Chapter 18
SOPHIE
‘Morning, Mum.’
I leap out of my skin, startling Hobbes who was curled up on the table next to my laptop.
‘You scared me half to death, Lo,’ I say, hand on my chest. I must have been in the flow not to have noticed her coming in.
‘Sor-ree,’ she says in a way that tells me she isn’t.
‘No, I didn’t mean— Come here.’
Arms out wide, I wiggle my fingers and she falls into my embrace. She smells like warm flannel and spiced Christmas biscuits.
‘How long have you been up?’ she asks, her voice muffled by my shoulder.
I release her and look at the clock on the stove. ‘A couple of hours. I got up around five.’
‘Five?! But it’s Saturday.’ She looks at me like I’ve grown two heads, plopping onto the chair next to mine.
‘I told you about working this weekend, Lo. And if we’re going to fit in the Christmas tree and the cat café, I had to get an early start.’
Harlow goes all dreamy eyed at the words ‘cat café’.
I have a sneaking suspicion she thinks we’re coming home with another cat.
But Hobbes is strictly an ‘only cat’ – and for good reason.
He barely tolerates sharing the house with me and Harlow.
If we bring home another feline, I’ll be fishing cat poop out of my shoes till the cows come home.
‘I’m at a good stopping point,’ I say, closing my laptop, ‘so how about pancakes for brekkie?’
Her eyes widen – pancakes are almost as good as cats.
‘With chocolate chips?’ she asks.
‘We’re going out for morning tea, so just normal pancakes. Take it or leave it.’
She nods emphatically and leaps up to set the table, plonking a bottle of real maple syrup in the middle.
As I mix the batter, then make pancakes, piling them onto a plate that’s warming in the oven, I reflect on the new direction for the campaign – specifically, my scripts – and smile to myself.
In corporate lingo, I’m ‘client-aligned’ and ‘tracking well’.
In Sophie speak, ‘I am absolutely smashing it’ and I could probably call it good now.
But I want to go above and beyond. I want to ‘surprise and delight the client’ – also corporate lingo.
So, when we get home from the cat café, I’m sitting right back down and looking at the scripts with fresh eyes.
Or I invite Drew back and we work on them together, maybe open a bottle of wine… Harlow could have a sleepover with Connie…
‘Mum!’
I jolt, the smell of burnt pancakes filling the air.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘Mum! No swearing.’
‘Sorry!’ I shout, rushing to turn off the gas. ‘Open the back door!’
Harlow runs over and throws it open while I peek at the underside of the pancakes in the pan – charred.
‘Bugger.’
‘Mum, stop swearing.’
‘Excuse me, little miss,’ I say, dumping the charred remains into the bin, ‘how many times do I have to tell you that bugger isn’t a swear word in—’
‘In Australia,’ she finishes. ‘I know. But I got into so much trouble when I said it at school. Mr Patel made me stay in at lunchtime.’
I’m standing there, empty frying pan hovering over the bin, really seeing Harlow in a way that doesn’t happen very often.
It’s this surreal realisation that she already has her own ideals and identity, that she isn’t an extension of me, but is a person in her own right – part me, part Daniel, part Connie and my parents – but mostly, Harlow.
Tears gloss my eyes and I swallow hard.
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ she says, coming over. ‘They’re just pancakes.’
I break into laughter, loving her more in this moment than I ever have and knowing I will love her even more tomorrow.
‘Good point, Lo,’ I reply. I give her a smile and go over to the stove, sniffling and blinking back the tears.
As my wise-beyond-her-years daughter says, they’re just pancakes – they don’t really matter. And neither does a lot of the other crap I worry about.
I pour in some more batter and this time, I focus.
The night of the film premiere, Drew looked more handsome than I’d ever seen him before.
But that charcoal suit has nothing on worn-in jeans, a steel-blue jumper, and suede sneakers.
Hot – Drew looks unbelievably hot. Could be the jumper clinging to his pecs, or the shoved-up sleeves that show off his tanned forearms, or maybe the low-slung jeans that hint at a hidden V. Whatever it is, it’s working for him.
But I’m not here to perve on Drew.
Oh, god.
From that self-satisfied smile, he definitely knows what I’m thinking. I tear my eyes away right as the girls step back from a hug.
‘So, Maisie,’ I say with forced cheeriness, ‘ready to play with some kitties?’
She nods so vigorously, I worry she’ll give herself whiplash.
‘Did you know that all the cats are up for adoption?’ she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.
I glance at Drew. Are they looking to adopt a cat or is it his job to discourage her?
‘And until they find their forever home, our job is to play with them, right Mais?’ he says, and her shoulders slump.
‘And give them lots of cuddles,’ I add, backing him up.
I dart my eyes towards him and he winks, putting us firmly on the same side. Only my stomach completely ignores that Drew wasn’t being flirty, and the stupid thing does a little flip.
‘Oh-kay,’ Maisie sighs.
Harlow hooks an arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Maisie, you can come to my house and play with our cat anytime you like. He’s called Hobbes.’
Maisie nods, her mouth flattening into a line. Seems like the offer of playtime with Hobbes is a poor consolation. I reckon Hobbes would agree.
‘Let’s go in,’ says Drew, taking charge.
He ushers us inside and gives his brother’s name to the host, who leads us to a booth in the back. It takes us forever to get there, because the girls say hello to every cat in our path. I slide in on one side of the booth, Harlow next to me, and Drew and Maisie sit opposite us.
Ordering goes quickly – neither of the girls really care about the food – and before anything arrives, they disappear, leaving me and Drew alone.
‘So,’ I say brightly, ‘you’re happy with the scripts then?’ He regards me closely, his eyes roving my face. ‘I want to give them another pass when I get home – make sure they’re perfect,’ I say, uneasy under his gaze.
‘No, y—’
‘You’re not happy?’ I interrupt, my heart in my mouth.
He smiles and it’s like flying off a trapeze and being caught mid-air.
‘No, I am, so you don’t need to work on them when you get home. They’re already good enough to show Hargreaves.’
‘Oh.’
‘And we don’t have to talk shop, you know,’ he adds, his eyes locked on mine.
‘Okay then, what would you like to talk about?’ I ask, doing my best to ignore that penetrating gaze.
‘I don’t know – tell me about Australia.’
A laugh bursts out of me. ‘You mean, in general, or something specific?’
‘Either.’
‘Well, we have six states and two territories, a population of around twenty-seven million, and we’re part of the Commonwealth, so the King is our head of state.’
His mouth twitches and his fingers start drumming on the table.
‘Not the sort of thing you were after?’ I ask.
‘Not really. What made you leave?’
Nothing like a ‘harmless’ question to knock the wind out of you.
‘Sorry,’ he says quickly. ‘I’ve— That was the wrong thing to ask.’
‘No, no, it’s…’ I trail off, eyeing him curiously.
We’ve been getting along pretty well – at work, when we’re with the girls – but is Drew someone I can trust with personal stuff? Is that blurring the lines too much?
‘It’s too personal,’ he says as if he can read my thoughts.
‘A little, yes. So, what about you then? Why did you leave the US?’
His mouth twists, and two lines deepen between his eyebrows – all the answer I need.
‘Seriously?’ I ask with a laugh. ‘Wow, we’re really bad at conversation.’
‘Maybe we should stick to the weather,’ he says with a wry smile.
Our order arrives, giving us an out – milkshakes and cupcakes for the girls, a latte for Drew, and a pot of tea and a cronut for me.
I look around for the girls. They’re huddled in a corner with a chimera calico, its face half ginger, half black, the cat snuggled into Maisie’s neck while Harlow strokes its back.
‘Uh-oh,’ I say. ‘That cat’s getting pretty comfy with Maisie. Look.’
Drew leans forward so he can see. ‘Yeah, who would have guessed?’
‘That sending a little girl obsessed with cats to a cat café would end badly?’ I ask.
He sits back, chuckling softly.
‘Maybe that’s why Chris was suddenly “on call”,’ he says, making air quotes with both hands. ‘He was handing the inevitable no off to me.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I say. ‘Way above and beyond an uncle’s remit.’
‘It is pretty cool, you know.’
‘What is?’
‘Being an uncle.’
‘Oh – yeah, I bet. All of the fun but none of the responsibility.’
Drew clutches his chest as if I’ve shot an arrow into it.
‘What?’ I ask, circling my finger at his chest. ‘What was that about?’
He leans in again, laying those muscular forearms on the table, and I instinctually sit back. Do not look down, do not look down, I tell myself. Only maintaining eye contact might be a dumber idea. I suck in a breath, hoping I’ve disguised it as normal everyday breathing.
‘I know what you think of me,’ he says, his voice electric with— with— Is hot-diehard-bachelor-who’s-also-my-colleague a tone of voice? Maybe a niche one.
‘Oh?’ I reply, lifting my brows – pretty much the only body part I have full command of right now.
‘But I would walk through fire for Maisie. It’s even in Chris and Gen’s will – if anything happens to them, Maisie will come live with me.’
I swallow a hard lump, then lick my lips. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t—’ I blow out a loud breath. ‘You’re a good uncle,’ I say, meaning it.
‘Well, yeah,’ he says, feigning modesty, and we’re back on familiar ground.
‘Mum!’ Harlow and Maisie arrive at the table, breathless, and slide into their seats. ‘This place is amazing.’ She takes a long pull of her milkshake through the straw.
‘Uncle Drew?’ says Maisie, peering up at him through her lashes.
‘Yes, Maisie,’ he replies.
His eyes flick to mine for a second and I mouth, ‘Be strong.’ His head dips slightly, giving me a nod.
Maisie draws out her obvious request by looking away and fiddling with her straw. ‘I was wondering… Do you think we could—?’
‘Gonna stop you right there, kiddo,’ says Drew, and Maisie looks up at him again, her shoulders caving inwards.
‘But why?’ she whines. ‘Pickle’s so sweet and she doesn’t have a home.’
Maisie’s lower lip starts to wobble, but Drew’s onto her.
‘Maisie Eloise Parker, you know we’re not leaving here with a cat.’
She gives him full-on puppy-dog eyes, and I’ve got to hand it to her – she’s busting out every trick in the book.
‘And don’t look at me like that. I’m immune to that look – just like your mom and dad.’
‘Fine,’ she says with a huff – and as quickly as she turned them on, the theatrics vanish.
She and Harlow stuff their faces, finishing their milkshakes and cupcakes in record time, then leap up to find more cats to play with.
‘Nicely handled,’ I say to Drew.
He sets down his empty coffee mug.
‘It was after a bad break-up,’ he says, and for a moment, I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘Oh,’ I reply when I twig.
‘Yeah. London was a good place to lick my wounds, maybe hide out a bit. And three years later…’
I nod along, more surprised that he told me than the actual reason.
‘Same for you?’ he asks, misinterpreting the nod.
‘No, no, I… A holiday romance. Turned out to be the real thing and…’ My chest tightens and I look away, wishing I hadn’t said anything.
‘It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it,’ he says, and there’s a tiny chink in his voice that gives him away.
Drew knows about Daniel – that I’m a widow.
I hold his gaze, trying to read what’s behind his eyes.
It’s kindness. From the bad boy of advertising.
I might be in serious trouble here.
‘Mum, look at this.’
Harlow holds up a reindeer she made in Nursery out of pipe cleaners, pompoms, and googly eyes.
‘Oh, I love that one. How about pride of place, right here,’ I say, indicating a spot in the middle of the tree.
‘You sure?’ she asks. ‘It’s a bit…’
‘I’m positive.’
She hangs it off a branch and steps back, scrunching her face.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘It doesn’t go.’
I laugh, but from her sudden frown, she’s not joking.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
She waves her arms in front of the tree like a model on The Price is Right, then starts pointing at ornaments. ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty…’ She points at a blown glass ornament Connie brought us back from Venice. ‘Beautiful – aaand ugly,’ she says, flicking the reindeer and sending it swinging.
‘Hey, hey,’ I say as I capture her in a hug.
Her arms dangle by her sides, but I hold on tightly until they circle my waist and she slumps against me. I prop my chin on the top of her head, something I won’t be able to do in a few years’ time, and we stay that way for some time. When she eases out of my embrace, I let go.
‘Do you know why I love your reindeer so much?’
She shakes her head, blinking back tears, and I take her hand.
‘Because I remember the day you brought it home from Nursery and gave it to me and your dad. You were so proud of it, Lo – your cute little four-year-old self, chest all puffed out. I will never not want it on the tree.’
I go over to the box of ornaments and start looking for others she made. ‘And I love this picture frame you made in Year Four, and this.’ I hold up a Styrofoam ball covered in gold-painted pasta that she made in Year One.
Harlow drops her head in her hands and groans. ‘That one is proper ugly.’
‘It’s perfect and it’s going right here,’ I say, hanging it on the tree.
‘Look.’ She does, her mouth flattening into a line.
‘The thing is – sure, we could go with the fancy-schmancy baubles and make sure everything matches, but this is our family history, Lo. This tree tells the story of you and me – and your dad.’
‘Oh,’ she says quietly, her expression thoughtful.
‘I can guarantee that Nan and Pop still put my handmade ornaments on the tree.’
‘Really?’ She looks at me as if there’s no way that’s true.
‘Yep. You probably don’t remember – you were really little the last time we went for Christmas – but you’ll see next time. And believe me, my pasta ornament is rubbish compared to this masterpiece,’ I say, cradling the bauble in my hand.
Harlow starts giggling. ‘You’re being such a dag, Mum,’ she says.
‘I am. Now, find somewhere for this,’ I say, handing her the picture frame. She hangs it up and we stand side by side admiring the photo of her, me, and Daniel.
‘You’re right,’ she says, ‘Dad would love that.’
She leans against me and I give her a side hug, blinking back my own tears.