to my chest. “I’m sorry, but I’m not that type of girl.”
“What the hell are you doing being my friend, then?”
5
Fee
“We’ll stop there for tonight,” I say quietly, folding the corner of the page and placing the battered paperback of James and the Giant Peach on the nightstand.
“Mummy, would you rather be Aunt Sponge or Aunt Spiker?”
I push up from the bed, preparing myself for tonight’s game of how many questions can I ask before mummy’s head explodes. “I think I’d rather be me.” And boy, has it taken me a long time to get to this point. Almost thirty years, to be exact.
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, because I get to look after you and not James.”
“Because boys are stinky,” she says, her button nose delightfully scrunched.
“True story.” And long may she think that way. “And I don’t like peaches. The furry skin gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Mummy? If you get dead, who will look after me?”
“I suppose it’ll have to be mean old Aunt Spiker.” As I pull the duvet straight, refusing to entertain the possibility of not being here to look after my babe.
“Aunt Spiker is only in the book, silly!”
“Is she? Then I suppose you’d have to look after yourself. You can get a job, right? To pay the bills?”
“No! I’m only this many years old.” Her hand shoots from under the covers, three fingers held high. “No, wait.” I bite back a smile as Lulu uses her other hand to peel one more finger from her palm with the most exquisite look of concentration. “There. I’m this many now. Four!”
It’s an easy mistake to make when you only turned four a couple of weeks ago. I have difficulty remembering how old I am, though I’m still blaming that on baby brain. I wonder if I’ll still be able to use the excuse when she’s thirty?
“Four years old,” I repeat. “Definitely old enough to get a job. You could wash dishes. With a stool so you can reach the sink.”
“No!” The word is more giggle than anything else. “I hate washing dishes.”
“Then I’d better take care not to die.” I bend to press my lips to her head.
“Mummy? Why do we got to share a bed when this house has so, so many of them?”
“Have to share a bed,” I correct, tucking the duvet around her little body.
“Persactly!” she replies, her palms raised to the ceiling. My child is a touch dramatic. “Why do we?”
“Well, first, Goldilocks, there are only five beds besides this one and—”
“I’m not Goldilocks,” she replies with a giggle. “My hair is brown, not gold like yours.”
Gold is a definite improvement on yellow, which is how she’s described it in the past. But just as my hair isn’t yellow, Lulu’s isn’t brown, and as I run my hand over her head, the silky strands gleam in the lamplight. Her hair is so much more than just brown.
“Your lovely locks are chestnut and honey and toffee and all kinds of colours. Plus, really squeaky clean. Listen.” I make a squeaky noise as I rub the ends, and her giggle deepens.
“My hair isn’t squeaky or made from toffee!”
“It’s the colour of toffee.” I inhale deeply then add, “it smells as good as toffee, too. Better be careful. I might eat it in my sleep and then you’d have to go to school bald.”
“I can’t go to school bald! Where would I put my wibbons? You’re silly, Mummy.”
“Yes, very silly.”
“And silly for choosing this bed.” Her little finger prods the mattress at her side.
“What does it matter, Princess Toffeelocks? We could be living in a castle with a hundred beds—and you might try every one yet still end up crawling into my bed during the night.” Lulu begins to squirm and cackle as I tickle her sides, though I stop when I recall I’ve been suckered into the game again.
“It’s because my sleepy arms miss you,” she answers, wrapping them around my neck. Oh, Lord. How could anyone resist such flattery? “But why do we sleep in this woom?” She throws her hand out in the direction of the drapes; drapes that conceal a window overlooking a brick wall. “I want to sleep in one where I can see the sunshine and the tweetops in the morning.”
It’s hard to ignore the twinge of guilt. Despite Rose’s insistence, we make ourselves at home I’d moved our bags into the staff quarters, even if I can’t ’persactly, I mean exactly, say why. It’s not like staying in this room has