Never Say Forever

“No, we say much worse things.”

“But out of the earshot of our impressionable offspring.”

“At least we try.”

“But then I made the mistake of asking him what made him feel so cross that he had said such a bad word in the first place, and the fruit of my loins muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Rocco drop him fuckin’ fork.”

“I thought boys were supposed to be late talkers,” I say, snickering.

“Well, the one I got is pretty erudite. Il est juste comme sone père,” she says. He’s just like his father.

“Your French really has improved, and your accent is excellent.” The language didn’t come easy to Rose.

“I try,” she replies with a sly smile. “I had to really try because all Remy wanted to do for the longest time was teach me the kinds of words that can’t be said in polite company.”

“Or any company?”

Rocco begins to stir and, as I pass him into her arms, we make plans to reconvene at six for an early diner with the kids in Astor Court, the St Regis’s fabulous dining room. With its muted atmosphere and pristine table linens. God help their cream carpets and soft furnishings.

“I thought Arianne could bring the kids back to the suite after and we could go to the bar for some fun adult time.” Her eyes flare a little comically over the top of his head before she adds, “That sounded a little kinkier than I meant it to.”

“Nope, it sounds fab. Lulu will love some Rocco time as much as I would love some non-sexual fun adult time, too.”

“Don’t get me started.” She waggles a finger in my direction. “You know my opinion on that topic.”

“Yes, yes. Use it before you lose it.”

“No, do it because it’s fun!”

“Yes, so I recall,” I murmur mostly to myself as I slide my hands under Lulu’s thighs and back. I’m preparing to lift her when Rose adds,

“And speaking of fun, I hope you don’t mind but Carson’s promised to come along.”

And this is the reason, as I lift my child, I don’t see her sleepy hand shoot out and sock me in the eye.

“Here you go, slugger.” Rhett places the water bottle back on the table after topping up her glass.

“Thank you,” she replies with a glower. “And I told you, Uncle Rhett, it was an accident.”

“Pay him no mind, sweets. He’s just teasing. Aren’t you, Everett?” Rose matches Lulu’s glower with one of her own.

“What I am is jealous. Not because I want to smack your mum one. Much,” he adds in an undertone, “but because of the power in that hit.”

“It was an accident,” Lu replies with a growl this time. “I’m trying very hard not to call you a weenie head but you’re making it very hard!”

“Lulu!” I cover my giggle with my napkin—a giggle that’s a little too manic for the topic.

“Weenie head is Uncle Rhett’s middle name,” Remy asserts with authority.

I add an unattractive snort to my giggles, my entire being probably thirty percent wine currently. I was plied with it after Lulu socked me one this afternoon. Rose assumed I was mute with shock because of the pain. Little did she know the pain wasn’t physical but emotional.

And it made me curse quite loudly all the same.

I suppose I really should be thanking my daughter for giving me something to swear about. Now, my eye socket is a little tender and the initial shock of both the announcement and the impact of Lulu’s fist has worn. But what hasn’t alleviated is the anxious kind of flutter the experience has left me with.

I’ve missed Carson so, so much, and I’ve tried really hard to banish him from my brain. I’ve refused to consider where he is or where he might’ve been, what he might be doing and who he might be doing it with. It has undoubtably been the hardest two weeks of my life, even harder than when my parents flew back to London two weeks after I’d given birth. No one can prepare you for being solely responsible for a brand-new human and the anxiety that brings. But it’s because of that tiny human, who isn’t really so tiny anymore yet just as precious, I tell myself I can’t be with him.

I have to be worth more than being lied to.

Because if I’m not, how will I teach Lulu what she is worth?

And now I have to sit through a dinner. Well, not a dinner, thankfully. Seven o’clock is a very unfashionable hour to dine in New York. Lulu and Rocco have already eaten, and the adults have picked at entrees with the logic that we might order food in the cocktail bar later. But me? I’m too wired to eat. I’ve stuck purely to wine because I’m not sure I’ll be able to sit across from Carson otherwise.