‘In Insta-grams.’
Christ almighty. I run my hand across my stubbled chin. ‘Are you havin’ a quiet day at work?’
‘I thought you could add it to your repertoire. You know, of dad jokes?’
‘Funny.’ I don’t have anything to offer as, last time we spoke, I was still getting used to the idea. During the whole conversation I was, perhaps, not very enthusiastic?
‘And how’s your little froggy? Is he doing better these days?’
‘Aye, I think so,’ I answer through a small, optimistic smile. A smile that does a strange thing to my chest. Could it be relief? ‘He seems to be having less night terrors and is enjoying his new school.’
‘That’s cool. I saw your mum in the village yesterday. She says you’ve got a girl workin’ for you. A nanny. Is that right?’
‘Ah, so that’s what this call is about, ya’ sweetie-wife.’
‘I am not a purveyor of gossip,’ she answers indignantly.
‘Maybe not, but you’ve called to take the piss, haven’t you? Go on then, tell me my sister, the wife of the great movie star, doesn’t have a nanny. Tell me how wee Alisdair only wears ethically sourced cotton and subsides on vegetables from the surrounding villages with a low carbon footprint.’
‘Aye, Ivy is a wee bit mental about the state of our world. Do you know, Dylan ordered her one of those electric cars ’cause she was complaining about the emissions on the Range Rover. I got a bit excited when she mentioned emissions because I was thinking of the nocturnal sort.’
‘You remember the line we discussed?’ With my finger, I draw an invisible line across my desk, not that she can see it, but she knows exactly what I mean. ‘Your toes are touching said line. That means I get to hang up.’
‘I’m tellin’ you something!’
‘Aye, too much.’
‘Well,’ she continues, dragging out the word, ‘your sister, she thought she was getting a totey wee electric thing, but when it arrived, it’s nothing of the sort. He ordered a Tesla; she’ll never be able to park it in the village.’ Nat clucks disparagingly. ‘And defensive much, bawheid?
‘So my head’s full of bollocks?’
‘I reckon so. Balls wall to wall of that thick skull of yours.’
‘Natasha, if I want a hard time, I’ll call my sister. So did you just call to insult me, or was there something you wanted to say?’
‘Just to check in,’ she answers reasonably.
‘Well, I’m pretty good.’
‘I hope that’s everything to do with the nanny’s help with Louis, rather than the nanny helpin’ you out of your pants.’
‘You’ve got a dirty mind.’
‘I know,’ she says, sighing. ‘It’s an inherited gift.’
‘And how is June?’ June is Natasha’s grandmother, and the woman who raised her. She had a stroke a wee while ago, and Dylan, my sister’s husband, pays for around-the-clock care. The magnanimous bastard. It’s one of the only reasons I’m civil to him. That and because he’s the father of my only nephew. And I suppose because my sister loves him.
‘June has decided she’s no’ dying anytime soon and that you’re only as old as the man you feel.’
‘The man you feel?’ I can sense where this is going, given my knowledge of these two.
‘Aye, you’re only as old as the man you feel, so she keeps touching up poor Sam. You know, the day nurse?’
‘Dylan will end up with a sexual harassment suit.’ I try not to sound too delighted. Then I begin to wonder what would be said if I touched Ella in public. I’m hardly an octogenarian, but I’m almost a decade older than she is. I grimace and try to remind myself that what happens is no one’s business but our own.
‘Dylan’s too wily for that.’
‘He wasn’t astute enough to keep his cock off the internet,’ I bite out.
‘There’s more to that story than meets the eye.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Ask your sister. It’s not my tale to tell.’
‘Aye, sure.’ Like that’ll ever happen. We’re close but not that close. ‘So you were sayin’ about June?’
‘Oh, right. So June overheard one of the doctors say that a stroke can alter a person’s personality. She’s playing on that, pretending she wasn’t always a randy bugger. She’s just using the stroke as an excuse.’
‘She’s a character.’
‘She’s all about the boaby, is old June.’
‘Come on now, I’m drawin’ the line. I don’t want to hear the words dick, cock, knob, or boaby.’
‘Limit the conversation, why don’t ya!’
‘I don’t talk pussy to you.’
‘You don’t. But you could.’
‘I don’t even talk about pussy to the fellas!’
‘That’s disappointing. I imagined you all sat around in your boxer shorts talking girls while helping each other . . . relax.’
‘For the record,’ I reply, ‘most men do not sit around talking about girls while wanking each other off.’
Natasha sighs. ‘In my daydreams, they do.’
‘Aye, well, I’ve got work to do,’ I answer gruffly.