Never Say Forever

I find myself wondering if it’s the princess’s bedroom or that she saw Carson almost kiss me that’s made her a little romance obsessed. Though perhaps being pressed against the kitchen cabinet isn’t everyone’s idea of romance.

Unless you’ve been enlightened.

“Thirty,” I answer eventually. “I told her she has to be thirty before she’s allowed to date.”

“Did you tell her she might have to kiss a lot of frogs before finding her Prince?”

“Some of us never get past the frog stage.”

“Don’t tell her that.” I can’t quite make out if her tone is sad or disappointed. Maybe a little of both.

“But the point I was trying to make is that Lulu isn’t looking for her Prince Charming. It’s me she seems desperate to set up.” I pause and take a mouthful of Lulu’s abandoned milk as I contemplate telling her about what happened at school yesterday. Why the hell not? “So yesterday, I went to pick Lu up from school to find her holding one of the teacher’s hands. A male teacher, that is.” Mr Farrow. “She introduced us, and before I knew it, she started to relay my life story to him, pretty much selling my good points to him like a mini madam in a brothel.” Rose sets off laughing, and I can’t help but join her. “God, it was mortifying!”

“I think it’s kinda cute, better still if the was teacher’s cute, too.”

“Yes, well, it was cute when she told him how lovely I am and how I make a very tasty sandwich and that I sometimes even cut them into little triangles. But it was less than cute when she informed him I have very big boobs and that my bottom isn’t really getting saggy like I think it is.”

“Oh my, that kid is hilarious!”

“She’s a bloody nightmare more like.”

“But was he cute? This teacher, I mean?”

“Not bad, I suppose. Not that it matters.” It also doesn’t matter that he gave me his number because I’m not going to do anything with it.

“Not even when it’s obvious Lulu likes him?”

“That’s . . .” Very sticky ground especially as, on the way home, she told me she thought Mr Farrow wasn’t as handsome as Carson. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is? Listen to the kid!”

“Look, if I did what Lulu wanted, we’d be living in a pink tepee in the middle of Central Park, not brushing our hair or washing our faces and living on cake and custard. So the answer is no, I’m not going to go out with him. If for no other reason than he didn’t ask.”

“Lu had better get on to that, then.”

“Don’t give her any ideas.” I chuckle.

But Rose falls quiet, and when she next speaks, she does so carefully.

“Do you think she might be trying to fill a void? In her own way, I mean.”

“She doesn’t need a father.” My heart pinches a little at the suggestion. She has men in her life; my dad, Charles (sort of) Remy and even Everett.

“I wasn’t talking about a void in her life. I was talking about yours.”

“If you’re suggesting that Lulu thinks I need a daddy more than she does—”

“What?” That one word sounds positively gleeful. “A daddy, Fee?”

“I mean, a man. I’ve got a daddy, I mean, a dad.”

“Sure you did,” she asserts rather gloatingly.

“And in other news,” I utter with a forced brightness and a deep hope that I can turn the conversation from whatever this is, “my paperwork should be through next week, so I can begin to sit in on consultations with clients. Not that I haven’t enjoyed sitting in with Marta, the dietician’s clients. And I know I’m not qualified to say so, but I’d bet my last five bucks in my wallet that most of them suffer from some level of orthorexia.”

“That’s great.”

“It’s not really.” And I would know, orthorexia and I being old acquaintances. “Any obsession, even one focussed on healthy eating, can be damaging. But what is so very interesting is how different women’s attitudes to food are between the States and France.”

“Sounds like you’re learning a lot, but are there any dating prospects in your office?”

“I thought we’d already established I wasn’t in the market.”

“I think you said, last time we had this conversation, that you were open to the suggestion, should the right man come along.” I make a noncommittal noise because that’s not how I remember the conversation going. “Is it just me, or is it odd that your opinion should alter after a visit from a certain someone?”

“What?” I reply, playing deliberately dumb.

“Have you any idea where he’s gone?”

“Oh, we’re talking about Carson again,” I say as though displeased. “No idea, sorry.” I only know he’s left me feeling oddly out of sorts. And not just because Lulu hasn’t left her own bed since she moved into the princess suite, something I, her mother, haven’t been able to manage in four years. I’m not even upset that somehow, oh so mysteriously, my own clothes and belongings had been moved to the bedroom next to his, the bedroom that is the meat in the sandwich between Carson and Lulu’s rooms. My clothes had been steamed and hung neatly in the adjoining closet, my shoes cleaned and polished, sweaters, jeans, and my ever-present workout wear were folded on shelves smelling of magnolia. Even my underwear had received the white-glove treatment, as though it were La Perla and not Marks and Spencer’s.