by Heide Goody
“Is this yours?” I asked.
“It’s Adam’s,” he said.
“But you’ve been wearing it.”
He looked at me. “Yeah. Oh, you found biscuits. Well done.”
“I saw you – was it you? I saw you wearing this outside Boots the other day, didn’t I?”
“Um. Might have done.”
“And were you outside the museum as well?”
“I was, yeah,” he said. “A couple of times.”
“What were you doing?” I asked.
“I was just following you,” he said.
I tried to process this. My mind turned over this new nugget of information and tried to file it somewhere under normal boyfriend behaviour but it wouldn’t fit.
“I need you to explain why you’d want to do that,” I said slowly.
“I just want to see you,” he said, which made it sound sort of normal. “To watch you,” he said, which didn’t sound normal at all.
He saw the concern on my face and gave me a goofy grin. A loving goofy grin. “Like when I watch you at night, sometimes.”
“Wait, what? That was real? I thought I was having a bloody nightmare. Why on earth would you do that? Regular people don’t do that.”
He snorted good naturedly. “Sure they do.”
“No, they don’t.”
“What about thingy in Twilight?”
Oh no. He was part Robert Pattinson. I despaired to think that teenagers everywhere (me included) had thought it romantic and intense that the vampire who didn’t need any sleep would spend the whole night watching over his human love interest.
“Let’s get a couple of things straight,” I said to Ashbert. “Apart from the fact that it’s fiction, it’s just wrong on many levels.”
“What is?”
“Twilight generally, but the creepy watching thing in particular. Edward Cullen is nearly a hundred years old, yeah? And he’s spending all night watching a seventeen-year-old girl sleep? It’s uber-creepy. Creepier than James Bond’s seduction techniques and that’s saying something.”
“Right,” said Ashbert happily. “James Bond is creepy but not as creepy as Edward Cullen. Got it.” He turned to watch TV. He hadn’t got it.
“And following people is creepy,” I said.
“Is it?” he said, confused.
“You need to stop it.”
Ashbert was crestfallen. He wore an expression like a kicked puppy. But I had to press on, for his own good. This was surely what Cookie meant about shaping a man. Ashbert needed me to be assertive, to tell him what needed to change.
“Right, there’s something else that you need to know,” I said. “There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m really fed up of sausages with onion gravy.”
His face took on the expression of utter dejection. The kicked puppy had just been told that there was no Father Christmas, no Tooth Fairy, that it would never get its foot on the property ladder and that its parents had killed off the pandas and polar bears with decades of environmental degradation. “But… but it’s your favourite,” he said.
“It was my favourite, years ago! We all change and grow, and nobody has their favourite all the time, or you’d get sick of it. I have got sick of it, I literally have permanent indigestion.”
He nodded slowly, got up from our sofa den and walked silently into the kitchen. I hoped I hadn’t overdone it; I didn’t want the kicked puppy to go stick his head in the oven. I was tempted to follow and watch over him, but would that undo the good I had achieved with my moment of brutal honesty? I had made impressive progress on this brain teaser when Ashbert came back, leafing through the pages of one of Adam’s cookbooks.
“What about sausages in red wine and tomatoes?” he asked.
I counted to ten. I was ready to put this clueless puppy in the oven myself and turn it up to max. But I didn’t. I was proud of myself for not screaming or throwing the book across the room. Instead, I kept my cool composure and left the room.
I went to the bedroom and sat on the floor with my old pals, the much-graffitied rocking horse and Gida the slightly-charred Cretan goat. They were currently better company than my dream boyfriend. I decided it was time to create another Florrie blog about tackling relationship issues like an adult. I showed her setting clear boundaries by pointing sternly at a pack of sausages. As I’ve honed my style over the years I’ve come to realise that the power of a great cartoon is being able to convey a tricky concept with just an image, a couple of speech bubbles and maybe a brief caption. I think I nailed this one, I really do.
Ashbert popped his head round the door.
“I have a question,” he said. “If you take sausage meat out of the casing and fry it to form a pasta sauce does it still count as a sausage? If we allow that one in then I think I’ve got a fortnight of non-sausage sausage recipes –”
I screamed and hurled a pencil at him. He managed to get his head out of the way just in time.
I furiously sketched an annoying puppy, slain by a trio of arrow-sharp pencils. Unfortunately, I’d made the dead puppy too bloody cute. I screwed up my drawing, ashamed.
Chapter 18
Evening, babysitting-o’clock, and I was glad to be out of the flat and away from my cute but infuriating dream-boy.
The house was easy enough to find. It was in an area I knew, not that far from my old house. I rang the bell and looked around while I waited. It was in a road of tall detached houses with walled gardens at the front and garages. Quite a nice road, and the garden was all neat borders and razor-sharp edges, like they’d got a proper OCD gardener in to do it.
The door opened. My face fell. I could feel it falling, like the strings in my brain had been cut.
“Hello,” I said.
James Reynolds, part-time museum curator, part-time paper boy, part-time something at the university (I still wasn’t sure what) stood in the hallway.
I tried really hard to force a smile onto my face.
“You!” he said. I saw his face leap through a series of expressions: confused, angry, frightened, concerned, suspicious... He was doing all the classics; he’d be great to sketch. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the babysitter,” I said.
“No,” he said firmly. “I want a proper babysitter.”
“I am a proper babysitter.”
“Someone responsible.”
I bit back the sarcastic reply about an entrance exam that so nearly came out of my mouth and went with a quiet smile instead, trying to ooze responsibility.
“I’m a very responsible babysitter. In all my years of babysitting, I haven’t lost one yet.”
James exhaled loudly and looked defeated. “If this turns out to be a disaster…”
“It won’t,” I assured him.
He looked at his watch. “I’m going to be late anyway.” He huffed, leading the way inside. He turned and looked at me. “Anyway, I thought your name was Lori?”
“It is,” I said.
“I’m sure I spoke to a Melissa,” he said.
I nodded. “Yes, it sounds a bit the same, doesn’t it? I’ve had that before. Still, I’m here now.”
He gave me a suspicious scowl, but he didn’t have time to reply before a mop-haired boy ran down the stairs with a strangely shaped plastic construction in his hand.
“Theo, come here and say hello to the lady who’s going to look after you this evening,” said James. “Lori, this is Theo.”
Theo came and shook my hand solemnly. It was only then that I thought how odd it was that James would have a child. The fusty attitude, the charity shop tweeds – James was hardly dad material.
“Theo,” said James, “Lori knows all of the rules, so be sure to stick to them.”
“How old are you, Theo?” I asked, aware that it made me sound like my mom. I was a bit clueless with kids but I felt I should start with some solid facts.
“Ten,” said Theo, “although it will be my birthday in three months, so I get a toleran
ce built into all of the rules, cos I’m nearly eleven.”
“No, you’re not and no you don’t,” said James over his shoulder as he pulled a jacket on. He kissed the top of Theo’s head and paused before leaving. “My contact details are on the notepad on the kitchen table, and I’ve jotted down a few bits and bobs you might need. Uncle Phil’s laid up in the other room.”
“Uncle Phil?”
“I mentioned on the phone when I booked you. This is his place but he’s likely to nap for most of the evening.”
“Oh, that Uncle Phil,” I said. “Sure.”
Uncle Phil must have been the one he was standing in for at the newsagent. He’d mentioned some sort of operation, hadn’t he? I needed to double-check and I had a dozen other questions but James closed the door and was gone.
I looked around the room. I was in charge of another human. A whole one. All by myself.
“Shit,” I said, suddenly nervous.
Theo stared at me like I’d just pissed on the carpet.
“–zu dogs are my favourite,” I added quickly. “What’s yours?”
“Cock,” he said and wandered into the kitchen. He returned a second later, munching on a Jammie Dodger. “–er spaniels,” he finished.
I laughed. He did too. This was easy! And technically neither of us had sworn. Win!
“Okay, so what do I need to know, Theo?” I said.
He answered very promptly. “No telly after eight, no food for me after nine, but you can eat what you want, of course. Can I be in charge of the telly until eight?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. There was only half an hour left.
Theo plonked himself on the sofa. I spent a considerable few moments debating whether I should sit next to him or not. Sitting with him on the sofa might seem too chummy. If I took the armchair would I seem distant and aloof? But if I sat next to him would that appear creepy? I decided to risk it and sat down on the sofa.
On screen, Theo scrolled expertly through a maze of digital offerings and selected some vintage cartoons. Always a good choice. I snorted along with Theo to the horrific violence that Wile E Coyote managed to visit upon himself in his efforts to catch the Road Runner.
“If he can afford all those explosives, why doesn’t he just spend that money on a pizza?” said Theo.
“Do coyotes eat pizza?”
“All right. A Nando’s,” said Theo. “He’d like a Nando’s.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t have Nando’s in the desert.”
“Or a Greggs,” said Theo.
Wile E Coyote swung on a rope into the path of a truck and squashed into the radiator grill.
“Or if they take him to hospital, he’d get fed there.”
I was gripped with a sudden panic. Was it all right for a ten-year-old to watch such things? How old was I when I first saw a cartoon character meet a grisly death? Had the rules changed? I looked at Theo. He didn’t look traumatised, but what did I know? This seemed like a good time to go and check the note that James had left in the kitchen.
I walked through into the kitchen and got myself a glass of water. The note was on the table.
Melissa,
Rules for Theo: No TV after 8, no food after 9. Theo is normally very good at sticking to the rules.
Help yourself to snacks from the breadbin. If you want to take a cup of tea to Uncle Phil around 9 he would appreciate it, but don’t worry too much. He likes it a deep chestnut-orange colour (think Donald Trump), with one sweetener.
My contact number is below, I expect to be back at 10:30.
Nothing there about violent cartoons, and he did say that Theo was good with the rules. I relaxed a little and looked in the breadbin. There were several boxes of shop-bought cakes and a loaf of bread for toasting. I slid several cakes into my bag for emergencies and made some toast. This was an unexpected benefit of babysitting. I could eat loads of food and save myself a bit more money. I wondered if James would be shocked if I ate all the food? Probably not. I found a carrier bag for the rest of the cakes and left them on the side for later.
I went back through to see Theo already munching on my toast.
“Want some toast?” I offered.
“No, I’ll get something in a bit. It’s time to turn the telly off,” he said.
I checked the glowing digital display. He was right, it was exactly eight o’clock. Wow, this kid was super honest. He picked up the remote control, twiddled with some buttons and the display switched to a game of some sort. He settled back in the chair and picked up a controller.
“Wait,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Playing Beast Dimensions,” he said, his eyes wide and innocent.
“You were supposed to turn the telly off after eight,” I said.
“The telly is off. This is a game. The rules don’t mention games.”
He was right. There was no mention at all of video games, which was a glaring loophole in the rules. I sighed in defeat.
“So, what’s it all about then, this Dimensions game?” I asked.
He gave me a look as though I was about a hundred years out of date. “It’s a toys-to-game third person platformer that uses RFID chips in the avatar units.”
I think my face betrayed my complete lack of comprehension. I’m not even sure I knew all of the words he’d just said.
He tried again. “It’s an adventure game and your progress data and avatar abilities are stored in the action figure,” he said, taking a plastic model of a cartoon fox off the top of the games console below the TV and waggling it at me.
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head.
He sighed. “The toy things” – he waggled the fox – “go on the console” – he put the fox back – “and play along with the screen things. And I got through to the fourth world with Incendio. That was until I lost him.”
“Lost who?”
“Incendio. The dragon character I was using.”
“A toy?”
“Yes. I hid Incendio in Dad’s works bag so that it would make him smile when he saw it. It would be pretty funny to see a dragon sitting in your briefcase, right? But it must have fallen out. He never even saw it.”
I pushed away the curiosity about why this kid felt the need to cheer his dad up (surely, he knew that some adults were just naturally grumpy; they were happy that way) and picked up my bag.
“And this dragon, it’s red, right?” I said, rummaging through.
“Yeah.”
“With little stubby wings?”
“Yeah.”
Anything like this?” I asked, pulling out the plastic toy I’d picked up while cleaning last week.
“No way!” Theo yelled in delight. He took it from me and turned it over to check. “You found it!”
He went to the console and put the dragon on a little hexagon next to the fox. A triumphant fanfare played through the TV.
“Do you want to play?” he asked.
I grinned. It felt as though this was possibly the nicest thing that Theo had within his power to offer to me. “Yeah!”
He dug around in the cubby hole below the television and pulled out another controller and then grunted with frustration. “The battery’s gone!”
“I’m sure we can fix that,” I said, confident in my role as adult. I flipped the cover off at the back. Two AA batteries. I went hunting. I pulled out a few drawers in the kitchen but I couldn’t find an obvious stash of spare batteries. Time to think laterally, so I cast about for something else that might take similar batteries. I found a small controller near the front door. Something to open the garage door perhaps. I looked inside and found two AA batteries.
“Bingo!” I said and rushed back with my trophy. I would need to remember to mention it to James. He could sort out his door opener later.
Beast Dimensions turned out to the best fun. I was a fennec fox called Reynella and I ran around, jumping over things and picking up coins. And I found the button combination which made me strike a kick-
ass pose and flick my ears. Theo kept telling me to stop messing about and keep up with his character, Incendio, but I could tell he was impressed.
“You’re just jealous of my furry magnificence,” I said.
“Fennecs aren’t as furry as red foxes,” he snorted.
I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why, but this felt like a subtle undermining of my newly-acquired adult expertise. I didn’t actually know fennec foxes were real things.
“I think you’ll find,” I cringed inside at my Adam-like tone, “that a fennec fox is by far the furriest of the foxes.”
Theo giggled as he concentrated on the game. “You can’t possibly know that,” he said.
“Of course, I can!” I said. “I’m an adult!”
He laughed again. “I know you’re older than me, but have you ever touched a fennec fox? Or even a red fox?”
How to answer him? The lie was on the tip of my tongue, but I could see that he was expecting it. I needed something better.
“You think we don’t get them round here?” I said, casting my hands around as if we might have overlooked a fox in the room.
“We don’t get fennec foxes,” said Theo. “They live in Africa, don’t they? We get normal foxes round here, going through the bins and stuff, but they don’t hang around so you can pet them.”
I saw it was five past nine by the clock on the wall.
“Is it bedtime soon?” I asked.
“Yup. I’m just gonna get myself something from the kitchen.”
“No food after nine,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I’m just going to get a drink.”
I followed Theo into the kitchen and decided now was the time to take Uncle Phil his cup of tea. As I put the kettle on, Theo poured milk into the liquidizer.
“Making a milkshake?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said, pouring golden syrup in and adding an enormous dollop of ice-cream. He followed this with half a packet of chocolate hobnobs and a fistful of marshmallows.
