Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
‘Failed to what?’
‘I don’t want to discuss it,’ I say as hot tears suddenly teeter on the edge of my lids. To be honest, I’m surprised I’ve held it together this long. Either I would start crying or climb the man like a tree.
‘Darlin’, don’t cry,’ he says gently, reaching for my hand before I can snatch it away.
‘I think it might be a good idea if, from now on,’ I say, removing my hand and folding them once again in my lap, ‘you refer to me in gender neutral terminology.’
Again, I don’t quite get the response I’d aimed for as he chuckles darkly.
‘Ella, there’s nothing gender neutral about you,’ he says, his eyes roaming over my face. And chest. ‘But I promise to try if you tell me what’s making you sad.’
You, I want to say. Wanting you could be my undoing. I keep those mad thoughts to myself, naturally.
‘It’s nothing,’ I mumble, wiping a treacherous tear from my cheek. ‘I just have what’s called a fine emotional trigger, meaning I spend my days going around half-cocked.’
‘I can well sympathise.’
‘Why?’ I ask, looking up at him once again. ‘Are you emotional, too?’
‘No, but I am constantly half-cocked around you.’
‘Be serious!’
‘I’m deadly serious. And as for a gay boyfriend, he’d be about the only bloke able to resist you.’
‘You’re clearly deranged.’
‘And you’re gorgeous.’
‘Ha, you wouldn’t have looked twice at me back then. Not with my big bum and frizzy hair—that’s why I was his girlfriend. Or his beard, more accurately. Speaking of which, I think he also took comfort in my moustache.’
‘I know what you need,’ he says.
‘If you say therapy, I will punch you.’
‘I was gonna say a microphone and a stage. Have you ever considered stand-up comedy?’
14
Mac
‘Crashed and burned!’
I return to the table to the sound of Will’s exclamation and slow clapping.
‘How long has it been since you were last knocked back?’
‘Away with you,’ I chastise, taking my seat. ‘The girl works for me. I was just being friendly.’
‘I can see why,’ continues Will. ‘I’d get friendly with her, given half the chance. Really friendly.’
‘Knock it off,’ adds Keir. ‘You don’t mess with people’s staff.’
Staff. Is that what she is? And if so, does it make me a deviant to wonder what kind of underwear this particular staff member wears? Whether it’s cotton boy shorts or lace thongs, or if her taste in fashion extends to her underwear.
French knickers and garter belts. Heels, please say she’ll wear heels.
‘What did you invite him for, anyway?’ I say to Keir.
‘Because he’s the same age mentally as wee Louis here.’
At the sound of his name, my son raises his head. ‘Oui, Louis?’ he repeats in that little accent of his. Since Ella confirmed he was fluent in French, it has become a little easier to appreciate how difficult this all is for him. Not only has he lost his mother, but he’s gone from a household of women to living with me, and gone from using English only when outside his home to finding no outlet for his mother tongue.
At the thoughts, my stomach twists. In pursuing Ella, would I be risking my son’s well-being? Fuck it. It’s probably too late now. If what I’ve just said doesn’t make her run for the fucking hills, there might be a chance. A chance for some kind of understanding.
‘Wee, not oui, son.’ I pat his curly head. Less curly and more mad, his hair is a little wild not having seen the spikey side of a brush today. Truthfully, I shy away from brushing his hair because it’s not much fun for either of us. I think I might need to man up. Or take him for a haircut.
‘Wee means small,’ interjects Sorcha, Keir’s little girl. ‘That’s what my daddy and Agnes say. The other wee you do in the potty.’
‘I don’t have a potty,’ replies Louis, a little indignant. ‘I am a big boy!’ he returns, puffing out his chest.
‘Of course, you are,’ answers Keir. ‘Anyone can see you’re a big man.’ Louis looks placated at the piece of flattery as a fleeting thought passes through my head. Are we all like that—men? Are our egos so easily smoothed? It’s a thought that dissipates without an answer as Will suggests the kids choose a flavour of ice cream for dessert.
‘Ice cream!’ they yell in unison, their chairs grating on the paving stones before they dash to press their hands and noses against the glass cabinet.
‘Did you leave your brains in your other pants? You can’t say things like that around bairns!’ Keir rebukes, turning to Will.
‘What? What did I say?’
‘Only that you’d like to fuck his au pair.’ Keir hooks a thumb in my direction.
‘Who wouldn’t? Look at her,’ Will says. ‘She’s drop-dead fucking gorgeous. And the conflict of interest lies with him. No’ wi’ me.’