“Lucy is six.”
“Yes.”
“No child in the history of childhood has ever eaten sixteen fairy cakes.”
He finally looks at me. “You underestimate her.”
“I absolutely do not,” I say. “I am questioning your maths.”
He lifts the box and tucks it against his chest. “They are not for you.”
“I didn’t say they were.”
“You implied it with your eyes.”
“I was assessing stock levels,” I reply coolly. “For safety.”
“Forwhosesafety?”
“Mine,” I say. “And potentially yours.”
He snorts. “Hands off. They’re for Lucy.”
I slide off the stool. “I’m just saying, if Lucy eats more than two, she’ll vibrate through several dimensions.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“She’ll be a sugared-up menace.”
“She’s already a menace.”
I reach for the box. He pivots away.
“Geoff.”
“Christa.”
“You cannot seriously expect me,” I say, “a pregnant woman with impeccable taste and very reasonable needs, to ignore sixteen fairy cakes sitting openly on the counter.”
“They are not open.”
“They are in a box with awindow,” I point out. “That’s entrapment.”
He laughs and lifts the box higher. I make a grab for it. He steps back. I lunge again. He blocks me with his shoulder.Why must he be so unfairly tall and me such a garden gnome?
This escalates quickly.
“Give meone,” I demand.
“No.”
“Two.”
“No.”
“Half.”
“Absolutely not.”
