Chapter 8
Max
It’s showtime.
Seven-fifteen, and I already feel like a god. I’m showered and dressed—I even had time to bang one out under the spray. If my morning wood is anything to go by each day, I am ageing well.
I could have done without my reptile brain serving up a fantasy of me pressing myself up behind Molly at the kitchen sink last night as we washed up. Of her moans. The feel of her arse against my hard-on. Of slipping her leggings and knickers down just enough to—
You get the picture. It did the trick, anyway. And then some. I came so hard I saw stars. But now I’m about to go wake up her kids, so I should shelve the sex thoughts.
And I should shelve any sex thought where Molly is concerned.
Full stop. It’s obvious she has too much on her plate.
She doesn’t need her pervy ex wanking off over her, even if it’s natural that I should have some, uh, physical thoughts about her after seeing her for the first time in so long.
There was many a washing-up session in the three years we lived together that went that way, let me tell you.
I didn’t even hear her leave this morning.
Last night, before we went our separate ways, we set out breakfast stuff.
She wrote out copious instructions and left them on the kitchen table after talking me through them.
The most crucial, apparently, is: DO NOT LET THEM COME DOWNSTAIRS UNTIL THEY’RE FULLY DRESSED.
The last two words are underlined twice for good measure.
Right. I mount the stairs, feeling not unlike how a SWAT officer must feel when preparing to storm the hiding place of a known terrorist. My heart is beating faster than a short flight of stairs warrants.
I’ll do the easy one first, I think. I poke my head around Toby’s door, which features his name spelt out in colourful wooden letters.
The room is still dark, the small figure in the bed unmoving.
I make a beeline for the curtains, even though it’s barely dawn outside.
As I pad across the carpet in my socked feet, I bear down on something hard and sharp.
It digs into the soft arch of my foot, lancing my skin, and I let out an agonised roar.
‘Fuuuuck!’ It’s fucking excruciating.
There’s a piteous cry from the bed, and I can make out the shape of Toby, sitting up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Mummy? Mummy?’
I bend and feel around for the offending item while biting down on the fleshy part of my hand to absorb some of the pain.
‘Sorry, mate,’ I grit out in a rough whisper. ‘It’s me. Max. I stood on something sore. Ouch.’
Got it. I roll the culprit between my fingers.
It’s LEGO—a tiny square block that’s fucking lethal.
I pat the floor, on the search for more of the same.
Toby’s still sobbing, and I feel like the worst kind of monster, waking the kid up with such a scare, even though it’s his own fucking fault for not tidying up his LEGO.
‘It’s okay, buddy.’ I slide my feet across the floor in the hope that this technique will dislodge any blocks lying in wait without my standing on them. ‘It was just your LEGO. You okay? Sorry to wake you so suddenly.’
I make it safely to the bed and switch on his bedside light. He’s disorientated, and the sudden bright light doesn’t help. He covers his eyes with his hands.
‘You scared me.’
‘I know. I’m so sorry.’ I ruffle his dark hair. It’s insanely soft. ‘I didn’t plan it that way, believe me. Your mum’s at work today, remember? I’m taking you to school. You want to go take a leak and get yourself dressed?’
Molly has assured me Toby can dress himself, and his uniform is neatly laid out at the end of his bed, complete with one of those naff fake ties that comes on a circle of elastic. I hope Molly’s right. I suspect Madam will require my full attention when I wake her.
‘Huh?’
‘Take a leak. You know, do a wee. Go pee-pee. Whatever you say.’
‘Do a wee,’ he mutters, giving me a weird look as he crawls down the bed, kneeing his ironed shirt before clambering over the end of the bed to get down. Maybe that’s the only way to get to the door without standing on fucking LEGO.
‘Good man,’ I call after him. I give the floor a quick once-over and dispose of two more rogue LEGO blocks before venturing down the hall.
That could have gone better. One down, one to go.
I push Daisy’s door all the way open. Her room is better lit, thanks to a gently rotating night light that sends a pattern of rosy-hued stars cascading over the walls.
I eye the floor suspiciously—all seems clear—and make my way over to the bed.
It’s tiny and crafted from white wood, its inhabitant even tinier.
She’s snuggled under a pink-and-white gingham duvet, surrounded by an assortment of soft toys, her golden curls a soft halo around her.
She looks serene. Fragile. And positively angelic.
To anyone who didn’t know better, that is.
I put a tentative hand on her shoulder and give it a little shake.
‘Daisy.’
Nothing.
‘Daisy, love? It’s morning time.’
Still nada.
Excellent. I stroke the soft apple of her cheek with one finger.
‘Come on, Daze. It’s time to wake up. Time to get up for school.’
She shifts, her eyelids fluttering, and groans.
We repeat this process several times with little advancement beyond the groaning stage. I’m relieved when Toby appears in the doorway in just his pyjama top, tiny todger hanging out. Nice. I assume he abandoned the bottoms in the bathroom.
‘Any idea of how to wake your sister up?’
‘Mummy says you just have to be determined. And not be scared of her.’
Mummy clearly has a bigger pair of balls than me.
‘Right. Thanks.’ I put a hand on each shoulder and kind of half-shake, half-massage her. ‘Come on, Daisy. We need to get up for school.’
‘Don’t wanna get up,’ she slurs. We have not yet progressed to the open-eyed phase of our morning.
‘I know, love. It’s miserable. But the kitchen is nice and cosy, and we’re going to try out the heated car seats, remember?’
One eye opens.
‘Good girl. We’re going to get dressed, and then we’ll go downstairs and you can show me what you want for breakfast.’
‘Want Frosties.’
Yeah, that’s not happening. She’ll be in a sugar coma by the time we get to school if she eats those.
‘Let’s see what the options are when we get downstairs,’ I say noncommittally. I mentally pat myself on the back. Never negotiate with terrorists. ‘Come on. Sit up for me, and we’ll put your school shirt on in your cosy bed.’
Miracle of miracles, she allows me to pull her up so she’s sitting.
I tug her soft pyjama top off and cringe slightly as I feed the colder, scratchier fabric of her school shirt through her little arms. She’s so tiny I’m worried I’ll break her.
But her sleepiness is working in my favour—it’s making her more docile.
I can sense Toby still hovering behind me. ‘Go and get dressed please, Toby,’ I tell him. And put some pants on, for the love of God.
I pop Daisy’s tie on and hide the elastic under her shirt collar, then gesture at her bottoms. ‘Come on. Bottoms off so we can get your tights on.’
‘Later.’
‘But we need to get you dressed before we go downstairs.’ I think about the double-underlined section of Molly’s note.
‘Tights on after brekkie. Put my pinafore on,’ she orders, throwing me a sweet smile.
I sigh and mentally consign the tights to the battles I can’t be fucked to fight section of my brain.
We get her little pinafore over her head and fasten it before tugging on her cardigan, an exercise which involves much theatrical flailing and pained groaning from Daisy as I attempt to get the too-narrow sleeves comfortably over the bulky sleeves of her shirt.
Fuck’s sake. Have they seriously not worked out how to improve the fit of school uniforms since my day?
I’m exceptionally proud of myself as I pick up the tights and lead an almost fully dressed Daisy down the hallway to check on her brother.
He’s doing well; he’s nearly there. I help him get his sweater on over his shirt (same issue) and we make our way downstairs, the kids sliding and thumping their way down the steps in a way that has my heart rate ratcheting up.
In the kitchen, I consult Molly’s notes. Daisy isn’t allowed dairy. There’s oat milk in the fridge. Toby dislikes Weetabix. Yada yada yada.
‘Right.’ I point as they stand there, gaping. ‘Have a seat at the table. Porridge or toast. Which is it?’
‘Toast with peanut butter, please,’ Toby says.
Daisy sticks with her previous choice. ‘Frosties.’ She’s still in a zombie state; her voice is a scary monotone. I reckon she’s still half-asleep.
‘Not an option, pal. Too sugary for a school day. Porridge or toast?’
‘I. Want. Frosties.’
I squat. Fuck this. ‘That’s. Not. Happening. Your choices are porridge, or toast, or nothing, and you really need something in your tummy to get you through a morning at school. Okay? So what’ll it be?’
She glares at me with utter hatred. I push off the floor and get to my feet.
‘You know what? I just came from a country in Africa called Malawi, and the kids there didn’t even have clean water.
They didn’t have taps they could just turn on.
They had to walk to wells to get fresh water that wouldn’t make them sick.
Because when they drank the dirty water, it was really, really bad for them.
‘And you two have a kitchen full of yummy food and nice fresh water.’ I point my finger at Daisy. ‘So. Just. Pick. Something. Porridge. Or. Toast.’
‘Toast.’
She spits the word out, contempt clear in her tone.
Fucking yes. ‘Thank you. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?’ Max one, Daisy nil. Not that I’m getting any sort of satisfaction from point-scoring against a four-year-old, I tell myself.
As I busy myself with the toaster, Daisy clambers up onto a special kiddy chair at the table. ‘Mummy lets us watch cartoons at brekkie time.’
‘Unlikely.’ I push down the switch on the toaster with more force than necessary.