Turning to her still partially charged phone, she googled for electricians in her local area, forced herself through the “How do I know these aren’t con men and murderers” window that always accompanied inviting a stranger into your home on the basis of a number on a website, and then began the slow and stressful process of ringing around. As ever, she encountered a range of answering machines, weird bleeps, phones that rang endlessly, quotes with outrageous call-out fees, and people who were booked up through Sunday. Eventually, she found some bloke who said he’d be with her that afternoon and was only going to charge her eighty quid.
The afternoon ticked on. And the guy neither arrived nor called back, and when she attempted to phone him it went straight to voice mail. Which strongly suggested he wasn’t coming, either because he couldn’t be bothered or because he’d been kidnapped en route.
My electricity’s gone out, she texted Alain—not because there was anything he could do about it but because she needed a sympathetic ear. Well, eye.
There was a brief pause, and then: I’m so sorry to hear that. How are you holding up?
Okay, I guess. Waiting for someone to come fix it. Bit stressed.
You’re welcome back at mine until it’s dealt with.
She stared at the message, wondering what on earth to say that didn’t come across as needy or presumptuous. There were times when British English really needed a plural “you.” What about Amelie?
Unfortunately my house isn’t particularly child-friendly at the moment. I’m sure she could stay with her grandparents or with your friend maybe?
No. No, she was not leaving her child to go shack up with a hot guy. And yes, she’d done that last week, but that was a holiday. This was a crisis. Thanks. I’ll think about it.
When it got to about three, still not quite willing to leave the house and risk being forever blackballed by local electricians as a lady who books you then isn’t in, she called Lauren.
“Have to talk fast,” she said. “I’ve only about ten percent charge on my phone.”
“Then plug it in, dear Liza, dear Liza, plug it in.”
“My electricity’s gone. I’m waiting for a man. Can you get Amelie for me? I’m sorry, I know you’re doing a lot for me at the moment.”
Lauren sighed. “I am rather exerting myself on your behalf, but, fortunately, I’m a wonderful person. I’m on my way. I’d say I expect cake, but I presume you haven’t been able to cook anything either.”
“I know. And this is my practice day. Except now it’s my piss-around-in-my-front-room-waiting-for-an-electrician day.”
Rosaline hung up and used another precious few percent of her battery to let the school know someone else would be picking Amelie up that evening. And then continued the ritual Doing of the Nothing that was pretty much all you could do when the technology that made your life work had stopped working. She tried reading Marianne’s and Wilfred’s various cookery books so it felt like she wasn’t completely wasting her time, but she couldn’t quite concentrate on anything.
This guy wasn’t coming, was he? But then what? She’d be back to where she was this morning, and he was the only guy who’d said he could come. Which meant she’d either have to find two hundred quid for an emergency call-out or leave it until next week, and that wasn’t really an option where electricity was concerned. If it had been just her, she could have crashed with someone. But you couldn’t make your eight-year-old child couch-surf, not even for a few days. That would be a formative memory, and not in a good way.
Of course, she could go to her parents. But no.
And yes, Lauren and Allison had a spare room in their frighteningly chic apartment. But while Rosaline was pretty sure Allison didn’t hate her, that status was maintained by an unspoken but meticulous series of compromises, one of which she was fairly sure had to be “don’t move into my home.”
Also, how much was this going to cost her? Between travel to the show that hadn’t been reimbursed yet, travel to Alain’s, and previous issues with the boiler, she was already way over budget this month. She wasn’t even sure she was going to be able to afford practice ingredients next week. And then there was, y’know, making sure Amelie didn’t starve and had clothing and soap and a quality of life so the great nebulous They wouldn’t take her away.
Fuck, she was going to have to borrow money from her mum and dad again. After specifically telling her dad she wouldn’t. And wasn’t he going to love that?
There was a knock at the door—and since the wobbly figure through the glass was wearing a purple coat and dragging a child by the hand, it probably wasn’t someone here to fix her electricity.
“One moppet,” said Lauren. “Freshly delivered.”
Amelie scowled. “I can’t be delivered. I’m a person, not a parcel.”
“Perhaps I meant ‘delivered’ in the sense of rescued. Like deliver us from evil.”
“I thought deliveries from evil was when evil sends you things like bad luck or getting sick.”
This made Lauren laugh. “I agree it would make more sense.”
“And why,” Amelie went on, clearly in a meditative mood, “is Jesus so worried about trespassers? Is that why they’re always being prosecuted?”
“Since Jesus doesn’t exist, I’m not sure it’s an important question.”
“Lauren,” interrupted Rosaline, “stop trying to turn my daughter into Richard Dawkins.”
Amelie, of course, seized on this. “Who’s Richard Dawkins?”
“He’s a man some people believe is a blasphemer,” explained Lauren, “and others have constructed a religion around.”
“Does that mean they’re going to crucify him?”
“Only on Twitter.”
Rosaline went to help Amelie out of her coat and put her schoolbag in the corner. “So, the reason Auntie Lauren was picking you up today is that we haven’t got any electricity.”
“Where did it go?”
“Back in the walls, I suppose? But someone is meant to be coming to fix it, and he’ll be here today, probably. Which means you’re going to have to do your homework early while there’s light.”
“I don’t have any homework,” said Amelie firmly.
“Not even maths? You always have maths on a Tuesday.”
“Maybe a little bit of maths.”
Amelie, dragging her feet like a cartoon mouse, pulled her stool up to the kitchen table and started the homework she apparently didn’t have.
“Is this an I need to go and get candles situation?” asked Lauren.
Shrugging, Rosaline began to tidy up the self-saucing pudding that wasn’t. “I hope not, but my faith in ‘be round this afternoon’ man is dwindling.”
“I’d like to help, but unless you want me to write a satirical play about waiting for an electrician who never comes, and, frankly, I think that’s been done, we’re reaching the limits of my skill set.”
“Honestly, you’ve been great. And I don’t want to keep you from your wife.”
“She’ll be at work for a couple of hours yet so I might as well hang around, warming your heart with my presence.”