Seb is visiting Hugo, who plays midfield for Real Madrid, which is probably part of the reason he hasn’t settled down. Hugh is a footballing god over there—everywhere he goes, he’s trailed by wannabe WAGs. Ironic, given he wants neither wife nor regular girlfriend. Ironic and unfair.He doesn’t want a girlfriend, and I can’t keep one.
“As in, not here teaching my child unsavory words.” Letty pinches me again.
“Shit—I mean, ow! What in the name of arse was that for?”
“Guess,” Letty demands as she draws the sides of her cardigan closer, suddenly the very image of our mother. Not that I’d say so because I prefer not to wear my testicles as earrings. This divorce is really doing a number on her. It seems to have sucked all the fun out of her.
And my guess? I glance down at Clo. “Sorry,” I offer.
“That’s three more times, Uncle Matty.” Clo holds up three stubby fingers.
“Ah, come on,” I cajole. “That last one didn’t count.Arseisn’t really a bad word. No worse thanass, at least—which they say a lot where you’ve been living.”
“They don’t sayatha whole lot in kindergarten.” Clodagh gives a twist of the lips that’s far too sardonic for someone who’s yet to reach the age of six. “Uncle Matty? Why does Uncle Seb say you get more ath than a toilet theat?”
“Oh, for feck’s sake,” Letty mutters, rolling her eyes.
“What does that mean?” Clo persists.
“It means you shouldn’t listen to your uncle.” I sweep her up into my arms, which is no easy task, thanks to the hoops of her sunshine-yellow princess dress. “Haven’t I told you all boys are idiots? Especially Uncle Seb.”
“You got that right,” Letty murmurs.
Clo begins to giggle as I swing her around, almost knocking an original George Condo off the wall. But the sound is enough to lighten anyone’s heart.
“Put her down.” Though the words are delivered like a complaint, my sister’s expression is merry as she sweeps up Clo’s coat. “Let’s get you into this.”
“That’s a bit small for me. Oh, well.” I stick out my hand as though I’m about to put it on.
“Uncle Matty, that’s not your coat!”
“Isn’t it?”
“You’re too big!” Clo answers through a delightful-sounding giggle. “Anyway, printheth don’t wear no coat.”
“Prin ... princesses don’t wear coats?”
This kid needs a speech therapist. Maybe I should’ve paid for sessions instead of theater tickets for Chrithmath. I mean, Christmas. “That’s because princesses don’t live in London in January,” I say, taking the woolen duffle coat from Letty and shaking it out. “In you get.”
“Thucks,” she complains, shoving her fist into the armhole.
“Clodagh!” her mother chastises.
“Well, it does. You gonna wear a coat, Uncle Matty?”
“I most certainly am.” To hide this ridiculous getup, if nothing else. I pull my phone from my pocket as it buzzes with a text. “Car’s here.”
“You sure you don’t wanna wear the matching pants?” Letty taunts as I slide my phone back. “Personally, I think the golden edging was very fetching.”
I send her a less-than-friendly look as Clodagh begins to bounce on the spot.
“And the boots! Please, please! We’ll look like we’re going to the ball!”
“They don’t fit, remember? My feet are bigger than Uncle Seb’s?”
“You mean your ath,” my sister adds with a snicker.
“Jealousy is very unbecoming, pancake pants,” I reply, patting my sister on the head.
