“I am so down for that.”
Rose looks behind her, almost as though to make sure Rhett has truly left.
“I thought Lulu would’ve loved Ellen’s.”
“She did have fun,” I almost protest.
“She’s gotten a little sophisticated in her time away. And she would, too, going on dates with Uncle Carson to the Russian Tea Rooms.
My heart gives a little flutter at the mention of his name though my expression never changes. “Yes, he took her for afternoon tea.” I’m no great teller of untruths but I’d prepared for Carson’s name coming up and decided it would be best to stick to some version of the truth.
The version that says we’d struck up a friendship. True.
The version that says Lulu really likes him. Also true.
The version that says I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Again, true. Fourteen days to be exact, but who’s counting.
“He was really good with her while we stayed with him. Well, you know, we didn’t stay with him, but there were a few occasions when our paths crossed.” Sometimes bodily. Like bumper cars. Banging and crashing, though not really trying to get past. More like . . . in.
Carson Hayes is really good at getting in.
Into my knickers. Into my body. Into my heart.
“It’s not like you to allow Lu go anywhere with a stranger.”
“He’s not really a stranger though, is he? He’s your friend, and your endorsement of him was good enough for me.”
Rose peers at me as though not really sure what to say. “He is really good with Rocco,” she says, her eyes slipping to her son. “Here, let me take him. He’ll probably sleep a couple of hours now.”
“And then poor Arianne gets all the cranky fun later on?”
“Hopefully not too cranky. I’ve booked us a table at the restaurant. I thought we could dine en famille. For an early dinner.”
“That works for me. Lulu is mostly house trained these days. Do you remember when she was Rocco’s age? I would’ve rather spent the evening sticking a fork in the toaster repeatedly than take her anywhere near a restaurant. Remember how rotten she was?”
“She wasn’t rotten. Just high spirited.”
“If high spirited means bad tempered and loud, then yes. Remember how she would scream blue murder if there wasn’t sketti on the menu?”
“God, yes.” Rose smiles fondly. “I’d forgotten about that. And how she used to be covered from eyebrow to chin with sauce by the time she’d finished.”
“Us too, sometimes. Remember when she tipped her bowl of spaghetti into Charles’s lap?”
“Oh, God. His face. I thought he was going to faint!”
“I thought he was going to send me the bill for a new Dolce and Gabbana suit. You kind of forget how hard it is. And the horror stories, even the ones you can laugh about afterwards.”
“Lulu is a one off,” she says with a slow shake of her head.
“Which is probably just as well.”
“She’s a great kid, Fee.”
“Of course she is. She takes after me.” Even as say it, I know it’s not true. I tend to think of Lulu as her own person, as we all are, I suppose. It’s just, she has so many personality traits that I don’t recognise as either one of mine or as having come from my family. But none of that matters because she’s the apple of my eye. My treasure. My gorgeous girl.
“You know, Remy’s mom blames me for every flaw in Rocco’s temperament.”
“Flaws shmaws,” I assert with a wave of my hand. “He’s perfect.”
“But it’s always the mother’s fault, right?”
I nod and smile but, in my case, who else could be blamed?
“I’m sure Remy was such a darling child,” I say, rolling my eyes just a touch.
“Exactly! He swears like a sailor, yet I get blamed for Rocco’s slip up!”
“Oh-oh. Rocco said his first swear, did he?”
“That sleeping sweetheart is like his father. And by that, I mean he does nothing by halves. I literally cannot say a thing in front of him without expecting it to be repeated.”
“I bet that makes for some interesting conversations.”
“Yep. Last week we had the dragon over for dinner.”
I think I’d have gone with ice queen if I’d been asked to describe her. Remy’s mother is almost ageless and very beautiful, but so cold you could keep your drink chilled by placing it next to her bum.
“I don’t think she was too impressed that Rocco ate with us.”
“Children are to be seen and not heard?”
“Yeah, like that. Anyway, my little man was sitting in his chair, and behaving so well, when all of a sudden, he yells, ‘ah, sit!’ And he didn’t mean please be seated—repose yourself,” she says with a flourish. “That boy had the intonation down.”
“Oh, dear,” I answer with a giggle. “What happened next?”
“Remy coughed behind his napkin and I could see he was close to losing it, his damn shoulders shaking and stuff. Not cool. If Rocco had realised, it probably would’ve resulted in him running around yelling shit! shit! at the top of his voice for a month. Before grand-mère could imply his American side must be to blame for his vulgarity, I told him off. You know; we don’t say words like that, Rocco, no matter how cross we are.”