He has ten shiny watches in a special drawer in his wardrobe, remember?” She cheerfully holds both hands up in the air, fingers splayed.
“Oh, Lord.” Her mother’s shoulders sag in a moment of parental mortification. “I sometimes wonder where I got you from.”
“From your tummy!” she announces gleefully. “Or Amazon!”
“We do not go snooping around people’s homes. You know that.”
“I know you did.”
“I certainly did not.”
“You certeidly did.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” she says before her head whips back to the kid as her little voice pipes up again.
“Er, ’scuse me, Mummy, but I sawed you looking at his shoes.”
“At my shoes?” If I sound thoroughly entertained, it’s because I am. “Do you have a shoe fetish?” I ask, resting my chin on my fist. “Or are you one of those people who thinks the size of one thing relates to another?” I can’t remember when I was last so entertained in my own home.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says quickly, averting her gaze.
“Oh, I think you do. And you and I both know that in my case you’ve already found the old adage to be true. Big feet, big—”
“Arse,” she mutters between clenched teeth.
“How come you get to say arse?” Lulu’s sweet face is suddenly mutinous.
“Young lady, there had better still be ten shiny watches when Carson goes to that drawer.”
Carson is an improvement on Mr Hayes, but maybe not as interesting as daddy.
“I was jus’ looking,” Lulu mutters as her attention returns to the phone.
“Five dollars per plant, per week, wasn’t it, kid?” Her expression clears almost immediately, and she begins to nod. “It’s a deal.”
“We got to shake on it.” Her small hand thrusts out above the counter, my own engulfing it.
“Do I need to worry about her slipping my watch from my wrist at this point?”
Fee shrugs. “At this point in time, she hasn’t honed that particular skill set. But I’m afraid she does like to borrow, as she calls it, but it’s a habit that relates mostly to things left lying around at eye level. I generally frisk her before we leave the house.”
“Good to know.” I bite back a grin. “Especially as you’re staying.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“A deal is a deal, right, Lu? You don’t want me to sue your child for breach of contract.”
“Is beach of contrapt very bad?” Lulu’s expression turns ponderous, and though Fee gives a sharp shake of her head, the little girl’s attention wanders almost immediately.
“You really are like a dog with a bone,” she mutters. And every dog has its day, babe. “But I just don’t get why you would open your home to strangers.”
“Because a stranger is just a friend you don’t know yet,” pipes up Lulu, who, it seems, has already perfected the art of pretending not to listen.
“Exactly. If Sesame Street can’t be the voice of reason, who else is qualified?”
“Actually, that’s W.B. Yeats. He’s an Irish poet.” The latter she adds a little self-consciously, as though divulging some part of herself she’d prefer to keep private.
“You’re sure those aren’t Big Bird’s words?”
At last, she smiles. It was hard-won but worth it. “‘Come away, O human child. To the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.’” Her head jerks up, and she blinks, her eyes a shade of gold I’m pretty sure they weren’t a moment ago.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand like pins, my body simultaneously hot and cold at the same time—my insides fiery and molten, a chill coating my skin. What the fuck was that? Maybe it wasn’t Goldilocks I found in my bath last night. Maybe it was queen of the faeries.
“Sorry.” She shakes her head, rapidly reaching for her wine. “That’s one of his. Yeats, not Big Bird’s, I mean.” Another smile, this one a little sadder. Is it bad that I’m counting?
“It’s beautiful.” Just like the woman in front of me. “Even if I still think your poet’s been stealing from Sesame Street.”
“It’s one of Lu’s favourites,” she says, smoothing her daughter’s hair, as dark as hers is light.
“I can see why. Maybe you’ll read it all to me sometime.”
“Like a bedtime story,” echoes Lu.
“I’m not sure about stories, but it is time for our bed.”
What I wouldn’t give for that kind of invitation from her.
“What? You’re not going to abandon me at nine thirty on a Saturday night, are you, roomie?”