“Is Amelie around?”
“She’s still watching Blue Planet.”
“You know, you are allowed to say no to her.”
“I’ve tried,” sighed Lauren. “It doesn’t stick.”
“Is that Mummy?” came Amelie’s voice.
Between Alain and the show, it had only been three days but suddenly that felt like forever. “Yes, it’s me. Guess what—”
“Did you know there are underwater chimneys with worms on them? And crabs that eat the worms. And fish that eat the crabs. And everything is all red and white. And there are fish that go invisible and other fish with big eyes that can see them. And if you want to see the fish you have to go in a special submarine and if you put a cup on the submarine it gets squashed really really small.”
“No, I didn’t know that. That’s nice. So Mummy—”
“And there’s an octopus with big ears called Dumbo like the elephant in the film. And there are fish that tie themselves in knots and sharks that eat big holes in dead whales and go chomp chomp chomp.”
“Darling, Mummy won the biscuit round.”
There was a pause. “With the not-for-Amelie biscuits?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m glad you won because you’re brilliant. But I think everybody should be able to eat biscuits so I think you made discriminatory biscuits and I don’t think that should have won. Also there are squids that glow and fish with lasers.”
Great. Shamed on TV by her own kid for being a biscuit bigot. “I’ll be home soon.”
“That’s good. Then we can watch the squid programme because Auntie Lauren said she’s not going to watch it with me anymore.”
“Love you to the moon and back.”
“Love you to the bottom of the sea and back, which is closer than the moon, but we know less about it.”
Hanging up, Rosaline turned an anxious glance on Colin Thrimp. “Did you get what you needed?”
“I’ll be honest, I don’t think we’ll use absolutely all of that.”
Now that she’d discharged her televisual duties, Rosaline was free to leave—or, in practice, wander around looking for Alain. She still wasn’t sure what kind of label, if any, their relationship needed, but she’d won a thing and she wanted to celebrate with someone, preferably someone who wasn’t more interested in squid.
She found him at last in the car park, where he was waiting for his pickup with his bag at his feet and a slightly brooding look.
“Hi.” It wasn’t the most original opening, but “I won!” seemed, in that moment, childish. As did the fantasy she was definitely not entertaining of his sweeping her into his arms in congratulations.
“Hi yourself. It was nice having you around this week—and I wondered if you wanted to do it again this Thursday?”
She wanted to. She really wanted to. And she was . . . “relieved” was too strong and made her feel a bit pathetic. But glad. She was glad she’d given good visit. “I’m not sure I can. It was hard enough getting the afternoon off work and arranging a babysitter this time. I think if I tried to do it again so soon, I might lose my job and all my friends. Well. My one friend.”
“That’s a shame.” He sounded disappointed and his manner was, in general, a bit subdued. “Obviously I’d love to see more of you, but if it’s not possible I understand.”
“Um . . .” Was this going to come across as pushy? Pushy was not a good look. “I mean, if you’re ever in . . . striking distance of London, we could strike together?”
“My work does sometimes take me that way. But if I’m consulting, I can be quite busy.”
Not quite the answer she was looking for. She tried to stifle her disappointment—after all, it was easy to free up time when you had a shit job no one cared about, but she knew from years of living with doctors that some things would always matter more than her feelings. “Oh. Okay. I’ll see what I can do about coming to you, then. But probably not for a while.”
He smiled in a making-the-best-of-it sort of way. “At least we can catch each other at the weekends.”
It did slightly make her wonder what the plan was when filming ended. But rationally she also knew it was way too early to be wondering that. “See you next week then.”
He brushed his lips lightly against her cheek. “Looking forward to it, Rosaline-um-Palmer.”
There came the unmistakeable purr of an expensive car engine and the same sapphire blue Jaguar that she’d seen in the first week pulled through the gates.
“Ah,” he said. “This is me. And that’s Liv, by the way. The friend I told you about.”
Not quite sure what else to do, Rosaline waved awkwardly at the barely visible figure behind the wheel. And then went to her usual wall to wait for her father, who, as ever, was too important to be on time.
About ten minutes later, a white van, bearing the legend “Dobson & Son, Electricians: Friendly, Reliable, Local,” rattled past and then pulled to a stop just ahead of her.
Harry rolled down the window. “Well done on the win, mate. Stormed it this week. Need a lift?”
“It’s fine. My dad’s on his way.”
“Thought I’d offer since you was there. I could probably run you back to yours next week if you like. Save you bothering your old man?”
“Oh no,” protested Rosaline. “I couldn’t. You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t. You ain’t hijacking me. But offer’s there if you want it.”
In some ways it would have solved a lot of problems. Her parents continued to insist that picking her up was no trouble but also never failed to remind her after the fact how much trouble they were going to on her behalf. Except getting Harry to run her home instead seemed like it would just be swapping one obligation for another, and at least with her parents it was an obligation she was used to. “Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.”
“All right. See you next week.”
She watched him go, feeling slightly perplexed. She’d been sure when they first met that she knew exactly what kind of person he was. But she’d somehow got used to him. The way he checked in on her and was there for her. The slow rough-velvet of his voice. The summer-day gleam of his smile. So used to him, in fact, that she almost couldn’t imagine what the show would be like without him.
Week Five
Puddings
Tuesday
ROSALINE HAD JUST put her Jaffa-cake-themed self-saucing pudding into the oven when the electricity cut out. It hadn’t done this for a while, and so it was with relative confidence that she dragged the sofa away from the little cupboard that housed the trip-switch and tried to flip it up.
It flipped down immediately.
And it wasn’t until she’d tried to flip it up three or four more times that she realised if it was still staying down, then it probably needed to be down.
Which meant something bad had happened to her electricity. Possibly something house-catching-fire bad.
She went to her computer to look up the number of an electrician, remembering slightly later than she was comfortable with that it needed electricity to work. As did the oven where her cake was half warming in the remains of the preheat. And the fridge where her ingredients were slowly but inevitably beginning to spoil.