be obeyed. Leo hoped that one day he’d have the courage to flout his father’s rules, but he knew that’d be much easier and less terrifying with an ally at his side.
5th October
Twenty-seven days . . .
6:28 a.m.—Goldie
Teddy is delighted by his new acquisitions. He spins around the living-room carpet—stepping on the spot I never touch, because he doesn’t know better—bubbling over with joy. If the French family is still there tomorrow, I’ll go back for the linen jacket. I shouldn’t, since it’s infinitely riskier stealing twice from the same person. But the desire to see Teddy grinning like this again outweighs my more rational sensibilities.
“Are you hungry, Ted? We’ve got herb-stuffed poussin, polenta, and baby carrots for breakfast.”
Every day we eat whatever they’re serving at the hotel, regardless. I was sort of seeing Kaz, the sous chef, for a few weeks when I started, and whenever I finished a shift he’d give me two portions of something gourmet in plastic tubs. I broke it off when I realized I was flirting to get fed. But Kaz still gives me leftovers whenever he can.
Teddy stops spinning. “Can I have breakfast in my new shirt?”
“If you’re careful.” I step into the kitchen to decant the refrigerated plastic tubs onto plates. I stop a moment to stroke the leaves of my bonsai tree, which seems to give a little shiver of appreciation as I pass. Its trunk looks a little thicker than usual, like Ma’s ankles when she was weighed down by Teddy, so I know it’ll flower soon—filling our flat with a scent as strong and sweet as burnt caramel. We have a small wooden table pushed up against the wall alongside Teddy’s bed (I still sleep on the sofa) where we eat. It’s stupid, given our square footage situation, that we don’t use our parents’ room, but neither of us has set foot inside since Ma died.
“It’s yummy, thanks.” Teddy scoops up a forkful of polenta, squinting at the aftertaste of soy sauce as he swallows. But he never complains, never asks for burgers and French fries, never says I don’t spend enough time at home, that he has to look after himself too much. When I return in the evening, I find him finishing homework or housework, or sitting at the table, drawing. Or, if I’m on a late shift, already asleep.
I reward him as best I can. Whenever kids stay at the hotel, they leave with fewer crayons and notebooks than they brought. I’ve created quite an eclectic collection during the past nine months. I usually take only as much as might be lost by natural means—down the backs of sofas, under restaurant tables, wedged between car seats—so neither kids nor parents notice anything amiss. Admittedly, last week I took an entire tin of oil pastels: all the colours of the rainbow and every hue in between. Teddy sleeps with them under his pillow. And he draws such exquisite pictures. The flat is wallpapered with Ted’s characters wearing flamboyant costumes of his own design.
“G-G . . . ?” He puts down his fork.
I sense a request coming. I swallow. “Yes?”
“You know it’s your birthday soon . . .”
“Yes?”
“There’s a school trip to London that weekend.” He grins again, forgetting his fear over telling me. “My class is going to the theatre to see the real Macbeth.”
“Oh?” We’ve been practising that play for weeks, especially act 1, scene 1, since Teddy is the Second Witch in the school production. I smile. “When do we meet again? In rain—”
“No, no, no.” Teddy shakes his head so vigorously, his mop of blond hair is flung from side to side. “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”
Teddy regards me as if this is the biggest lie he’s ever heard. Then he takes a deep breath, serious again. “We’re visiting Buckingham Palace too. And staying the night, in a hotel.”
“The night?” My smile falls. “Is that absolutely—”
“But I won’t go,” Teddy cuts me off, “if you don’t want. I can stay here and celebrate with you and—”
I swallow a forkful of polenta. It’s sticky and sharp. “No, I . . . Of course you must go. I’ll . . . I’ll probably be working anyway.” He looks so pleased that I wish I didn’t have to ask. “So, um, how much will it cost?”
Teddy pokes at his carrots. “Um . . . T-three hundred and forty-five pounds.”
I