“And when the Fairy Godmother came and waved herwand,” Skylar went on, although she was fairly sure Georgia was asleep, “the rats turned into men. Big, strong men like your dad, because that’s how rats are. Big, strong, and clever.”
Duncan said, “I think there’s only one rat in that movie.”
“Exactly,” Skylar said. “The rats—George and Francis and … and Harold—all wanted to help Cinderella get to the ball, but there was room on the coach for only one of them. The coachman, he’d be, driving the team of four white horses and wearing a fine cloak with seven capes, tall black boots, and white britches, with his dark hair flowing down over his collar.” Hmm. This coachman was sounding attractive.
“So which of them got to do it?” Duncan asked. “In your story.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she admitted. “The story’s only just been revealed to me. I suppose you’d better choose. The hooded rat, George, was the oldest and the biggest; the middle rat, Francis, the silver-blue one, was the most … the most agile and the best runner, and a sort of bouncy rat; and the youngest rat, Harold, the champagne-colored one, was more of a tough sort of rat, because hewasthe youngest.”
“I don’t think the youngest would be the toughest,” Duncan said. “Georgia’s the youngest, andshe’snot the toughest.”
“Can’t help it,” Skylar said. “That’s the way the story came out in my head.”
“I don’t know, then,” he said. “The biggest rat would always expect to be chosen, so maybe he wouldn’t try as hard to do a good job. The middle rat might be too silly, though, and the youngest rat was maybe too angry. If you drive when you’re angry, you can have a smash.”
A click at the door, and Scarlett stepped inside in PJs and dressing gown, her wet clothes bundled under her arm. She said, “I used the hair dryer, is why I took longer.”
“That’s fine,” Skylar said. “We were just having a chat.Georgia’s asleep. Would you like me to start the washing machine?”
“I’ll do it,” Scarlett said, not surprisingly. Instead of moving to the bath to get started, though, she looked between Skylar and Duncan, her suspicions so clearly aroused, Skylar wanted to laugh. Exactly what was she afraid of?
Of things changing, that was what. The same thing most people were afraid of.
“What were you talking about?” Scarlett asked.
“A story,” Duncan said. “It was pretty silly.” He yawned.
“What kind of story?” Scarlett asked.
Skylar waited a beat, and to her surprise, Duncan explained. “I’m supposed to choose which rat would be the coachman,” he ended. “How do I know which one it should be?”
“Obviously,” Scarlett said, “the oldest. He’s the biggest and strongest, and probably the leader.”
Duncan said, “OK.”
“Not going to fight for your own ratty candidate?” Skylar asked.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s imaginary.”
Scarlett said, “Why do you always have to be weird?”
Duncan blinked at her, about to fall asleep himself. It had been averyexciting match, though, and it was late. “I’m not weird. I’m just logical.”
Scarlett sighed. “I’m putting the washing in and going to bed. You can go to bed too,” she told Skylar, fairly pointedly.
Skylar stood up. “I’ll do that. If you need any help in the night for any reason, you know where my room is.”
“My dad will be here soon,” Scarlett said, back to the squared-off posture. “Before midnight, he said. He has the next room, so I’ll just ask him.”
“Right,” Skylar said, refusing to be cowed by a twelve-year-old. “Good night, then.”
Duncan didn’t say good night. That was because he was asleep. Scarlett did, though. Grudgingly.
Whoever dated Zane Mahuta would have her work well and truly cut out for her. Another good reason, if Skylar had needed one, for it not to be her.
Zane stood in the rain, after shaking hands with the Chiefs and his own teammates, making the usual inane comments into a microphone for the TV audience and fully feeling the cold now. Full credit to the Chiefs on a match well played, and yes, it had been a tough one. The Blues’ defense had stood up well, and he was indeed pleased with that. Yes, he enjoyed playing with his brothers—they always asked that one, but what did they expect him to say in response?—and as for the qualifying round next week, they’d have to see what happened in the other matches this weekend. Wherever they ended up going, the boys were looking forward to the contest. After that, it was a “Cheers,” and some autographs and selfies for the patient kids still waiting by the railings, rain or no, then a welcome journey up the tunnel to the sheds, where the heat was turned to full. A beer and a yarn with the Chiefs boys, who were already there. He’d be training with a fair few of them in a few weeks with the All Blacks, and anyway, the match was the match, and you left it out there. After the match, they were just a bunch of blokes who’d spent an enjoyable couple of hours bashing the hell out of each other and were now ready to relax.
He talked to his brothers, too, taking care to put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and give him a quiet “well done tonight, bro,” upon which Jack looked sideways at him, expecting him to be taking the piss. Zane sighed and said, “Nah, I mean it. Ofcourse I mean it. Going up for that high ball—that was good stuff. Brave. You did well.”
