“Will Lauren be awake?”
“She’d better not be.” There was every chance she would wake up, her teenage telepathy detecting something different in the atmosphere of the house.
“What do we say to her if she does?”
“How about the truth?” I unlocked the door. A small pile of shoes greeted me. My daughter was definitely home.
“Won’t that scare her?”
I chuckled. “I hope so. She’s far too confident. Do you want a drink?”
“Tea? Or that hot chocolate?”
There was a note of uncertainty in her tone which was completely different from the self-assured – if moody – chef.
“I’ll do you a hot chocolate.”
“Can I have one too, Dad?”
My daughter hovered on the stairs like a ghostly apparition wearing a long white t-shirt that I recalled as once being mine.
“And you’re up because?” I knew why. She’d sensed a change in the norm. And life wanted to make things difficult.
“Something just woke me up. Hi Simone.” She gave Simone a smile. “Please can I have a hot chocolate?”
“I’ll bring it up to you. Get yourself back in bed.”
She nodded, not arguing, a clear sign that she was tired. I caught sight of Simone who looked as if our meat supplier had told us they were closing down their business.
“It’s okay. She’s going to assume you’re staying over. I’ll probably get a high five when I take her the drink.” I had no worries about Lauren and her reaction. In the last week or two, I had talked to her about Simone and she knew I liked her. She was old enough to understand that guys had feelings too, that we weren’t all strong and silent types that were portrayed in movies and books. I wanted her to know how to expect to be treated by someone she liked and vice versa. And part of that was dealing with disappointment or having to disappoint someone.
We made small talk while I boiled the milk, adding the Swiss chocolate I’d managed to source from a place in Covent Garden. Desserts, the Tube, politics and Leif Rosso’s media disappearance were all covered in the time it took to make three hot chocolates.
I left Simone to sip hers while I took Lauren’s upstairs. She was tucked in bed, looking far younger than fifteen.
“Here. It isn’t too hot so you shouldn’t have to stay up waiting for it to cool.” I knew my daughter and her schemes.
“Thanks, Dad. Is everything okay?” Perceptive as always.
“Simone’s staying over. I’ll explain why tomorrow.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Gross. I don’t want to know. Can I stay at Jessica’s on Friday? She’s having a sleepover.”
Well-timed question and she knew it.
“If her mum calls or texts me and tells me it’s okay.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.” Clearly too tired to argue.
“Night night, Lolly.” I leaned over and kissed her forehead like I’d been doing all her life.
“Have fun, Dad.” She grinned wickedly. “Be good.”
I shook my head as I closed her door, thankful that I had a teenager who did more than grunt and was rational, most of the time.
Simone was sitting in a bucket chair when I got back down, reading an old recipe book that I’d inherited from my aunt. I leaned against the doorframe and watched her, her long hair now down from its work ponytail and messy.
“You’re spying.” She didn’t look up.
