Chapter 5 #2
“How could anyone not like someone related to you?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re very slushy this morning.”
“I can’t help it,” he chirps, “it’s the Italian air. It makes me feel molto romantico!”
I laugh and go back to chopping my onion.
Once I’ve fried it and added it to the mix for a spinach and ricotta frittata, I leave it to bake in the little oven and start squeezing my oranges.
As I do, I feel a rush of happiness. Cooking for people is the thing I’ve always done best. I’m on safe ground.
By the time my frittata is ready, it’s eleven o’clock.
Theo goes upstairs to rouse Callum and Mabel.
A few minutes later, the two teenagers come sloping downstairs, wearing baggy T-shirts and sulky expressions.
As they enter the kitchen, the atmosphere changes.
Straightaway they’re moaning about being woken up, sleeping badly in the heat, and picking up the odd bite from mosquitoes.
“I don’t know how that happened,” I say. “We mustn’t have closed your nets properly. We’ll have to be extra careful tonight.”
“You know, Archie and I haven’t been bitten at all,” comments Theo. “I think we have different blood groups. You two must take after your mum.”
Callum shoots Theo a look of contempt. “Dad, that is proper out of order.”
“Why do you always have to take it out on Mum?” hisses Mabel.
Theo winces.
I sweep between them and direct everyone to sit down. “We’ve got fresh orange juice and I’ve made a frittata!”
Theo smacks his lips. “Superb!”
Callum eyes the frittata warily, as if I’ve just placed a bomb in the center of the table.
“What’s that?” asks Archie, his glasses on the end of his nose.
Theo pushes them up again.
“It’s the Italian version of an omelet, but you bake it in the oven,” I explain.
“What’s in it?” Archie goes on.
“Eggs, onion, spinach,” I say, “and an Italian cheese called ricotta.”
“Amazing!” gushes Theo.
“I don’t like spinach,” Callum announces.
“Me neither,” says Mabel.
“Can’t you give it a try?” pipes Theo. “You might be surprised.”
Mabel looks outraged at this suggestion. “Dad, I’ll vom!”
Theo sighs. “How about you, squirt?” he asks Archie. “Will you try some?”
“Yeah!” says Archie, swinging his little legs excitedly. He pops a forkful in his mouth but grimaces. “Dad, I don’t like it.”
All my earlier happiness trickles away.
“That’s alright!” bursts out Theo. “Well done for trying!” He hands Archie a piece of paper towel so he can spit it out, then tucks into his own frittata, closing his eyes as if in ecstasy. “Mmm, this is outstanding!”
But I can tell he’s overcompensating to try and make me feel better.
Oh, why did I go and make a stupid frittata? Everyone knows kids like bland, unfussy food—not something with spinach and some strange cheese they’ve probably never heard of.
“Gang, I’d like you all to have a glass of orange juice,” Theo orders.
Callum pours some into his glass and examines the contents. “I can’t drink this.” He looks as if he’s spotted scum floating on the surface.
“Why not?” asks Theo.
“It’s got bits in it!”
A frown crosses Theo’s forehead. “You can drink it, Cal. You just open your mouth, pour it in and swallow. What you mean is you don’t want to.”
“Mum buys it smooth,” points out Mabel. “She knows what we like.”
Theo looks like they’re testing his patience. “You know, you kids are so ungrateful,” he says. “Adam’s spent ages juicing those oranges.”
I bat away his comment: the last thing I want is for the kids to turn on me. “It’s alright! Now, who fancies some of this nice Italian bread?”
I hold up the basket, optimistically.
Callum looks at the focaccia and scowls. “What’s that green stuff on it?”
“Herbs,” I answer. “I expect it’s rosemary.”
“What’s rosemary?” asks Archie.
“A herb,” I say, trying to remain calm.
“What’s a herb?”
“It looks minging!” Callum pronounces, talking over his brother. “I’ll have some of that.” He points at the ciabatta.
“Please,” Theo reminds him sternly.
“Please.” Callum almost spits the word out.
“Mabel?” asks Theo.
“I’ll have the same,” she says. “But I only like that kind of bread toasted.”
“Me too,” says Callum.
I detect a hint of a snigger passing between them. Are they taunting us?
If they are, I’m not taking the bait. I stand up and force my face into a smile. “OK, I’ll toast some.”
“No,” insists Theo, pushing back his chair, “I’ll do it.”
“No, no,” I argue, “it’s alright—I need to do it under the old grill and it’s a bit fiddly.” While this is true, I also want an excuse to leave the table.
When the grill has finally warmed up and the bread’s toasting, I poke my head around the door and see that Archie’s eating some focaccia and Mabel a yogurt. Progress!
I butter the toast, pile it on a plate and bring it out.
Callum flinches at the sight of it. “There’s too much butter on that!”
Theo doesn’t even glance in his direction but continues eating. “You’ll just have to scrape it off then. You can put your own on next time.”
Reluctantly, Callum picks up a piece of toast and starts scraping at the butter. I imagine his hunger must be winning through.
But there’s no disguising my breakfast is a disaster.
I tell myself not to worry: at least I still have the treats up my sleeve.
Somehow we make it to the end of the meal. At least everyone has eaten something, even if it is mainly bread and yogurts—the two things I didn’t make.
I clap my hands. “Right, time for a little surprise!”
I nip inside and come back carrying a tray of treats.
Archie squeals at his milk chocolate buttons, cramming them into his mouth and smearing chocolate on his cheeks, even getting some on his glasses.
Callum grunts as he picks up a protein bar and nibbles on the end. “It’s too hard,” is his verdict. “It’ll damage my brace.”
Mabel sits in stony silence, staring at her white chocolate.
“What’s the matter?” Theo asks.
“I don’t like white chocolate,” she states, flatly.
“Yes, you do,” says Theo, “it’s your favorite. Adam’s got you the exact same brand I get at home.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I used to like it but I’ve gone off it.”
“Fine, don’t eat it then.” Theo stands up, briskly. “Cal and Mabel, get up: you can help us clear away.”
They look at him as if he’s just suggested they clean the floor with their tongues.
But Theo refuses to acknowledge their outrage. He thrusts the treats at them with the jug of leftover orange juice. “You can start by putting these away.”
Mabel stomps into the kitchen and flings open the fridge door, fire flashing in her eyes. “There’s no room in this fridge!” she snaps.
Theo and I position ourselves behind her and look inside the small fridge that must have been fine for Wilf but is now bulging with food.
“And where am I supposed to put my skincare?” she wails.
Theo shakes his head. “Mabel, what are you on about?”
She gasps. “Dad, if I don’t keep my skincare products in the fridge they’ll go off! At Mum’s I have a mini fridge in my bedroom.”
Theo rests his hands on his hips. “Well, how many skincare products have you got? I’m sure you can squeeze them in somewhere.”
“Dad, this fridge is stuffed full of beer and wine.” She eyes me, dubiously. “Adam, are you sure you’re not an alcoholic?”
“Mabel, Adam is not an alcoholic.”
“I don’t know,” I want to chip in, “it’s not even midday and I could murder a beer.”
But I keep quiet. And I bend down and slide a couple of beers out of the fridge. “Look, why don’t I put these in the larder and make some space for your skincare?”
Mabel smiles, possibly genuinely placated, but I suspect more than likely she’s savoring her little victory. I think she and Callum have been enjoying this.
I can’t bring myself to smile back at her.
Because a warm beer isn’t the end of the world but once we’ve washed up, I know Theo and I are going to have to coordinate everyone’s showers.
And with the house’s old plumbing, only one person can use the hot water at a time.
Even before Theo’s explained, I can hear the kids moaning.
I can’t bear to imagine what they’re going to be like tomorrow. Because at eight a.m. the builders are arriving—and the situation is going to get a whole lot worse.