Amelie looked up hopefully. “Does this mean I still have to do my homework?”
“Yes,” said Rosaline in her best I have boundaries voice. “But when you’re finished we can . . . we can . . . ” She suddenly realised that every form of entertainment in the house was electronic. Apart from some books, most of them unsuitable for eight-year-olds, and a battered Monopoly set that she was certain she’d never bought. “Spend quality time with Auntie Lauren.”
“But I’m always spending time with Auntie Lauren. It used to be exciting but it’s not anymore.”
“Auntie Lauren,” pointed out Lauren, “is right here.”
“See. Always.”
Unable to think of any other alternative, Rosaline climbed slightly dangerously up a bookshelf and hauled down at least five years of dust and the Monopoly board that had spontaneously generated up there. “Come on. I’ll make us some sandwiches and then we can play . . . this. It’ll be fun.”
Triumphantly underlining the answer to her last maths question, Amelie swung down off her stool. “But I hate Monopoly. It’s boring.”
“Everyone hates Monopoly.” Lauren started clearing the kitchen table. “That’s how it brings people together.”
An hour and a half later, they’d had to dig the tea lights out of the bottom drawer and were still playing Monopoly and there was still no sign of the man who was supposed to come and fix the electricity.
“I told you Monopoly was boring,” said Amelie, with the passionate joy of a vindicated eight-year-old.
Lauren stomped her boot four spaces, landed on Super Tax, and reluctantly returned one hundred pounds to the bank. “You’re just saying that because you want to buy Whitehall and I won’t let you.”
“Mummy, why won’t Auntie Lauren let me buy Whitehall? I’ve got all the other pink ones. I’ll give you a blue one for it.”
“I don’t want a blue one,” retorted Lauren. “And if I give you Whitehall, then you’ll be able to start building houses. Which means in about six hours from now you might actually win.”
Amelie thought about this. “But if nobody will give anybody the things they need, then nobody will ever have the things they need, and we’ll have to play the game forever.”
“And that, my darling”—Lauren grinned—“is capitalism.”
“I don’t like capitalism. Capitalism is stupid.”
“And to think when Karl Marx said that he got a whole school of philosophy named after him.”
“I don’t want a whole school of philosophy,” Amelie complained, with an air of impending pout. “I want the pink ones.”
“Okay.” Rosaline squared up her meagre haul of banknotes, finally accepting that Monopoly was a distraction rather than a solution. “I think we’ve got a problem.”
“Yes,” retorted Lauren, “you made us play a shit board game.”
“No, I mean the electrician definitely isn’t coming. And so I might not be able to use anything in my house for a week.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to have my hair washed?” asked Amelie.
“No. That’s the boiler, which is gas. And you still need to keep clean.”
“But maybe the aliens won’t like it. Maybe that’s why they keep making funny noises.”
“Maybe they’re trying to encourage you. Maybe they’re saying, Look after your hair, or we’ll take you away to our planet.” The moment it came out of her mouth, Rosaline knew it was the wrong thing to say.
“I’d like to go to an alien planet,” said Amelie. “I bet they’d look really oogly like anglerfish, and they wouldn’t care about my hair, because they don’t have any.”
Right. This was definitely a parenting moment. And the parenting moment was “Don’t completely lose it at your daughter because you’re stressed out of your mind and you’ve just played nearly two hours of Monopoly.” Rosaline took a deep breath. “Why don’t we pack this game up and then we need to think about what we’re doing over the next couple of days.”
There was a silence, filled only by the clattering of playing pieces being dropped somewhat dispiritedly into a red plastic box.
“Look,” said Lauren. “If you really need it, then—”
“No. I mean, thank you. But I can’t do that to you.”
“Thank fuck. I mean, Allison’s pretty sure I’m over you, but if I tried to move you and your child into the flat, I couldn’t guarantee the longevity of my marriage.”
“How would you feel”—Rosaline turned to Amelie in defeat—“about staying with Grandma and Granddad?”
“I just stayed with them.” Her voice was getting a fretful, teary edge. “Why can’t I stay here? Why can’t we get the electrics fixed?”
Fuck. Rosaline was failing as a parent. “Because I can’t get an electrician right now. But I will be able to get one soon.”
Amelie still looked on the verge of an understandable but unhelpful meltdown. “Then why don’t you ask the Viking?”
“Who?”
“The Viking cake man who made the crab. He’s an electrician. He said so.”
Did she mean Harry? Oh God, she did, and she was right. He was an electrician. And Rosaline had his card. And he had explicitly told her to call him if she ever needed anything.
She’d forgotten because she’d had no intention of ever calling him ever for any reason. And now they were sort of friends—wait, were they friends?—it somehow felt even worse to be all, Hi, I’ve mostly ignored you, except for your arms occasionally, and now and again your big brown eyes, but do you think you could possibly come and fix my shit for me?
Except if she didn’t, she’d be sitting in the dark, eating tins of uncooked beans until Monday while her child started a new, and probably better, life with Cordelia and St. John.
“I really feel like I’m letting the side down,” said Lauren, “because while I know a great many fabulous and talented lesbians, none of them are electricians.”
Rosaline’s phone was at five percent. Which meant, if she was doing this, it would have to be now.
Fuck, she had to, didn’t she?
She fished Harry’s card out from her bag and hesitantly dialled the number. It was fine. This would be embarrassing, and he’d probably have to fight hard not to start calling her “love” again, but she’d get over it. And besides, he was an electrician—if experience had taught her anything, he wouldn’t pick up.
“’Allo,” said Harry. “Dobson & Son Electricians. Can I help?”
Shit shit shit. “Um. Hi. It’s . . . Rosaline.”
“Oh. You all right, mate?”
“Not really. My electricity’s gone off and I can’t seem to get anyone out to fix it and you did say I should call you if I needed help. So I guess I’m calling you because I guess I need help?”
“Thank you for my crab,” shouted Amelie. “It was very . . . bready.”
“Tell me what happened?”
Rosaline blinked. “Well . . . she ate it?”