CHAPTER ONE
Matty
My kitchen wasa disaster and I was too fucking tired to give a shit.
There was porridge all over the inside of the microwave, a variety of coffee and juice stains smeared across the counters—which were white marble because childfree me thought they’d look nice—washing-up piled in the sink, a stack of recycling by the door that I hadn’t gotten round to taking out in nearly a week, an overflowing bin, clean washing still in the machine from yesterday, a puddle of milk and cereal sitting on the breakfast island where I’d knocked Jack’s bowl over while trying to make him breakfast, plus the bananas in the fruit bowl were starting to go brown, which meant we’d get fruit flies if I didn’t deal with them soon.
And to top it all off, we were supposed to have left for nursery and rugby training fifteen minutes ago.
Anyone who thought I had my fucking life together could take a fucking seat, or maybe empty the dishwasher, because I was so far from organised it made me want to scream.
“Jack! Come on, mate, are you ready?” I asked as I put the porridge-covered microwave plate in the sink and told myself I’d deal with it later. Thank God Mrs Finch was coming tomorrow to clean, although I knew I’d be up late making the house look reasonably tidy before she arrived because I couldn’t let her deal with all this shit, even if it was her job.
“Jack?” I walked out of the kitchen searching for my toddler, who I could have sworn was right under my feet two minutes ago.
I really needed eyes in the back of my head.
Luckily, there was singing coming from the playroom and I breathed a small sigh of relief. All I needed to do was coax Jack out of his play castle, get his shoes on, get him into the car, and we’d be golden. And while getting his shoes on and leaving the house were monumental tasks in themselves, they at least felt achievable.
Or maybe I was too goddamn tired to think through what was involved.
“Jack, are you ready to go?” I asked, sticking my head around the door, my mouth falling open as I looked at the sight in front of me.
My two-and-three-quarters-year-old son was standing starkers in the middle of the playroom, holding an open jar of Nutella with a box of Cheerios sprawled across the carpet at his feet. It looked like he hadn’t gotten far into his plan, whatever it was, but there was still Nutella on his hands, arms, feet, chest, face, and even in his hair, where he’d also stuck a few Cheerios for good measure.
Two fucking minutes. That was all it had taken for my clean, dressed, ready-to-leave son to turn into a sticky, chocolate-covered gremlin. Fucking Christ.
“Jack,” I said slowly as I took a deep breath. “What are you doing?”
“Having breakfast,” he said, sticking his hand back into the Nutella. Jesus Christ, where had he gotten it? I could have sworn it was in a high cupboard, well out of reach of his sticky paws. And how the hell had he managed to get it in here?
“Right, but you’ve already had breakfast and now we have to get ready for nursery,” I said as I walked towards him slowly, trying not to spook him because the last thing I wanted was for him to go pissing off around the house. I might have been faster than him, but Jack had a cornering speed I’d never manage.
“No thanks, one minute,” Jack said, crouching down to pick up another sticky handful of Cheerios. I knew he had no idea how long a minute actually was. It was just something he’d picked up from Hannah and me.
She was going to piss herself laughing when I told her about this. I’d barely managed to live down the jam incident.
What the fuck was it about small boys and getting starkers? Or smearing themselves in whatever was closest?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But we have to go. Can I have the Nutella, please?”
Jack looked at me and frowned, his round little mouth forming into a pout. “Why?”
“Because we don’t eat Nutella out of the jar. It’s not nice.”
“Why?”
“Because other people have to eat out of it too.”
“Who?”
“Me, for starters,” I said, gently plucking the jar out of his reluctant hand and looking around for the lid, which was nowhere to be seen.
“But you’re Daddy.”
“Yeah, mate, I am.”
“You don’t count.”
