Saturday
21st December
25.
On a cold and frosty morning
‘Okay, Ivy, your cheeks are super-rosy, Bill wasn’t in his room earlier, add in last night’s moonlight stroll – is there something you’d like to share?’
When Fliss launches at me the second I walk into the kitchen from the beach with Merwyn next morning, all I can say is I’m glad Tiff and Tansy aren’t here.
‘Sadly not.’ Oops, spot the deliberate mistake. ‘Obviously, what I really mean is – happily not.’ Glad we’ve got that one cleared up. I’m wiggling my eyebrows and winking at her phone. ‘I take it this means you’ve already been in Bill’s and made the Facetime call.’
‘I did, and now Libby’s in there.’
‘And how did it go?’
Her messy up do has turned into more of a gluey haystack, and she’s fiddling with it as she leans over to check on Oscar who’s lying on the floor banging some large metal tool on the table leg. She finally pulls a piece of jigsaw out of her hair, misses the much bigger lump of what looks suspiciously like melted Swiss cheese from last night, passes a piece of something floppy, beige and sticky onto Harriet’s high chair tray and wipes her hands down the front of her penguin onesie.
‘Total bastard shite.’ She’s mouthing the words at me silently over Harriet’s head.
I roll my eyes. ‘Thatwell …?’
Tarkie pops his head up from under the table. ‘Aunty Fliss is doinggros mots!’
‘What was that he said?’ I’m squinting at Fliss.
Tarkie pops up again. ‘It meansbig words, it’s French for swearing.’
‘Jeez.’ I’m rolling my eyes at Fliss. ‘Tri-lingual kids, whatever next?
Fliss blows out her cheeks. ‘Merwyn talking Tibetan?’
I go back to the important stuff. ‘You girls have got your cutest penguin gear on too.’
Fliss pulls at Harriet’s babygro. ‘Aren’t these padded side fins so adorable they make you want to melt? And Oscar’s in his lion suit with the cutest tufty tail end and mane, with whiskers drawn on his face.’ Right on cue there’s a roar from under the table then a whole lot more banging. ‘And I put my hood up and got my beak in completely the right place too. At six forty-five with two kids in tow, that’s a big ask.’
‘So what exactly happened?’
‘He was in bed when he picked up his phone.’
My stomach drops. ‘You did recognise the pillowcases?’ For once it’s useful she’s still hanging onto her distinctive blue colourway Ikea Cath Kidston cabbage rose rip offs.
‘Oh yes.’ It’s a relief when she nods. ‘Then he said, “Shit, is that the time, thank Christmas you woke me, jeez, I’ve got to go to work.” And straight after that he hung up.’
There’s a voice from under the table. ‘Gros mots.Again. Final warning.’
That’s not much to go on. ‘So, how did he look?’
Fliss pulls a face. ‘Dishevelled …’
I’m agonising because she could be describing herself there. ‘Rumpled like his wife’s been away for a week and he’s had to fold his own polo shirts, or … bed hair like he’s been …’ I send her a grimace. ‘… Jiggin with Jordan.’
‘Jiggin withwhat?’
‘It’s this guy from Florida who fishes and dives and has a YouTube channel with a gazillion followers. George used to watch him in that phase he had when he wanted to be Bear Grylls. Obviously it’s a metaphor … to dodge ourgendarmeunder the table.’
Tarkie pipes up. ‘What’s agendarme?’
