Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,1
to do.”
“That,” retorted Lauren with great dignity, “is only partially true.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re a wonderful person and I’m very grateful.” With a melancholy schlorp, Rosaline returned the spatula to the batter. “Slightly concerned that you’ll kill my child, but grateful.”
“Hey, I’ve never killed her before.”
“But it’s a whole weekend.” A plaintive tone crept into Rosaline’s voice. “I’ve never been away from Amelie for a whole weekend.”
Lauren shrugged. “So you should be glad to have a break from each other. Besides, your mum’s taking over on Sunday, so how much damage can I do?”
“Knowing you, quite a lot. Although, honestly, not quite as much as my mum.”
“Cordelia will do fine.” Lauren put a consoling hand on Rosaline’s shoulder. “Amelie actually likes her because children are hopeless judges of character. And anyway, terrible parents make incredible grandparents. It’s their final way of twisting the knife.”
“Thanks. You really know how to make me feel better.”
“It’s my calling. Now come on, let’s go nab the moppet.”
Twenty minutes later, Rosaline was standing in an emptying playground, resolutely moppetless. She was briefly clutched by the nebulous certainty that there’d been a terrible disaster—possibly involving sharks, a runaway combine harvester, or the child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But then Miss Wooding, Amelie’s teacher, appeared in the entryway and made an unmistakable beckoning motion.
That was never good.
Because it could only mean that your child had done something bad or that something bad had been done to your child.
Steeling herself and feeling far too much like she was about to be given detention, Rosaline hurried over.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, hoping to sound maternally concerned, rather than preemptively guilty.
Miss Wooding, who, as far as Rosaline could tell, was made entirely from marshmallows and pixie dust, gave an insipid smile. “If you wouldn’t mind coming with me, I’d just like to have a little word with you about Amelie’s behaviour.”
Well, at least her daughter wasn’t unconscious or on fire. Murmuring her general assent, Rosaline let Miss Wooding lead her into the building, past hip-high coat pegs and colourful finger-painted displays about road safety and recycling.
Amelie’s classroom was a pleasant, airy space, decorated with number lines and misspelled poems about summer. Amelie herself was squirming under the watchful eye of a teaching assistant.
“Mrs. Palmer,” began Miss Wooding, and Rosaline decided not to correct her, “I’ve been feeling for a while that we should have a conversation about the kind of language Amelie uses in class.”
Oh dear. She and Lauren swore in front of Amelie a lot, but she thought she’d done a pretty good job of explaining that there were some things you could say at home that you couldn’t say outside.
“I use good language.” Amelie folded her arms, radiating outrage as only a wronged eight-year-old can. “I use ‘extemporaneous.’ And ‘soporific.’ And all the other words Auntie Lauren teaches me.” She looked momentarily proud. “I’m sesquipedalian.”
Miss Wooding glided past this with the ease of a lifelong primary school teacher. “It’s true that Amelie has an extensive vocabulary. But she needs to learn that some topics are inappropriate for a classroom.”
“Like what?” asked Rosaline warily. There were a lot of ways this could go, most of them wrong.
“Well, in English today we were learning that it can be easier to remember how to spell a word if you know what the different parts of that word mean. So, for example, with the word ‘bicycle,’ it can help to know that the bi part means ‘two’ and the cycle part means ‘wheel,’ so a bicycle has two wheels.”
Okay. Way of going wrong identified.
“Like a binary star,” offered Amelie, “because there’s two stars. Or a biped which has two legs. Or bifocals which have two . . . focals. Or bicarbonate of soda which um . . .”
“Yes”—and here Miss Wooding gave Amelie a look of gentle disappointment—“but you didn’t say any of that in class, did you?”
“I would’ve. You told me to be quiet.”
Miss Wooding’s attention shifted effortlessly back to Rosaline. “The example she gave in class was ‘My mummy is bisexual.’”
“Well you are,” protested Amelie, gazing imploringly at Rosaline.
“She’s right,” Rosaline agreed. “I am.”
Always one to take agreement as encouragement, Amelie launched into the rest of the speech. “And that means she likes men and women which is two—which is what you were saying. But Auntie Lauren says that some people think that you shouldn’t say bisexual because that means there’s only two types of people and some people think there are more types of people.