“Thankyou,” I say to him as I hold the bill out.
Snatching the cash from me, Isabelle zips out of the room and toward the back door, grabbing Leo’s hand as she rushes out. “Hurry, before he disappears!”
“I want the change back, Miss Flutter Pants!” I call as the door slams shut.
Huh, perhaps this day is going to be a nice one after all?
***
“What happened to ‘Mum, I promise to eat all my vegetables if I can have ice cream?’” I ask, raising an eyebrow at Isabelle and watching as she pushes the cooked carrots around on her plate. She’s sitting slumped to the side with her hand on the crook of her elbow, looking very much like she might fall asleep right there. I guess all that sun and fresh air tuckered her out, which could seriously work in my favour. If she falls asleep nice and early, I might actually get caught up to my planned study schedule.
“I don’t feel good,” Isabelle says, “My tummy hurts.”
“Nice try, kiddo, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Now, eat your car—”
A heaving sound erupts from Isabelle’s chest, followed by a splash as a tremendous amount of liquid hits the floor. Puddy Tat and Knickers bolt from under the table and take off as though they’re being chased by Cujo.
Oh, bollocks.
“Mum, I barfed,” she cries, gasping for air before belching and vomiting again.
I bolt out of my chair, knocking it over, then take hold of Izzy’s long hair and pull it back away from her face while she continues to get sick. I rub her back with one hand and say soothing things about how she’ll be okay, and I’m sorry I made her eat the carrots, and I’m sorry I just said that thing about the carrots because probably she doesn’t want to think about that right now…
The entire time, I keep one eye closed, only peering through the other one as though that will help me not smell it. I try very hard not to breathe through my nose, because, like many people, the smell of vomit often makes me vomit. As a mum, that renders me somewhat useless in these situations.
The back door opens. Oh, nuts. You know who else is not good with vomit? Aunt Dolores. She used to gag even when Izzy spit up milk as a baby. “Auntie Dolores! Don’t come in here. Isabelle is throwing up!”
Rubbing Isabelle’s back, I shush her. “Try to calm down, honey. You’ll be okay.” My words are wasted because trying to tell a four-year-old that they’re not going to die in the middle of vomiting is about as useful as trying to explain the theory of relativity to a gerbil.
“Oh, that isa lotof vomit,” Leo says from his position in the entrance to the kitchen.
I glance up at him for a moment and see he’s holding his towel and a change of clothes, which explains why he’s come inside. For some reason, the sight of him makes me angry. I knew I should never trust a man. “How much ice cream did you let her have?”
“Obviously too much,” he says, surveying the mess.
“Did you not hear me tell her she could haveone small thing?”
“Well, yes, but she said she normally gets a Drumstick and Revello when she’s with your aunt.”
“And youbelieved that?” I snap, turning back to Isabelle, who seems to be done for now. Her eyes are closed, and she’s leaning her clammy cheek on my arm.
“I thought children were unfailingly honest.”
“That’s only when it comes toinsulting people. When it comes to sweets and bedtimes, they’re pathological liars.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” he says. “Let me help.”
“Nope,” I snap. Picking Isabelle up under her armpits, I stand her on the chair and strip off her puke-covered pants, gagging as I work. “You’ve done enough, thank you. Come on, Izzy. Let’s get you in the bath.”
She looks at me, her face green. “It’s not him’s fault, Mummy. I telled him it was okay.”
“Well, he’s supposed to be a grown-up. He should know better.” I carefully take her shirt off over her head and set it on the floor next to her pants, then pick her up and hold her close as I make my way down the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, Isabelle is tucked in bed with a bucket propped up next to her pillow in case there is another round of ‘I ate too much ice cream because my mum’s an idiot and she allowed me to play with an irresponsible man all afternoon.’ The colour is returning to her cheeks as I place a cool, wet face cloth on her forehead. “Will you be okay here for a little while? Mummy needs to go clean up the kitchen.”
She nods bravely. “I’ll be okay, Mummy.”
“That’s my girl. You rest up. I’ll be back to check on you soon.” I give her a kiss on the cheek, then hurry down the stairs filled with dread at what I’m about to face.Just get it over with, Brianna.
