by Lily Morton
“Okay, then.” With that abrupt volte-face that I'm learning children possess, he holds his arms up. “You can carry me, and then you won’t worry so much.”
“Thank you,” I say solemnly, hoisting him up. He wraps his small arms around my neck and kisses my cheek affectionately. His mouth leaves a sticky residue on my skin, and when I look down, his Converse have made a dusty mark on my Armani suit, but all I focus on at that moment is the soft, somehow-right weight of him in my arms, the smell of baby soap, and the way his bright eyes and curly hair fill my vision.
Then a man bumps into me. “Watch where you’re going,” he says snappily as he pivots on his heels to avoid falling over.
“Oh fuck off,” I mutter. I exhale slowly as Billy giggles. “That was a very, very naughty word, Billy, which you must never ever repeat to anyone, but in particular to Jude, Daddy, and Dylan. Especially Dylan.” I pause. “I will buy you balloons and doughnuts if you can promise me you won’t say it.”
He chuckles. “Balloons and doughnuts?” he checks, and when I nod, he smiles broadly. “Okay.” A second passes as we wait to cross the road. Then he sighs happily. “I know not to say it anyway, Uncle Gabe. Dylan said it the other day when a man went in front of him in the queue for the cinema.”
“Did he?” I ask slowly and happily, thinking of the massive lectures that Dylan gives me at the slightest opportunity. “Did he really?”
“Will I still get doughnuts?” he asks somewhat anxiously.
“You certainly can,” I say smoothly. “All the doughnuts you can eat, Billy, while we talk about what other silly things Dylan has done.”
The park is surprisingly busy for an afternoon. Runners dip and weave around the slower-moving people pushing prams. Dog walkers stop and chat, and old people rest on benches looking out over the pond. It feels like a hidden community, one that I had no idea about even though I work a short distance away.
I set Billy down and, taking the hand he offers, let him pull me along until we reach a small fenced playground. We come to a stop, and he looks up at me. “I’m going to play over there,” he says solemnly, pointing to a large wooden fort in which several boys are shouting very loudly. “Do you think you’ll be okay on your own?”
My lip twitches. “I think I’ll be fine, but thank you for asking.” I point to a bench. “I’ll be sitting there, Billy. No wandering off.”
“I know that,” he says somewhat indignantly. Then his expression smooths. “It’s okay,” he says kindly. “I know this park. Dylan said you might get a bit worried, so I was to look after you.”
“Did he?” I open my mouth to make a sarcastic remark, but his eyes stop me. They’re earnest and kind, and something in their expression warms me. “Thank you,” I say instead. He nods, giving me a slightly dubious look, and then races off to join the other boys.
I eye the battered old bench and look down at my expensive suit before sighing and sitting down. I then spend the next fifteen minutes watching him with an eagle eye to make sure the other boys are being nice. Once I’m sure he’s okay, I settle back on the bench, getting out his sandwich box in case he gets hungry. I tilt my face slightly to the sun but still keep a watchful eye on Billy in case some natural disaster befalls us.
“You can’t wrap them in cotton wool,” a very hearty and posh voice says. I turn to find a slim woman with shiny black hair looking at me. She has a slightly supercilious look on her face, and for a second I don’t realise that she’s talking to me. Then I realise she is, and my heart sinks.
“Pardon?”
“Oh, I said you can’t protect them from everything. I saw the way you were watching over your son every second. You’ll suffocate him. It’s not right.”
For a second I’m struck dumb with her arrogant rudeness. “But it is right to lecture a complete stranger on their parenting techniques?”
She laughs and shakes her head chidingly. “Now, now. No need to be tetchy.”
“Tetchy?” I mouth, but she carries on blithely.
“I probably know a great deal more than you. I’ve got four of my own, you know.”
“How could I know? I’ve never met you before.”
“Well, I have. Capri, Garda, Sven, and Petunia. They’re over there.” She points in the direction of four wild-looking children who are spinning a slightly green-looking child on a roundabout. “We come here every day. I won’t have a nanny.”
“Why?”
She puffs up. “Always stealing husbands and being lazy. I believe in doing it myself. I’m not some idle rich person.” Her gaze up and down my suit is dismissive. “No. I managed to give birth without any drugs, even though Petunia tore me badly. If I can do that, I can manage to rear children.” She looks down at the sandwich box in my hand. “Oh, are you giving your son that brand of orange juice?”
“Yes, why?”
She shoots me a rather judgemental look. “It’s full of E numbers. Your child will be awake until next year with that rubbish. Now, we go totally gluten-free and organic. They eat nothing that hasn’t come from the soil and been picked by my own hands. My children are all vegans.” She taps her large bag. “In here is carrot, broccoli, and kale juice and diced carrots with cauliflower dip.”
“Lovely,” I say faintly. “He’s not my child, anyway. I’m looking after him for some friends of ours.”
She looks me up and down. “Oh, that explains it. You look a bit high-maintenance for children.”
I gape at her. “I beg your pardon.” I hate women like this. So full of bossy self-importance and casual, cutting rudeness. She doesn’t even look remotely apologetic.
“I think you ought to rethink the carrot and kale juice,” I say acidly. “I don’t think it agrees with them, seeing as Petunia is currently trying to wedgie another little girl and Sven has just been sick all over the roundabout.” I pause. “And over another child.”
Her head spins round to the playground and the rather irate mothers who are converging on the scene. She jumps up and hurries over.
“I’m so glad I’m too high-maintenance to deal with that,” I call after her. “At least my child’s too hopped up on additives.”
A low chuckle sounds from behind me, and I turn my head to find Dylan standing there, the sun shining on his hair and his eyes warm and amused. “Making friends already?” he says. There’s a slur to his words, and his lips are swollen, but he looks gorgeous and all mine.
I jump up. “Are you okay?” I ask, guiding him to the seat. He looks at the bag the woman left, and I shake my head. “Push it further along.” I pause. “Or throw it in the bin and give Capri, Garda, Sven, and Petunia a chance at a life that doesn’t contain kale.”
He laughs and winces before seating himself. I sit next to him, edging my thigh against his and sliding my arm around him so I can stroke his hair. “Was it horrible?”
“Not the nicest thing I’ve ever had happen to my mouth.”
I grin lasciviously. “I bet I know what that was.”
He shakes his head. “Behave.” He looks around the park, then back at me and grins.
“What?”
“You in a park babysitting. It’s like the world’s gone mad.”
I huff indignantly. “I must admit it’s not the way I saw myself spending the day.”
“But?” His voice is warm and somehow knowing, the way it always is to me. Like he knows something about me that pleases him, even though for the life of me, I don’t know what it is.
I watch Billy swinging from the monkey bars while the other boys cheer. “I’ve actually enjoyed it,” I say finally. I turn to face him. “In a sort of nauseating mixture of worry, second-guessing myself, softness, warmth, and outright fear.”
He smiles. “I think parenthood might be like that.”
“Are you sure you don’t want children?” I ask him anxiously. It’s a fear that has never completely subsided despite his reassurances.
Dylan looks softly at me. “No, I don’t. I like having you t
o myself. I like our ability to go away wherever and whenever we want without making arrangements that would suit the army.” He shrugs. “I’ve got nieces and nephews to spoil. I love them madly, but I’m very happy to give them back.”
“And Billy,” I say thoughtfully. “I think we could have Billy more.”
He looks startled and pleased, and warmth runs through me. I love to make him happy. “Yes,” he says. “And Billy. I think he’ll like that.” He shoots me a glance. “So, how did it go?”
I square my shoulders. “Oh, it was absolutely fine. Billy and I got on. I think you can easily say that I’m a safe pair of hands when it comes to children.”
“Dylan!” comes a shout and Billy hurls himself into Dylan’s arms.
“Have you had a nice day?” Dylan asks.
Billy smiles widely. “Oh, yes. I’ve had such a nice time with Uncle Gabe.”
I puff up a bit and smile smugly at Dylan.
Billy looks over at me and grins. “I haven’t said that rude word, Uncle Gabe, so I can still have balloons and doughnuts.” Dylan stiffens, and I shake my head at the child, but there’s no stopping him. He smiles at me reassuringly. “Don’t worry as well, Uncle Gabe. I asked William over there what speed was and where I could get it for the elephants. He’s going to ask his mummy.”
I swallow hard, aware of Dylan’s head turning slowly to mine as a woman stands up and begins to march across the playground, clutching the hand of a truculent boy who I presume is William.
“Wow, is that the time?” I say quickly. The woman gains on us and Dylan shakes his head with a resigned look on his face. “Ooh, I’m so tired.” I fake a wide yawn. “Time to go,” I say brightly.
Gabe Does Eurovision
Gabe
I let myself into the house and lean back against the front door with a weary sigh. Home.
“Gabe, is that you?” Dylan shouts from the lounge, and I feel the automatic uptick of my lips. Home and Dylan.
“Yes, it’s me. I finished early, and if I ever agree to work on a Saturday again, you have my permission to tie me to the bed and… What are you doing?”
Dylan looks up from where he and Jude are kneeling at the wide coffee table. “Just putting the food out and sorting out the games.”
“Oh.” I stare at the two of them. “And is there a particular reason why you’re dressed as a ninja with eye damage? Or is that something I’m about to find out about you?”
He blinks. He has on tight black trousers and a black shirt and is wearing square, red-tinted glasses. “I’m Bono.”
“Well, of course you are. Why?”
“It’s Eurovision, babe. I told you.”
“Hmm, I think I might have blocked that.”
“Or you just weren’t listening after I mentioned the Eurovision Song Contest party.”
I nod. “Yes, I think your version is probably more truthful.” I look around the room, which is festooned with bright bunting, and then at Jude who is wearing very tight stripy trousers and a see-through black top. “And what have you come as?”
He gestures down at his outfit. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m Michael Hutchence.”
“Nothing is obvious about this whole thing.” I pause. “Oh my God, what is Charlie Hunnam dressed in?”
“Gabe,” Dylan says in a reproving tone. “He’s an audience member. That’s very obvious.”
“It’s very obvious he’s pissed off,” I observe as the dog trundles towards me dressed in a Union Jack tutu and with disco ball deely boppers on his head. “You poor fucker,” I say to him. “Couldn’t you run fast enough?”
“No, and neither can you.” Dylan comes towards me, and before I can duck, he sticks something on my head.
“What the fuck is happening?”
Dylan pulls something over my shoulders, unfolding a flurry of bright fabric before tying it around my neck. He decorates me with a few more things and takes a step back. As if synchronised, he and Jude burst into peals of laughter. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a white tabard with a red cross on it and a Union Jack flag that he’s tied around my neck like a cape. He’s accentuated the outfit with a bright red wig with pigtails.
“What am I supposed to be?”
Dylan blinks in quite a disbelieving way. “You’re Saint George, the patron saint of England.”
“Was he a lawyer?” I fiddle with my cape. “And a part-time superhero?”
He tuts and reaches out to straighten my cape. “I tried to get you another costume, but it didn’t come in time, so I’ve improvised.”
“And where does the wig come in?”
He shrugs. “It was the only one they had left in the shop.”
I’d like to point out that they’re not wearing wigs, but by now I know the wisdom of not arguing with Dylan when he’s got that look. I glance in the mirror again. “Dylan, really? Are you angry with me in some form or another?”
“No, why?”
“Because why else would you do this to me?”
“For fun,” he says and nods his head emphatically. There’s a somewhat messianic gleam in his eyes which usually only occurs at festivities like Christmas and birthdays.
“Oh, okay. Fun. Is this the Mitchell brand of fun where there’s a vague threat of violence if I don’t enjoy myself?”
He steps closer, and I inhale the scent of his shampoo. “It’s not a vague threat,” he whispers and sticks a piece of cardboard in my hand.
“What is this?”
“Eurovision Bingo,” Jude says earnestly. “I hope I win. There’s a bottle of Advocaat for a prize.”
“You were a supermodel. Didn’t you save enough money to buy your own?”
“Pfft,” he says dismissively. “It’s not the same as winning one.”
“Or drinking it. Have you actually tasted Advocaat? There’s a reason why it’s always a prize in a raffle.”
“Don’t listen to him, Jude,” Dylan says briskly, pushing me down into a chair and straddling my lap. “It’s easier if you don’t take any notice of the words.”
“I knew you never listened to me,” I say, my hands coming up to cup his hips. “It was blatantly obvious with the amount of errors I had to live with at work.”
“You’re so funny,” he says sweetly. “I wonder how much funnier you’ll get before I won’t sleep with you tonight.” I shut my mouth with an audible snap, and he laughs before kissing me gently. “That’s what I thought, lover.”
“Please don’t call me that.” I cringe. “It makes you sound quite seedy and not in a good way.” I look to my right as he climbs off my lap. “Is Henry dead?”
Dylan looks at the prone figure of my oldest friend, who is lying full length on the sofa, snoring with his mouth slightly open. He’s dressed in a sparkly blue jumpsuit with knee-high white platform boots. A slightly bouffant dark wig covers his red hair, and someone has made a half-hearted attempt at drawing a moustache and beard on him. I look at Dylan and Jude. Probably both of them. They’re like Morecambe and Wise when they’re in a certain mood.
“He’s not dead,” Dylan says judiciously. “He’s either drunk or very tired. I still haven’t made my mind up.”
“One of Ivo’s friends was in London yesterday, so Henry’s probably still drunk. Where is the Frenchman? Shouldn’t he be cheering along his country?”
“He went down the shop with Asa for some more booze,” Jude says, opening a packet of crisps and shoving a mouthful in. “Once they’ve coped with Asa having to sign a thousand autographs they’ll probably be back just in time to go home. We regularly schedule an extra hour on everything we do now. Last week I took Billy swimming, and he actually waited for people to come up and talk to him outside the car. I think he somehow thinks he has his own fan club.”
“Where is Billy?” I ask.
“Dylan’s sister and her boys are in London for the weekend. He’s having a sleepover at their hotel with them.”
“Your sister’s here? Why didn’t I
know this? Dylan, you really have to start communicating better.”
Dylan pauses in unwrapping a platter of cakes with flags iced on them. “Well, of course, that’s the problem. I do struggle with communication. You’re a genius. Thank you so much for pointing that out.”
“You’re a bit of a wallflower, sweetheart,” I say, grinning at him. “But don’t worry, baby. We can work on that together.”
“I’m not sure whether that was meant to sound threatening, but it did.”
“Hey ho. Why do we need more booze anyway?” I say, looking at the table. “There’s enough bottles there to run a bar.”
“That’s a bar for boring people,” Dylan says absentmindedly as he sets out a load of shot glasses.
“Oh, those boring people who have functioning livers. God damn them.”
He looks at me with laughter brimming in his eyes. “Fuck off and put your wig on properly.”
I shake my head. “Has never been said to me before.” I get up and go over to the mirror and pull the ginger wig further over my hair. Then I sigh resignedly before taking off my jacket and settling the tabard and cape so they lie neatly.
The dog comes over to me as I sit back down and, seeing that Dylan and Jude are occupied, I whip his deely boppers off. “There you are, you poor little fucker,” I whisper. “That’s better.” I bend closer. “Get out now,” I suggest. “Go, while you still can. I’ll cover for you.” He gives me an affectionate lick and curls up on my lap. “Okay then, Stockholm Syndrome has obviously set in.”
“What are you mumbling about?” Dylan asks, dragging a whiteboard into the room.
“Are you giving a presentation?” I ask, stretching my leg out and kicking Henry.
He wakes with a snort and a yelp and sits up. “Where am I?” he asks, looking around blearily.
“Blenheim Palace,” I return. “Don’t put your feet on the furniture.”
“I don’t think I am,” he says sleepily. “I think I’m in your home and you’re wearing pigtails and dressed as a superhero saint. What an extraordinarily lovely vision to wake up to.”
“I think he ought to wear it to work. It would make him much more approachable,” Dylan says.
