Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,75
you think you could possibly come and fix my shit for me?
Except if she didn’t, she’d be sitting in the dark, eating tins of uncooked beans until Monday while her child started a new, and probably better, life with Cordelia and St. John.
“I really feel like I’m letting the side down,” said Lauren, “because while I know a great many fabulous and talented lesbians, none of them are electricians.”
Rosaline’s phone was at five percent. Which meant, if she was doing this, it would have to be now.
Fuck, she had to, didn’t she?
She fished Harry’s card out from her bag and hesitantly dialled the number. It was fine. This would be embarrassing, and he’d probably have to fight hard not to start calling her “love” again, but she’d get over it. And besides, he was an electrician—if experience had taught her anything, he wouldn’t pick up.
“’Allo,” said Harry. “Dobson & Son Electricians. Can I help?”
Shit shit shit. “Um. Hi. It’s . . . Rosaline.”
“Oh. You all right, mate?”
“Not really. My electricity’s gone off and I can’t seem to get anyone out to fix it and you did say I should call you if I needed help. So I guess I’m calling you because I guess I need help?”
“Thank you for my crab,” shouted Amelie. “It was very . . . bready.”
“Tell me what happened?”
Rosaline blinked. “Well . . . she ate it?”
“With the electricity.”
“Sorry. That. Um, the trip-switch keeps tripping, and when I untrip it, it goes straight back.”
“Probably a short. If you tell me where you are, I’ll be right over.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s nearly seven and . . .”
“Nah, it’s fine. I was just trying to self-sauce my pud, but it’ll keep.”
God, what if he was eliminated because she’d made him do an emergency call-out at an unsociable hour on a Tuesday? “I don’t want to interfere with your practice. And I can, you know, pay you.”
Assuming he didn’t want a couple of hundred quid.
“No need, mate. Us bakers gotta stick together. I reckon I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“Okay. This is . . . kind of you. I really appreciate it.”
He hung up after that, which was fortunate, because Rosaline only had a minute or so left of battery, and vanishing without saying goodbye or thank you after someone had volunteered to do some quite highly skilled labour for free would have wiped out what little remained of her pride.
“Right.” She turned to Lauren and Amelie, who had been watching the call with equal curiosity. “He’ll be here by eight. So if you want to get back to your wife now, I’ll totally understand. And you”—she pointed at her daughter—“need to have a bath, wash your hair, and get ready for bed.”
“But I want to see the Viking,” said Amelie. “I want to see the Viking fix the electrics.”
“I’m not sure there’ll be anything to see. He’ll probably just want to walk around and poke plug sockets.”
“I still want to see. I might want to fix electrics when I’m older. It’s important for more girls to fix electrics.”
“Well, then I’ll buy you a book on it for your birthday.”
“I don’t want a book for my birthday. I want a bike or a laser or a robot.”
“And I want,” said Rosaline firmly, “you to go upstairs, have a bath, and put your pyjamas on. If Harry’s here when all that’s done, then you can say good night to him.”
“And I,” added Lauren, “should be getting back to Allison. So you can say good night to me now if you’re not too bored of my company.”
Amelie went to give Lauren a hug. “Good night, Auntie Lauren. Sorry I said I saw you too much. You’re very nice to me.”
Not being great with affection at the best of times, Lauren patted Amelie awkwardly on the head.
Harry arrived at about ten to eight, which meant Amelie did indeed get to see him before bedtime.
“’Allo, princess,” he said, kneeling down in front of her and putting his toolbox on the floor.
Amelie thought about this for a moment. “I’m not a princess. Princesses are undemocratic.”
“All right.” He paused. “’Allo . . . Prime Minister?”
“I’m Prime Minister of Sloths.” Amelie proudly showed him her pyjamas. “Although these say ‘so sleepy’ and I’m not sleepy so they’re lying sloths.”
“Maybe the sloths are sleepy.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
“All right.” Rosaline tried to shepherd her child vaguely bedwards. “You’ve said hello to Harry. Now go and clean your teeth.”