Never Say Forever

“It’s well, not whelp. A whelp is a puppy.” I realise my mistake before the complete statement is out of my mouth.

“Oh! Can we have a puppy? Please?” She presses her hands together as though a little prayer might help.

“We’ve had this conversation. We can’t have a puppy. Not yet. Not until you’re older.”

“But I am older, remember? I’m one more year older,” she reminds me, holding out her forefinger.

“You need to be at least another four more years older. That’s the deal.” And I hope to God we’ll be in a position to have a dog come then or that her priorities (read: obsession) change.

“Welp, that thucks big hairy ones.” Brows drawn together, she crosses her arms over the duvet again.

“I beg your pardon?” For some reason my mother’s voice comes out of my mouth, and not for the first time. “Where on God’s green earth did you hear such words?” Sucks big hairy ones? She didn’t hear that from me. At least I hope she didn’t. I’m usually much more circumspect when she’s around.

“I heared it at school. And it does suck—and so does this bedroom. It sucks great big hairy ones!”

“Shows what you know,” I answer, choosing to redirect because Lulu is shrewd enough to slot this phrase away as one she knows I don’t want her to use, only to pull it out again somewhere much more embarrassing. Like in front of her principal, or the hoity-toity old lady from the floor below; the one who never returns my greeting when she steps into the elevator, but just looks down her nose at both of us. “Because this room is closest to the kitchen and tomorrow is Saturday. You know what that means, don’t you?’

“Pancakes!”

“Exactly. Pancakes for breakfast. And because our bedroom is nearest to the kitchen, we’ll be eating those pancakes in record time.”

Her little face scrunches up. “I thought you said we were eating them in the kitchen?”

“I just meant we’re closer so we’ll be eating them sooner.”

“I’d still like to see the sunshine, though.”

“Then maybe we can eat them on the terrace, but only if you go straight to sleep.” I don’t want my child to get used to living in the lap of luxury, but I’ll feed her breakfast on the terrace overlooking Central Park? Because that makes sense. “It’s time to go to sleep. Snuggle in and I’ll be back to join you soon.”

“After you’ve had your night-time wine?”

I pause, denial on the tip of my tongue. But what the hell, no one can judge me for my glass or two of mummy medicine at the end of a long and stressful week.

“Yes, I’ll be coming to bed after I’ve had my glass of wine. Night, night, sweetheart.”

“I like it better when you call me your little cream puff,” she mutters, turning over to face the other way.

“Night, night, princess cream puff,” I whisper, turning off the light as I leave the room.

I make my way into a kitchen the designer kitchen that’s all marble countertops and sleek cherrywood cabinets, and pull out my eight-dollar bottle of white from the huge Subzero fridge.

Happy Friday to me, I think as I splash generous amount into a glass. And the fun doesn’t stop here because as well as this goldfish bowl of wine, I’m also going to have a long, lingering bath. The kind that will turn my fingers and toes wrinkly. The height of decadence; a bath with candles and wine!

Oh, the things that excite me these days . . .

I hang around the kitchen long enough to be sure Lulu won’t wander out from the bedroom with more questions, finding my glass of wine woefully empty by the time she finally falls asleep. How the first glass always disappears so quick seems to be one of life’s many mysteries. I’m mildly disappointed I didn’t buy two bottles earlier in the week as I take off my glasses and tuck my—our—jointly owned iPad under my arm and make my way deeper into my self-imposed forbidden territory. In other words, the apartment.

The maid’s room suits our needs fine, I tell myself, and not for the first time. It’s big enough for the queen bed and chest of drawers and nightstand it contains. There’s a little tub chair and a small walk-in closet, currently housing our luggage. But when it comes to the bathroom, the description ‘woefully inadequate’ doesn’t quite cover it. It’s tiny and more like a broom cupboard than anything else. The floor-to-ceiling subway tiles were probably fitted the last time they were in fashion, though I’m not sure green was ever quite the thing, along with a toilet, basin and shower unit all in Pepto Bismal pink. Even if there was a bath, there’s no way a girl could relax surrounded by those colours. By contrast, the bathroom in the master suite would rival the platinum suite at L’Hôtel du Loup back in Monaco. Dark and masculine, the L-shaped space just screams luxury with its double vanities and a shower big enough to party in. But the focal point is a freestanding bathtub so deep that, when filled, the water comes up to my chin. While there are other tubs in the apartment, four more to be exact, they aren’t in bathrooms quite as lavish as the master with its marble surfaces and richly decadent black and gold. Also, none of the other tubs let me stretch out my legs without touching the edge.