you?” I hear him ask.
“Achushla,” Lulu answers simply. Pulse of my heart, it means. And that’s true for both her granny and me. “And you,” she adds, “call me all kinds of silly things.”
Lulu has such a wealth of affection for him. And also for his possessions. For instance, last Tuesday, I’d noticed just in time that she’d pocketed his Montblanc pen to take to school. Apparently, a silver fountain pen would much improve her letters.
God loves a tryer, my mother’s voice says next.
“I only call you nice things,” Carson protests. “Koalas are pretty cute, right?”
“Are koalas begetarian?”
“Bege-what? Oh, vegetarian. They sure are. They eat eucalyptus leaves but occasionally branch out to eat other greenery.”
The chuckle he seemed to be expecting doesn’t come. Tree jokes aren’t really made for a four-year-old audience. But bless his cotton socks for trying and for taking tea.
It sounds like he’s making her day.
“If you were a vegebale, Uncle Car, you’d be a cutecumber.”
“Is that so?”
It’s not very motherly of me to be thinking of exactly how cute his cutecumber is. Yet I do.
Back to the dirty laundry for you.
“And if you were a potato,” he says, a smile leaking through his words, “you’d be a sweet potato.”
“What do you think Mommy would be?”
“A fineapple. Definitely.”
“I’m sorry I told Mr Farrow Mommy likes him.”
“Do you think she really does?”
I find myself leaning a little closer as Carson’s voice drops, and my heart gives a little pinch. But Lulu doesn’t answer. Maybe she shrugged or shook her head. The truth is, I haven’t an opinion of Mr Farrow, or Leo as he insisted I call him. Neither for or against. I also haven’t agreed to go out with him. We’ve spoken a couple of times, and he’s made it clear that he’d like to take me out on a date but that the ball is firmly in my court now. I told myself I wouldn’t, not because he’s her teacher (he only takes her class for a couple of technology lessons each week) but also because I wasn’t interested.
It’s not so strange that I failed to mention any of this earlier in the kitchen. And maybe I’m a more horrible person than I thought, considering the spark of satisfaction I’d felt once I’d realised Carson was annoyed by the possibility that I might be interested in another man. But I’m not the one who runs a club for the libertines of New York. I’m not the one with access to indiscriminate fucking.
“When are they supposed to be going out on this date?” I hear him ask.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“I’m not sad, honey. I’m just trying to work out what we’re going to do about him.”
What we’re going to do?
“I could tell him Mommy is getting married!” she adds brightly.
“I don’t think she’s ready to hear me propose.”
As if!
But as if he would or as if I’m not ready?
Ack! More thoughts for the linen cupboard of my brain.