Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Good. So, you’ll be coming back with a bilingual daughter.”
“Well, I did leave with one,” I reply, amused. “I know I sometimes threaten to take her back to the store I bought her from, but you get that’s an empty threat, right?” An empty threat that Lulu pays absolutely no attention to anyway.
Rose just rolls her eyes.
“I would’ve just kept her French up at home.” The lengths Rose has gone to to make our move a smooth one is a little embarrassing. And the one thing I was meant to take care of—finding somewhere to stay—and I cocked it up!
“Well, now you won’t need to because she’ll have friends and teachers who speak the language, so you can talk to her at home in that strange accent of yours.”
“I’ll have you know my people invented the language. You get that’s why it’s called English, right?”
“English-shminglish.” But then something very particular glints in her gaze. “And maybe just maybe Lulu will find herself with hot single sports teacher—a hot single French sports teacher.
“I think four is a little young to be dating.”
“And maybe,” she continues, ignoring my sarcastic reply, “that hot sports teacher will have a love for trampolining . . . on beds.”
“Surely, there’s more chance of me meeting an American than a Frenchman. After all, we are in America.”
“Except you’ve lived in France for years and never dated a Frenchman there. Not to my knowledge, anyway.” That’s because my dating days were pretty much over by the time Rose became my best friend. “And honey, take it from me, French men are far superior bed bouncers.”
“Well, I’ve never dated an American—” It’s not exactly a lie, even if my heart does a secret little jump at the knowledge that some American men excel at bed bouncing—“but I have actually dated a Frenchmen or two, and their bed bouncing skills weren’t all that.”
“You must’ve gotten a couple of duds. Besides, it’s been so long.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve probably forgotten how. But I’ve been busy with work and study and motherhood. You know, all that kind of shit.”
“My ears heared a bad word!” Lulu calls from a room at the end of the hall.
“So long as your mouth doesn’t repeat it,” I call back.
“Go out on a date. Put on a dress and a little makeup. Let down your hair.”
“Are you saying there’s something wrong with the way that I dress?”
“You always look great. But you always wear activewear.”
“Because activewear is my office wear.” Or at least, it used to be. I suppose I’ll have to dress a little bit more grown-up for working in Manhattan.
“But you wear it all of the time.”
“It’s also comfy,” I offer with a shrug. I follow the line of her gaze to my footwear.
“Sneakers? Again?”
“Yeah, but they’re leopard print,” I reply a little defensively.
“I give up.” If giving up means an exasperated shake of her head. “I guess if I had an ass like yours, I’d wear running tights all of the time, too.”
“I love it when you lie to me about my long bum.”
“Oh, hush up! Your ass isn’t heading south.”
“We both know motherhood has lengthened both my patience and my posterior.”
“You carry on with your bad self. No, really, I love listening to that self-deprecating shtick.”
“It’s not schtick. It’s my Britishness. I appreciate you, Rose.” And because she’s tenacious and thoughtful, a great friend and a fabulous person, I plant a smacker of a kiss against her cheek.
“Good. Then you can take me out to dinner and put it on your expense account.”
“Feed you on the company dime?” I ask, turning to face her as I press a hand to my chest. “I’m sorry, but I’m not that type of girl.”
“What the hell are you doing being my friend, then?”
5
Fee
“We’ll stop there for tonight,” I say quietly, folding the corner of the page and placing the battered paperback of James and the Giant Peach on the nightstand.
“Mummy, would you rather be Aunt Sponge or Aunt Spiker?”
I push up from the bed, preparing myself for tonight’s game of how many questions can I ask before mummy’s head explodes. “I think I’d rather be me.” And boy, has it taken me a long time to get to this point. Almost thirty years, to be exact.
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, because I get to look after you and not James.”
“Because boys are stinky,” she says, her button nose delightfully scrunched.
“True story.” And long may she think that way. “And I don’t like peaches. The furry skin gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Mummy? If you get dead, who will look after me?”
“I suppose it’ll have to be mean old Aunt Spiker.” As I pull the duvet straight, refusing to entertain the possibility of not being here to look after my babe.
“Aunt Spiker is only in the book, silly!”
“Is she? Then I suppose you’d have to look after yourself. You can get a job, right? To pay the bills?”