She turned to Poppy. “Where do you keep the plates?”
By the time Alex came home with cartons of chips and paper-wrapped fish, the kitchen was tidy and the table was set. Poppy had chatted to Lucy the whole while, and Bella had suffered her in silence, but overall Lucy decided their time together had been a success.
Alex came into the kitchen and blinked in surprise, then did a self-conscious double take that had Lucy smiling. There was something about the way Alex joked that was endearing; it was as if he had to think about it first.
“I thought I’d walked into the wrong house,” he said as he put the bags on the counter. “Poppy, will you get the milk?”
“That smells really good,” Lucy said. The scent of fish and chips was wafting from the bags as Alex unpacked them.
“Good and greasy.”
They all sat down at the table and Charlie wiggled underneath it, clearly hoping for the crumbs. Alex dished out the fish and chips while Lucy poured milk, after surreptitiously sniffing it first. It hadn’t gone sour. Bella was still doing her surly, silent thing, but Lucy decided to let it roll off her. She’d gotten along with Bella, more or less, this afternoon.
Poppy’s happy chatter dominated dinnertime, and afterwards Bella disappeared upstairs again and Poppy went to watch TVin Alex’s bedroom; he told Lucy it was the only TV in the house because he didn’t want it overtaking their lives. Lucy, who had a secret passion for reality TV, the more obscure the better, had simply nodded.
Now she stacked the dirty plates in the dishwasher, conscious that she should head home and yet not willing to end the evening.
“You don’t have to clean up,” Alex said as he came into the kitchen, tossing the empty chip cartons into the bin. “You’ve done so much already.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
He watched her for a moment, his hip braced against the counter. “Coffee?” he finally asked, and Lucy looked up, fully intending to tell him no, she needed to go home, it had been a lovely evening, and so on.
“Yes, please.”
Mentally she shook her head at herself. She finished loading the dishwasher while Alex made them both coffees, and then took them into the sitting room, which was a surprising oasis of quiet and calm. Distantly from upstairs Lucy could hear Bella’s music and Poppy’s television program.
“This room isn’t too much of a mess,” Alex said with a rueful glance at the overstuffed sofa, which had only a few of Poppy’s stuffed animals scattered across it. “Mainly because we hardly ever use it.”
“It’s a lovely room.” A coal fireplace with a painted tile surround took up one wall, and French doors overlooked the untidy garden in the back.
“Yes, I always liked this room,” Alex agreed. He’d joined her on the sofa, and although there was an entire seat cushion between them, Lucy still felt conscious of him: his body, his heat, his whole presence. Charlie had lumbered in after them and nowhe threw himself down at their feet with a theatrical groan of contentment.
Lucy curled up on the cushions, cradling the coffee mug in her hands, striving to make the scene seem normal. And it did seem normal, in a hyperaware sort of way. “It must be hard, to keep things going all the time on your own,” she said. “I don’t know how single parents do it, really.”
Alex gave a little grimace. “Neither do I.”
“You mentioned grandparents? Are those your parents?”
“No.” He spoke rather flatly. “Anna’s parents. They live down near London, but they like to see the girls as often as they can.”
Lucy nodded, noting the way he’d spoken about them wanting to see the girls, not him, and wondering if that was significant. “And what about your parents?”
“They’re both dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, his gaze sliding away from her. “What about you?” he asked after a moment. “This famous artist mother of yours?”
Lucy shrugged. She’d rather talk about anything than her mother. “That’s all there is to say, really.”
He turned back to look at her with a faint smile. “Surely not. Is she very famous?”
“In certain circles.” She hesitated, then said, “Her name is Fiona Bagshaw. Have you heard of her?”
He gave her a quizzical look and shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. Should I have done? I’m a bit of a Philistine when it comes to modern art.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Lucy answered, and then felt stupidly disloyal to her mother. It wasn’t as if her mother had been loyal to her. “She does sculptures and installations for museums and public parks, stuff like that. She also tends to bequoted in articles and on TV, at least in America. If a newspaper wants a controversial opinion, they generally ask her.”
