As I do so, my heel catches on a stray monster truck, and I go flying arse over boob, landing on my knees and palms. And Lego bricks.
‘Merde!’
The little boys crying halts immediately. ‘Vats a bad word,’ he reprimands, waggling his little index finger at me.
‘How do you know that?’ I ask, a little shocked. ‘Do you speak French?’
‘Oui,’ the little boy answers, his bottom lip beginning to wobble.
‘Je n’avais pas réalisé que ta famille était bilingue,’ I say in a rush, turning my head over my shoulder, catching hot dad staring at my bottom. Not that I can blame him, it’s so large it probably eclipsed the light in the room. ‘Ce sera un tel soulagement de pratiquer—’
‘Hang on. What?’ he says, holding up his hands. ‘Hen, I haven’t a scoobie what you’re sayin’.’
‘I’m sorry? W-what,’ I stammer back.
‘That’s what I said. I don’t understand . . . whatever it was you just said.’ His words are like bullets, his tone exasperated. ‘Look, I’m Scottish, no’ French.’
Scottish by way of Mars? What on earth is he saying?
‘Once more, in English. Please.’ Colour me cynical, but the final word seems to be added as an afterthought.
‘I said I didn’t realise you were a bilingual family. That it would be good to . . .’ My words trail off. I’m an idiot
I turn back to the kid, and curling my legs under me, I sit on the floor, which is a slightly more dignified position than being on all fours. ‘Ton papa ne parle pas Français?’ Your daddy doesn’t speak French?
The little boy shuffles closer immediately, shaking his head. Well, then. Maybe he only speaks French with his mother. No problem. I can practice with him.
‘Si papa ne parle pas Français, alors il ne comprends pas ce qu’on est en train de dire?’ If Daddy doesn’t speak French, then he doesn’t know what we’re saying? My whispers are conspiratorial, and I keep my eyes firmly on the child. ‘Because doggies do like biscuits,’ I whisper, still speaking French. Maybe chocolate digestives aren’t the best thing for a dog, but we can tackle that later.
‘Oui.’ My little bundle giggles.
‘How’d you do that?’
‘Do what?’ I ask, realising belatedly I’m running my fingers through his child’s silky curls.
‘Make him laugh? Smile? Any of those things.’
‘By speaking French?’ I shrug, my tone unconvinced. In hindsight, it’s quite a Gallic motion.
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘What’s your name, lovely?’ I ask him in English, and he answers in the same.
‘Not lovely, silly! My name is Louis!’ His giggle is like a balm to my soul. Children—small children, that is—speak the truth. Not for any other reason than that’s what they seem to be programmed to do. The things they say aren’t meant to hurt. They call it as they see it, and are very matter-of-fact. If only the same could be said for grown-ups.
‘What about your doggy, ton chien? What’s he called?’
‘Charles,’ he replies, his countenance clouding. ‘Maman l’appelle Rififi.’
‘Your mother calls him trouble?’ I say, chuckling. ‘He must be a naughty one.’
‘You’re hired,’ hot dad says before the boy can respond.
‘What?’ My head snaps up, my expression confused.
‘You’re hired. What do you say, Louis?’ The little boy nods enthusiastically. ‘When can you start?’ My eyes slide automatically to my suitcase as he asks, ‘What’s in that anyway?’
‘My clothes,’ I say slowly. ‘Just the essentials; toothbrush and stuff . . .’
‘You’re not going on holiday just now, are you? Because I need you to start immediately.’
‘And that’s why I brought a few things.’ As I say this, it suddenly dawns on me. Bloody Jackie. I stop myself just in time from swearing, pushing Louis gently back to the hairy-assed rug and stand. ‘Jacqueline . . .’
‘Your mother?’ he supplies.
‘She’s my stepmother, but she implied the job was already mine.’ I should’ve known to ask more questions. Nothing is ever cut and dried with her—or Dad, come to think of it.
‘Aye, and so it is. The job’s yours.’
‘Yes, but you only just decided that.’ My exasperation is barely concealed as I come close to losing my shit, the prickle of hot tears building behind my lids. I can’t keep imposing on Jules. Christ, I’ll have to go home and live there for a few months, which means I’ll have to work with my dad. Make coffee for his underlings while they take out their frustrations on me. The realisation, the picture my thoughts paint, makes me feel really ill. ‘Apparently, she decided I’d be your au pair sooner.’
‘I’m not sure how that can be so,’ he answers gruffly. ‘And I’m not sure what difference this makes because you’re hired, fu . . . bugger what she thinks.’
‘But you’re not looking for a live-in au pair, are you?’ By the way he’d asked about my case, this is obvious.
‘Live-in? What, like here with me? With us?’ he adds quickly, his gaze sliding to his son and back again.