along her hairline. She was going through a blue clothes phase, not wanting to wear her more girlish pink things any longer. When she stood up, she launched into a ferocious hug, her fingers clutching his back. “Don’t ever do that again.”
They held each other until she dipped her head and pulled away.
Miss Bradfield smiled at them, as if watching a play.
There were chunky fish fingers piled on Poppy’s plate like Jenga blocks with no vegetables to be seen, and her drink was a shade of chemically enhanced orange. A ginger wiry-haired terrier sat on the floor, wagging its tail at him.
Mitchell was too tired to make small talk and wanted to go home. If he hadn’t had an accident, Poppy wouldn’t be eating and drinking this stuff.
Poppy guzzled the orange liquid. “Hmm,” she sighed, as if it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
Miss Bradfield picked up her dog and held it, legs dangling, under one arm. “You finished it all, yay.”
“It was so good. Thanks.”
Miss Bradfield turned to Mitchell. “Poppy’s done great. She was a bit upset at first, but I played her some classical music. A sonata can soothe the soul.” Her voice had a lyrical quality, as if she sang some of her words.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Mitchell said.
“We learned how to hold the guitar and practiced a few notes. She’s a natural, I can tell.”
He wondered if she said this to all her pupils. “We should go and leave you in peace.”
The dog leaned forward and licked the back of his hand, its wide pink tongue leaving a shiny trail on his skin.
“Ah, Sasha likes you,” Miss Bradfield said in surprise. “That’s rare, you know, her taking to a man like that. She’s choosy—used to bite one of my exes. Drew blood sometimes, ha. A better judge of character than me.”
When she lowered the dog to the floor, Mitchell wiped his hand on his trousers.
He glanced at her fridge, covered in a scrapbook of photos. He spotted Miss Bradfield posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower and a purple VW campervan. She was accompanied by two other women, one who looked startlingly similar to the woman he helped from the water. He rubbed the space between his eyebrows and wondered if a bump to the head could bring on hallucinations.
“So, you had an accident?” Miss Bradfield said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m in one piece.”
“Didn’t you jump into the river to save someone?”
“It was nothing,” he said, wondering how much Barry had told her. “We mustn’t keep you any longer...”
She picked up an apple and bit into it leisurely. “You’re an architect, right? Clever?” she asked between crunches. “Poppy told me you designed the new white bridge, the one that looks like a yacht?”
Poppy slid her eyes guiltily to the ceiling, and Mitchell felt his cheeks burn. He’d left his job in architecture when Anita died, and he hated to think about his involvement with the new bridge for many reasons.
“I no longer practice,” he said. “I changed jobs and work for the council now instead. No out-of-office meetings or travel.”
Miss Bradfield’s eyes swept to the Maintenance Team logo on his chest. “Ah, okay,” she said lightly.
Poppy carried her plate and glass over to the sink.
Miss Bradfield sped over to her. “Now, you leave those for me to wash. Have you got room for ice cream? I have vanilla, strawberry or both.”
“I love strawberry!”
“Great choice.”
“We have bananas and apples at home,” Mitchell said. He picked up Poppy’s blue Word Up schoolbag.
“I have sugar sprinkles,” Miss Bradfield said. “And caramel sauce.”
Poppy shot him a pleading look.
Mitchell shook his head and zipped up her bag. “It’s past nine o’clock. Let’s do that some other time.”
“When?” Poppy said immediately. “Next week?”
“We’ll sort something out, okay?” Miss Bradfield said. She placed her hand behind her head and fanned out her fingers to form a crown. “Remember what we learned, Poppy? Always be a pineapple.”
“Stand tall, wear a crown, but be sweet on the inside,” Poppy added to her quote with a smile. She moved away from the sink and took her bag from Mitchell. “Thanks for looking after me, Miss Bradfield.”
“Oh, call me Liza outside school. And just look at Sasha’s sparkly eyes. She’s missing your dad already.”
Mitchell headed for the front door, desperate to sink into his own sofa. “Thanks again,” he said.
“No problem, Mr. Hero. Shall I call you a taxi?”
“It’s fine, we’ll walk.”
“Um, you’re not wearing shoes, Dad,” Poppy said.
Mitchell curled his toes.