Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,73
meant she’d either have to find two hundred quid for an emergency call-out or leave it until next week, and that wasn’t really an option where electricity was concerned. If it had been just her, she could have crashed with someone. But you couldn’t make your eight-year-old child couch-surf, not even for a few days. That would be a formative memory, and not in a good way.
Of course, she could go to her parents. But no.
And yes, Lauren and Allison had a spare room in their frighteningly chic apartment. But while Rosaline was pretty sure Allison didn’t hate her, that status was maintained by an unspoken but meticulous series of compromises, one of which she was fairly sure had to be “don’t move into my home.”
Also, how much was this going to cost her? Between travel to the show that hadn’t been reimbursed yet, travel to Alain’s, and previous issues with the boiler, she was already way over budget this month. She wasn’t even sure she was going to be able to afford practice ingredients next week. And then there was, y’know, making sure Amelie didn’t starve and had clothing and soap and a quality of life so the great nebulous They wouldn’t take her away.
Fuck, she was going to have to borrow money from her mum and dad again. After specifically telling her dad she wouldn’t. And wasn’t he going to love that?
There was a knock at the door—and since the wobbly figure through the glass was wearing a purple coat and dragging a child by the hand, it probably wasn’t someone here to fix her electricity.
“One moppet,” said Lauren. “Freshly delivered.”
Amelie scowled. “I can’t be delivered. I’m a person, not a parcel.”
“Perhaps I meant ‘delivered’ in the sense of rescued. Like deliver us from evil.”
“I thought deliveries from evil was when evil sends you things like bad luck or getting sick.”
This made Lauren laugh. “I agree it would make more sense.”
“And why,” Amelie went on, clearly in a meditative mood, “is Jesus so worried about trespassers? Is that why they’re always being prosecuted?”
“Since Jesus doesn’t exist, I’m not sure it’s an important question.”
“Lauren,” interrupted Rosaline, “stop trying to turn my daughter into Richard Dawkins.”
Amelie, of course, seized on this. “Who’s Richard Dawkins?”
“He’s a man some people believe is a blasphemer,” explained Lauren, “and others have constructed a religion around.”
“Does that mean they’re going to crucify him?”
“Only on Twitter.”
Rosaline went to help Amelie out of her coat and put her schoolbag in the corner. “So, the reason Auntie Lauren was picking you up today is that we haven’t got any electricity.”
“Where did it go?”
“Back in the walls, I suppose? But someone is meant to be coming to fix it, and he’ll be here today, probably. Which means you’re going to have to do your homework early while there’s light.”
“I don’t have any homework,” said Amelie firmly.
“Not even maths? You always have maths on a Tuesday.”
“Maybe a little bit of maths.”
Amelie, dragging her feet like a cartoon mouse, pulled her stool up to the kitchen table and started the homework she apparently didn’t have.
“Is this an I need to go and get candles situation?” asked Lauren.
Shrugging, Rosaline began to tidy up the self-saucing pudding that wasn’t. “I hope not, but my faith in ‘be round this afternoon’ man is dwindling.”
“I’d like to help, but unless you want me to write a satirical play about waiting for an electrician who never comes, and, frankly, I think that’s been done, we’re reaching the limits of my skill set.”
“Honestly, you’ve been great. And I don’t want to keep you from your wife.”
“She’ll be at work for a couple of hours yet so I might as well hang around, warming your heart with my presence.”
Amelie looked up hopefully. “Does this mean I still have to do my homework?”
“Yes,” said Rosaline in her best I have boundaries voice. “But when you’re finished we can . . . we can . . . ” She suddenly realised that every form of entertainment in the house was electronic. Apart from some books, most of them unsuitable for eight-year-olds, and a battered Monopoly set that she was certain she’d never bought. “Spend quality time with Auntie Lauren.”
“But I’m always spending time with Auntie Lauren. It used to be exciting but it’s not anymore.”
“Auntie Lauren,” pointed out Lauren, “is right here.”
“See. Always.”
Unable to think of any other alternative, Rosaline climbed slightly dangerously up a bookshelf and hauled down at least five years of dust and the Monopoly board that