Maybe if she had a word with their father? It was about time Eric pulled out his wallet.
‘We’ll see,’ Beatrice told her.
‘I won’t ask for anything else ever again,’ Taya promised earnestly.
Beatrice highly doubted that.
‘Look what it can do, Mum.’ Taya angled the screen so Beatrice could see.
Mark said, ‘It’s only a tool, Taya.Itdidn’t create that –youdid.’
Beatrice studied the image, pride swelling in her chest. Although she knew Taya was good at drawing and painting, until she saw what she’d created on Mark’s tablet in a matter of minutes, Beatrice hadn’t realised just how good. Taya appeared to have found her niche.
But was it just a fad? It was a lot of money to spend on something if it wasn’t going to be used.
Mark put the tablet away while they ate and didn’t bring it out again, which Beatrice was thankful for, and the conversation moved on from book writing and digital art. By the time they were ready to order dessert, they were discussing weird food combinations.
‘Ice cream and chips!’ Sadie cried.
Mark pretended to think about it. ‘Do you know, I think that might be quite nice. How about popcorn and tomato sauce?’
‘Gross!’
‘Bacon and chocolate?’
‘Ew!
‘Pineapple and pizza?’ he suggested.
Taya narrowed her eyes. ‘Duh, that’s a real thing.’
‘No! It can’t be!’ Mark looked shocked, but Beatrice caught the twinkle in his eye.
‘It’s called a Hawaiian,’ Taya said. ‘Everyoneknows that.’
Sadie wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s yucky.’
Beatrice was inclined to agree with her, but ham and pineapple was Taya’s favourite pizza topping.
‘Haribo and porridge,’ Sadie suggested.
Mark tapped his chin. ‘Does your Mum make porridge in the microwave?’ he asked, and when Sadie nodded he said, ‘Would you put the Haribo in first, so they went all melty, or after the porridge is cooked?’
‘All melty?’ Beatrice laughed. ‘Melty isn’t a word.’
‘It is. It’s a made-up word. Us authors are allowed to make up words,’ he replied loftily. ‘Ask Lewis Carroll.’
‘Who’s Lewis Carroll?’ Taya wanted to know.
Mark said, ‘He wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’
‘That’s a film, not a book,’ she told him.
‘It was a book before it became a film. Lewis Carroll wrote it over a hundred and fifty years ago.’
‘Is he dead?’ Sadie asked.
‘Very.’
