‘Yeah, just .?.?. I can’t.’
‘Sure, of course.’ Adult-up, she reminded herself, it’s a game, we can sort it out later. ‘Bye kids, be good for Cassie,’ he called. ‘I’ll be home later .?.?. Oh, and eat whatever she cooks for you.’ Then he was gone and she was left reeling from some of the most hostile texts she’d ever seen. Let it go for now, she told herself.
In fairness, rustling up a meal for two children should be nothing. Any of the girls would’ve probably been able to whip it up blindfolded while tied to a chair, but for her this was totally out of her comfort zone. What would Jamie Oliver do? He’d airily juggle the most wholesome ingredients in a pan while humming .?.?. pom, pompity, pom. Oh, good Lord.
‘Let’s look in the kitchen, kids,’ she announced in her most CBeebies presenter’s voice. ‘Yaaay!’ Cici played along delightfully while Con gripped his remote controller like a talisman.
‘Let’s see what’s in the fridge .?.?.’
What met her was .?.?. nothing. Just eggs, and in a manky drawer a gnarly onion and wrinkled tomato. And sriracha sauce. Jamie Oliver would be weeping.I’ll fucking kill him, she thought momentarily,leaving me to manage all of this. Then she nudged herself – what about that ad where the dad whips up an omelette? It could work.
‘So, kids, how about my super-special spicy omelette surprise?’
‘Yaaay!’ cheered Cici, almost toppling off the boots in the process. ‘What’s anomplet?’ This child was adorable, Cassie realised, but also a totally unreliable source of information.
‘Con has to have all his food so none of the things touch,’ she explained gravely. ‘The peas can’t touch the mash and the chicken can’t touch the nip.’
Turnip, Cassie deduced. Crikey, that was pretty specific. Where on earth was she going to find a meal like that at this hour? She recognised she’d about five minutes before their hunger would time out. She waved her phone. ‘Let’s order something!!’
‘Yaaay,’ cheered Cici.
‘Like what?’ said Con, flatly.
Oh God, good question. Think. Fast. ‘Chips! With .?.?. a sausage. And a side order of peas.’ She was trying to make it sound like they’d won the Lotto. In fairness, she’d done a lot of improvisation.
‘Yaaay.’
‘We’re not allowed takeaways. Mum says trans fats cause lifelong damage to our arteries.’
‘Yes. Your mother is right. If you had them a lot. But .?.?. tonight is anemergency, so .?.?.’
‘Yaay.’
CiCi should be hired out to shows up and down the country as an audience plant. Con studied the skirting board and began to recite, ‘In case of an emergency, remain calm and inform the relevant authorities. In case of fire do not open a window .?.?.’
He was beginning to hyperventilate. Oh God, she could feel her temperature soaring despite the skimpy outfit. Top priority was to manage his anxiety before it spiralled out of control. Act confident.
‘Excellent advice, Con. Thank you for that. Glad to say it’s not a fire, but we can remain calm and phone the relevant authorities.’
He blinked at her in silence for a good thirty seconds with a glance eerily reminiscent of Finn’s.
She brandished her phone. ‘And in this case, the authorities are Just Eat.’
There was a long pause.
‘I like chips,’ he pronounced, with great effort.
‘We all do. Let’s call in the order.’
* * *
Twenty minutes later they were unpacking the little parcels out of the carrier bag which had been delivered to the door, and both children seemed to be happy with the contents. Maybe Marisha, with her sky-high standards, had done her a favour. These kids seemed a hell of a lot easier to impress than most. They laid out two plates and counted out the food meticulously: ten chips for Cici, fifteen for Conor, a jumbo sausage each and a spoon of peas, placed in a spot of the recipient’s choosing.
After dinner Conor seemed to be magnetically pulled towards one end of the sofa, with Thor at his feet. ‘He always sits in that seat. It regulates him,’ Cici explained earnestly before she vanished out the door and could be heard rummaging in the cupboard of doom. Conor was engrossed in loading up a computer game when Cici clumped back into the room, holding the familiar long-haired doll who was now wearing a white pillowcase safety-pinned under her chin.
‘This is St Teresa of Ávila,’ Cici intoned with such solemnity that Cassie practically burst out laughing but stopped herself just in time.
‘Really? How did she get her name?’
