speaks, she does so carefully.
“Do you think she might be trying to fill a void? In her own way, I mean.”
“She doesn’t need a father.” My heart pinches a little at the suggestion. She has men in her life; my dad, Charles (sort of) Remy and even Everett.
“I wasn’t talking about a void in her life. I was talking about yours.”
“If you’re suggesting that Lulu thinks I need a daddy more than she does—”
“What?” That one word sounds positively gleeful. “A daddy, Fee?”
“I mean, a man. I’ve got a daddy, I mean, a dad.”
“Sure you did,” she asserts rather gloatingly.
“And in other news,” I utter with a forced brightness and a deep hope that I can turn the conversation from whatever this is, “my paperwork should be through next week, so I can begin to sit in on consultations with clients. Not that I haven’t enjoyed sitting in with Marta, the dietician’s clients. And I know I’m not qualified to say so, but I’d bet my last five bucks in my wallet that most of them suffer from some level of orthorexia.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s not really.” And I would know, orthorexia and I being old acquaintances. “Any obsession, even one focussed on healthy eating, can be damaging. But what is so very interesting is how different women’s attitudes to food are between the States and France.”
“Sounds like you’re learning a lot, but are there any dating prospects in your office?”
“I thought we’d already established I wasn’t in the market.”
“I think you said, last time we had this conversation, that you were open to the suggestion, should the right man come along.” I make a noncommittal noise because that’s not how I remember the conversation going. “Is it just me, or is it odd that your opinion should alter after a visit from a certain someone?”
“What?” I reply, playing deliberately dumb.
“Have you any idea where he’s gone?”
“Oh, we’re talking about Carson again,” I say as though displeased. “No idea, sorry.” I only know he’s left me feeling oddly out of sorts. And not just because Lulu hasn’t left her own bed since she moved into the princess suite, something I, her mother, haven’t been able to manage in four years. I’m not even upset that somehow, oh so mysteriously, my own clothes and belongings had been moved to the bedroom next to his, the bedroom that is the meat in the sandwich between Carson and Lulu’s rooms. My clothes had been steamed and hung neatly in the adjoining closet, my shoes cleaned and polished, sweaters, jeans, and my ever-present workout wear were folded on shelves smelling of magnolia. Even my underwear had received the white-glove treatment, as though it were La Perla and not Marks and Spencer’s.
How could I be annoyed? He was trying to do something nice for us, though the reason he did escapes me. And the reason I feel so jittery and hollow has nothing to do with bedroom relocations and everything to do with him not being around, I fear.
“He didn’t upset you, did he?”
“How do you mean?”
“Just like Vegemite, he can leave a bad taste in your mouth. He can appear, well, damned rude.”
“He wasn’t—” He was a little vulgar, but no more than I liked. “He just wasn’t at all what I expected,” I find myself admitting instead.
“You mean drop-dead sexy? Hella hot?”
“Those are all your descriptions, not mine.” Even if they both fit.
“Ah, then you must mean available.”
“I suppose a man like him is the kind of available that’s like a short-term loan.”
Like one-night short term.
“What?” The word is tremulous with laughter.
“You know, I thought he’d be older,” I say, hoping to divert her.
“He is. Older, sophisticated, and rich. He’s like lady catnip, don’t you think?”
“You are so transparent, Rose Durrand.”
“I am?” And she’s still laughing.
“This was all a cunning ploy, wasn’t it? ‘Stay in my gorgeous friend’s empty apartment,’” I intone in a ridiculous rendition of her accent. “‘He won’t be home.’ Was this your plan all along? To get me to shack up with the winner of virile bachelor of the year for a bit of casual bed bouncing—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Virile bachelor of the year? Say what you mean, honey! Don’t hold back on my account!”
“Do try not to sound so amused.”
“I can’t help it. I haven’t heard you pay a man a compliment since . . . since. Well, forever.”
“Rubbish. I often tell Charles I like his outfit. And I compliment him on his haircut when he comes back from the