“Dogs don’t speak!” she retorts delightedly.
“In Dog Deal, they do. So ’e is Claude from Toulouse—Toulouse as in ze saucisson?” I add in the worst French accent known to man. “’E is, ow you say,désolé’e cannot stop to ’ave ze chinwag but ’e is late to meet ’is paramour.”
“His para what?” Daisy giggles.
“Girlfriend. Zey enjoy to eat ze… viennoiseries, among other zings.” Cutting off my inadvertent smuttiness, I decide it’s Raif’s fault. Because of the lack of action we seem to be having lately. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want me.
“Now do the gray one with the big chest and short legs,” she insists.
That looks like an old English bulldog.
“Cor blimey, Daiz!” I announce, trying hard not to sound like Dick Van Dyke, chimney sweep era. “That’s Albert. Bert for short, and he’s a proper geeza!”
“A geezer?” she trills. “What’s a geezer?”
“A man. But ’e can’t stop to natter ’cause his china plate called him on the Nina Simone to meet him down the rub-a-dub.”
“That’s not even a real sentence. Just a jumble of words.”
“Shows what you know,” I reply loftily.
“People don’t really speak like that!” she insists through a fit of giggles.
“Lots of people in London do, and a dog called Albert does, too. Also, Albert wants you to know that’s not Claude’s own hair. It’s a syrup.”
“Claude has syrup on his hair?” Her feet come to a stop, and she scans the park, but the poodle and his owner are long gone.
“Syrup of figs,” I add. “That’s Albert speak for a wig.”
“A dog in a wig sounds so silly.”
“You’re right. It should be a pig in a wig.”
“Lavender, you are so silly, but I love you.”
Ah, my heart. It’s spilling rainbows and pink hearts. And my eyes are suspiciously wet. “I love you, too. You’re adorable, Daisy. And you’re going to look so cool in your new jeans. Maybe you should wear them to see your dad next week.”
“Yes.” Her expression falls. “I forgot about that.”
“I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun.”
“We don’t really do fun things,” she says. “Not like this.”
“Well, maybe—”
“Look!” Daisy’s arm shoots out. I follow the direction and break out in a classic case of the butterflies as I see Raif walking toward us. “Uncle Raif!” She waves manically and, pulling her hand from mine, runs along the path to him.
He smiles at her enthusiasm, but his eyes are all for me. And he’s quite the picture. Dark suit, white shirt open at the collar, the breeze artfully ruffling his hair. My mouth hooks up at one side. All he’s missing is a film crew hovering around him because he looks like an aftershave commercial in the making.
He stands out like a sore thumb. A really good-looking, sexy sore thumb. I know it’s not just me who thinks so as, at the nearby playpark, a yummy mummy fails to catch her kid as he shoots from the bottom of the slide.
Raif snatches Daisy up as she reaches him, arms wide. He swings her around, their joint pleasure so evident. It’s heartwarming and not the only place I experience pleasure.
Probably also thanks to the lack of action you’re getting.
Shut up, brain.
“Hey.” His expression softens as I reach them. Lifting Daisy to one side, Raif presses a kiss on my head.
