Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Stop, I censure silently, already noticing how I’ve begun to worry my cuticles.
“Hmm.” I tune back in as Archie drops his chin to his fist, adopting his thinking face. “Mummy’s a fashion designer!” he adds almost immediately. “She can design me some long pants with underpants inside them. Thermal ones to keep my bahookie warm!”
“Mummy’s a fashion designer, is she?” Niko snatches onto this snippet like a miser grabbing pennies abandoned in the street.
“No, not really.” I give my head a little shake.
“You’ve designed some dresses and things to sell on your website,” my little champion insists. “Holland said they were very sophis—sophisticated.”
“That’s lovely of Holland to say so, even if they’re not quite to her taste. In fact, I’m not sure they’re to anyone’s taste by the rate they’re selling. It was a nice feeling while it lasted but I’m clearly not Scotland’s answer to Yves St Laurent.”
“Who’s she?” Archie asks.
“The cat’s mother,” Hugh snaps impatiently, turning to Van. “Can we go to dinner in the helicopter?”
“Sorry, Hugh.” Niko’s mouth quirks. “So far, I only have the helipad.”
“That’s like carrying around a motorcycle helmet while you’re riding the bus,” Hugh mutters, his tone full of censure.
“Or walking around with an Aston Martin key ring without actually owning the car.”
Niko sends me a hot look. “I used to own an Aston Martin, I seem to recall. I lost it in a wager.”
“It’s bad to gamble,” Archie asserts. “The house always wins.”
A little snippet picked up from his father, no doubt.
“Owning an Aston Martin is not nearly as cool as owning a helicopter,” Hugh grumbles.
“My goodness me. Next, you’ll be complaining your diamond shoes are too tight!” I have a feeling Niko might become the basis of this child’s schoolyard bragging rights if I’m not careful.
“I wouldn’t wear diamond shoes.” Hugh slumps back in his chair.
“I would,” Archie puts in excitedly. “I bet they’d make rainbows while I walk. If I had diamond shoes,” he adds, “I’d wear them to dinner. With my boardshorts.”
“No boardshorts.” The phrase ‘brooks no argument’ is obviously one my children haven’t heard.
“But they have pockets! And no need for underwear.”
“If Archie gets diamond shoes, I’m going to walk three paces behind him.”
“Good. Because you do nothing but complain, anyway.”
I press my fingers to my temples. My boys get along so well. At least until they don’t.
“Well, all you do is say stupid stuff.”
“Mummy, Hugh called me stupid!”
“No—”
“It sounds like no one wants to come with me when I go helicopter shopping.” Niko pitches his voice over the cacophony of complaints and noise.
“Oh, I do!” Hugh answers, practically vibrating in his seat.
“Me, too,” chirps Archie. “I’ll wear my diamond shoes.”
“You don’t have diamond shoes,” Hugh snipes.
“I will if Uncle Van buys me some.”
“Quiet!” I send Niko a look, sort of, see what you’ve done? “No one is getting diamond shoes. But we are going to a nice dinner this evening, thank you Uncle Van.”
“Thank you, Uncle Van,” both boys intone tunelessly.
“A dinner that will require showers and combed hair,”—I send Archie a serious look—“by a real comb, and nice clothes. A shirt with buttons.” My gaze glides seriously between the two. Archie looks pleased until I amend, “And underwear.”
My littlest man pouts.
“Yes, fine,” Hugh grouses, though turns immediately back to Niko. “Just do yourself a favor. Don’t take Mum helicopter shopping. It’ll be a disaster.”
“Hey!”
“It’s true,” Archie says, backing up his brother. “She’ll definitely make you buy something too big for your helipad.”
“That’s not nice!” I protest.
“She’ll say that you’ll grow into it.” Hugh slides me a pitying glance.
“That’s mean!” I retort through a bout of aggrieved laughter.
“I’m not sure helicopters do any growing.” Niko doesn’t bother to hide his own amusement, his gaze dancing between the three of us.
“Maybe not, but you should see the size of my school blazer.”
“Those things are expensive,” I splutter defensively.
“Well, so are helicopters,” insists my eldest son. “So if you want to do the right thing, you should take me and Archie.”
“And my diamond shoes. Hello Sergei.” Archie suddenly waves. “Want to come helicopter shopping with us?”
“Maybe.” His expression barely flickers as he rattles something off in, what I assume is, Russian.
“That’s bad manners.” My youngest sends the taciturn man a reproachful glance.
“Archie,” I censure. I like my ears whole, not chewed off.
“Well, it is. You always say so. Same as it’s bad manners to whisper.
“Sergei feels more comfortable speaking Russian,” Niko reasons. “That’s why he prefers to speak to me in Russian.”
“Can you understand him?” Archie asks.
Hugh makes a critical sound as Niko answers, “Of course.”
“So you can speak Russian and English?” my littlest man asks next.
“And Finnish. And French, plus a little German and Spanish.”
“Wow.” Archie pushes the sound out on an awed breath. “Your head must be full of so many different thoughts. Is it confusing?”
“No.” Niko’s charmed gaze slides my way. “Perhaps only sometimes.”