the smirk on his face let me know he’d copped a good old feel.
‘Bloody, bloody, BLOODY DISGUSTING – Oh. Hello, Saul.’ I broke off my tirade as I stormed into the kitchen and saw him at the table there, doing a jigsaw with Matthew. Saul was the absolute nicest kid in the world. He usually stayed with us on Wednesday and Saturday nights, and even in my worst PMT-and-sex-pest rage, just the sight of him was enough to make me feel better, as if the world had shifted onto its rightful axis again.
He jumped off his chair and ran over to hug me, and I wrapped my arms around him, kissing his lovely tufty brown hair.
‘I forgot it was Wednesday. Oooh, am I glad to see you, it feels like ages. Are you okay?’
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I finished that Lego dinosaur, you know – do you want to see a picture of it?’
‘Too right I do,’ I replied, giving him a last squeeze before letting him go. It had taken Matthew a full six months to tell me he had a son, when we started seeing each other, and when he’d finally broken the news he’d been a bag of nerves, apologetic even, that there was this child in his life, this boy from his doomed first marriage. He shouldn’t have been nervous or apologetic, though: in my eyes, Saul was nothing but wonderful. Since I’d been introduced to Saul, my life had grown accordingly to encompass the joys of Lego, Play-Doh and football, and more recently Gogos (small plastic alien-type creatures), Match Attax card-collecting and Beast Quest . I loved it.
‘Hey, Evie, your hair’s gone all short,’ he said, his eyes wide as if he’d only just noticed. ‘You look really cool, like a boy.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, knowing that this was surely the ultimate compliment.
‘Hi,’ Matthew said, coming over to kiss my cheek. ‘Everything all right?’
I kissed him back and a heavy sigh gusted out of me. ‘Not the best day of my life,’ I told him, withholding the full details as Saul’s bright, interested eyes were still fixed on me. I hoped he hadn’t heard my earlier shout. Matthew would kill me if Saul went back to his mum tomorrow and asked, ‘Mummy, what’s a sex-pest?’ in his innocent, piping voice. Emily, Matthew’s ex, would be on the phone within five seconds and I’d be in the doghouse for at least a year.
Matthew went to finish some work while I got on with making dinner. I wasn’t the most accomplished cook, it had to be said. I had wrecked several saucepans in the past, the most memorable occasion being the time I forgot about the egg I was boiling and left the pan on a flaming gas ring for several hours. The water had boiled dry, the egg had exploded, and the pan was giving off a foul burning smell by the second hour. ‘How can anyone forget that they’re boiling an egg ?’ Matthew had shouted in exasperation. ‘You only have to remember for three flipping minutes, Evie!’
‘I know,’ I’d said sheepishly. ‘I just . . . forgot.’
The one and only time I’d tried to cook a roast, I’d given us food poisoning (‘This chicken is so raw it’s practically still alive!’ Matthew had realized after the first fatal mouthful). The birthday cake I’d attempted to bake for Matthew had mysteriously vanished into the bin after that first revolting slice we’d each had (it seemed to taste of curry powder; I had no idea why or how). And I’d never been able to make a cheese sauce without having to sieve the lumps out of it.
I could do toast, though, and a half-decent fry-up. And anything that just needed putting in the oven I was mostly okay with. Luckily Saul’s favourite food was pizza. Even I could manage that.
We decorated the pizza together in our traditional way, leaving a quarter of it as a margherita for Saul, arranging mushrooms and ham on my section, and olives and pepperoni and extra cheese on Matthew’s. Saul loved spending ages lining up the shiny olive halves in patterns, and sprinkling the grated cheddar just so. ‘It’s snowing
‘Bloody, bloody, BLOODY DISGUSTING – Oh. Hello, Saul.’ I broke off my tirade as I stormed into the kitchen and saw him at the table there, doing a jigsaw with Matthew. Saul was the absolute nicest kid in the world. He usually stayed with us on Wednesday and Saturday nights, and even in my worst PMT-and-sex-pest rage, just the sight of him was enough to make me feel better, as if the world had shifted onto its rightful axis again.
He jumped off his chair and ran over to hug me, and I wrapped my arms around him, kissing his lovely tufty brown hair.
‘I forgot it was Wednesday. Oooh, am I glad to see you, it feels like ages. Are you okay?’
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I finished that Lego dinosaur, you know – do you want to see a picture of it?’
‘Too right I do,’ I replied, giving him a last squeeze before letting him go. It had taken Matthew a full six months to tell me he had a son, when we started seeing each other, and when he’d finally broken the news he’d been a bag of nerves, apologetic even, that there was this child in his life, this boy from his doomed first marriage. He shouldn’t have been nervous or apologetic, though: in my eyes, Saul was nothing but wonderful. Since I’d been introduced to Saul, my life had grown accordingly to encompass the joys of Lego, Play-Doh and football, and more recently Gogos (small plastic alien-type creatures), Match Attax card-collecting and Beast Quest . I loved it.
‘Hey, Evie, your hair’s gone all short,’ he said, his eyes wide as if he’d only just noticed. ‘You look really cool, like a boy.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, knowing that this was surely the ultimate compliment.
‘Hi,’ Matthew said, coming over to kiss my cheek. ‘Everything all right?’
I kissed him back and a heavy sigh gusted out of me. ‘Not the best day of my life,’ I told him, withholding the full details as Saul’s bright, interested eyes were still fixed on me. I hoped he hadn’t heard my earlier shout. Matthew would kill me if Saul went back to his mum tomorrow and asked, ‘Mummy, what’s a sex-pest?’ in his innocent, piping voice. Emily, Matthew’s ex, would be on the phone within five seconds and I’d be in the doghouse for at least a year.
Matthew went to finish some work while I got on with making dinner. I wasn’t the most accomplished cook, it had to be said. I had wrecked several saucepans in the past, the most memorable occasion being the time I forgot about the egg I was boiling and left the pan on a flaming gas ring for several hours. The water had boiled dry, the egg had exploded, and the pan was giving off a foul burning smell by the second hour. ‘How can anyone forget that they’re boiling an egg ?’ Matthew had shouted in exasperation. ‘You only have to remember for three flipping minutes, Evie!’
‘I know,’ I’d said sheepishly. ‘I just . . . forgot.’
The one and only time I’d tried to cook a roast, I’d given us food poisoning (‘This chicken is so raw it’s practically still alive!’ Matthew had realized after the first fatal mouthful). The birthday cake I’d attempted to bake for Matthew had mysteriously vanished into the bin after that first revolting slice we’d each had (it seemed to taste of curry powder; I had no idea why or how). And I’d never been able to make a cheese sauce without having to sieve the lumps out of it.
I could do toast, though, and a half-decent fry-up. And anything that just needed putting in the oven I was mostly okay with. Luckily Saul’s favourite food was pizza. Even I could manage that.
We decorated the pizza together in our traditional way, leaving a quarter of it as a margherita for Saul, arranging mushrooms and ham on my section, and olives and pepperoni and extra cheese on Matthew’s. Saul loved spending ages lining up the shiny olive halves in patterns, and sprinkling the grated cheddar just so. ‘It’s snowing
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