Chapter Seven
FRANCIS
The Blackbird
Obviously, I don’t actually expect him to say yes.
But the idea of riling him a bit is far too tempting to resist, even though I’m painfully aware of how desperate my situation is right now and how many more important things I should be worrying about.
I’m already picturing him marching towards the door without even bothering to answer me, when instead he lifts his chin with that stubborn little expression that always manages to get under my skin.
Then he looks me straight in the eye and replies, calm but firm, “I’ll think about it, Dr Starkey. I’ll let you know as soon as possible… you look so hopeless I don’t have the heart to keep you hanging too long.”
I squint, unable to help myself, faced with such sheer cheek. That little fox. Clever. The kid’s just outmanoeuvred me, though only because I’m clearly no longer the Francis Starkey I used to be.
Still, I can’t help watching him with a hint of amusement as he moves from one friend to the next, handing out kisses and hugs like sweets.
Then, without so much as a backward glance, he grabs his brother by the arm and spins on his heel, striding off without saying another word to me.
Ian looks, quite rightly, embarrassed. He gives me a tight smile and a small wave, while Jack pulls him away with a strength that’s honestly surprising given his wiry frame.
I know perfectly well what my dear friend is trying to do, offload the problem onto me.
With his little brother now camped out on the sofa, his usual parade of conquests has probably come to a slight setback.
Still, if the kid does have proper experience with children, and if his hours match mine, he might actually be a lifesaver, at least for the first few weeks.
The idea of calling in Emma, or worse, my mother, is enough of a deterrent to make me consider giving young McAvoy a chance. If he accepts, that is.
And if he does, I sincerely hope he dresses more appropriately.
Every time I see him, my eyes bleed a little.
I get it, he’s an artist, but tonight his creative genius has inspired him to wear a ghastly green-and-white striped hoodie, one of those odd little scarves he apparently likes knotting around his neck, and a pair of jeans so short they show off his bony ankles.
I can’t even begin to imagine what he might do if given free rein over an entire baby girl’s wardrobe.