Saoirse’s light is infectious because she’s so generous with it. She shines it outwards, and it’s weaving its magic on both of us.
There she is.
The heavy door handle cranks downwards, and she appears in her ridiculous blue duffle coat that makes her look like a five-year-old, raindrops shimmering on her shoulders. She beams at Bea, and then at me, as she unfastens the large toggles and wriggles out of her coat, exposing her slender figure in a little tartan skirt and a red polo neck that hugs her incredible breasts.
It’s my favourite part of the day, when she turns up.
When she does that.
I’ve been nursing a semi pretty much continuously since I took her top off in the bathroom that night, and, unfortunately, my cock’s memory is razor sharp. I scoot my chair further under the table and spit out a curt greeting as Bea climbs down from the table and runs to her.
‘It’s lashing outside, guys!’ She pulls out a chair, settling Bea sideways on her lap, and I pick up the teapot, lay a strainer over the cup I’ve put on her place mat, and pour her a cup of tea. This is our relatively new, but already familiar, morning routine.
I’ve lingered at the breakfast table in the mornings, rather than shooting off to the office like I used to the moment she arrived. I’ve even persuaded her that The Montague’s house breakfast blend is far superior to those tea bags she carts around with her, and I’m pleased to see what an enthusiastic convert she’s been.
She pulls Bea’s bowl closer and spoons some porridge into her mouth, scraping the overspill off her lip with the side of her spoon.
‘Good girl. Yummy.’ She putsdown the spoon and smooths Bea’s hair off her face. ‘You look very chic today, Bea. Nice dress.’
‘Daddy choosed it,’ Bea says with her mouth full.
Saoirse wiggles her eyebrows at me. ‘Well, Daddy’s taste in dresses is grand.’
‘Thank you. I enjoy channelling my inner four-year-old girl. Speaking of which, I need to have a word with you in private in a moment, Saoirse.’
‘In private?’ Bea whines. The kid has a hugely overactive FOMO gene. It’s the price I pay for not having given her a sibling and forcing her to spend far more time with adults than she should.
‘I need to talk to Saoirse aboutpresents.’ I whisper the last word theatrically.
‘Oooh!’ She squirms excitedly in Saoirse’s arms. ‘Presents for Beadle?’
‘Maybe. If you’re a good girl.’
‘I am a good girl!’ She’s indignant. Then, with the random subject change small children excel at, she tells Saoirse: ‘Daddy calls me lots of silly nicknames. Beadle. Beeper. Beady.’
‘Because you have beady little brown eyes,’ I say. ‘Beamer. When you give me big smiles. Hmm. What else can we call you?’ I take a sip of coffee.
‘Beaver?’ Saoirse suggests.
Jesus.
I jerk forward. My hand shoots to my mouth to stop me ejaculating coffee, but I can’t prevent the huge snort I make.
Saoirse goesbrightred. Fuchsia. ‘Oh my God,’ she says to herself, bowing her head. She takes a hasty slug of tea.
I’m still laughing when I take my hand away. ‘Delightful nickname.’
‘What’s a beaver?’ Bea asks.
Saoirse and I look at each other. She’s squirming like she wants to crawl under the table and die.
‘Um…’ she attempts.
‘A beaver is a semi-aqueous rodent,’ I tell Bea. I raise my eyebrows at Saoirse in mock disapproval. I’m really enjoying this. ‘They’re bigger than mice or rats, and they live in wetlands. And they’re very busy. Just like you. Hence the expressionbusy beavers.’
‘I like the name,’ Bea announces.
I grin at Saoirse. She’s put me in a seriously good mood this morning. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I mutter.
