Phoebe nodded. ‘My mum could have helped with all this. She knew everything about Dad and his paintings, and she could talk about it much better than Dad. Although that’s not hard.’ She gave Becky a small smile. ‘I’ll see if I can get some friends to help, especially with the online stuff.’
With Phoebe and Lauren rhapsodising about the internship, Charlie kept his qualms to himself. He would have liked to know more about what Phoebe’s role involved, but his daughter gave vague responses, telling him the demands placed on her changed from one job to the next.
However, the teenager was keen to tell him about a work trip to London she and Becky were planning for an afternoon at the end of the first week of August. It wouldn’t be a child-friendly journey, and Phoebe had been tasked with finding a babysitter for Dylan. One with experience of looking after small children. Someone mature. Trustworthy. Now where could she find someone like that?
Charlie imagined Becky had been expecting Phoebe to produce one of her classmates, and was amused by her shocked expression when presented with a man nearing fifty.
As he closed the car door and took in Becky’s face, Charlie’s lips curled into a smirk. ‘What? Not who you were expecting?’
‘He has experience,’ said Phoebe. ‘And he was free at short notice.’
‘Fine.’ Becky pressed her lips together and beckoned to Charlie. ‘Come in and I’ll show you the important stuff.’
Why was she so stressed out? He didn’t remember looking after Phoebe being that difficult. Then again, he wasn’t sure he remembered looking after her at all. As Becky bombarded him with information about when Dylan should be waking up, snack time, his favourite toys, emergency numbers and lastly, and most dreadfully, nappy changing, his confidence in his babysitting abilities started to drain away.
Becky accelerated as she neared the end of her informative ramble, encouraged by Phoebe’s frantic watch-tapping. ‘If all else fails, take him to the park, he loves the slides.’ She grabbed her handbag. ‘But if you do that, then take his red sun hat and pack water. Oh, and if anyone asks who you are, it’d probably be best to say you’re his uncle or something. It’ll stop you getting the third degree.’
Charlie frowned and scratched his neck. ‘Is that necessary?’
Becky’s stare drilled into him. ‘Your choice. You could always say you’re his dad.’
He held up his hands. ‘Uncle’s good.’
‘Good.’ She snatched her keys from the mantelpiece and swept Phoebe towards the door. ‘Remember to check his nappy regularly. We should be back by seven.’
‘Becky?’
‘Yes?’ Becky was flushed as she whirled back to face him.
‘Phoebe says you’re going to London to meet a potential client?’
‘Um. Yes. You could say that.’
‘Becky! We’re going to miss the train!’ shouted Phoebe from the driveway.
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. We have to go. Phoebe will tell you all about it later. And call me, or Phoebe, if there’s anything you’re not sure about.’
When they returned a few hours later, Charlie had developed a healthier respect for Becky and indeed anyone who looked after small children. The time had flown by, leaving him both exhausted and strangely energised. His face was also sore from Dylan’s curious tugging at his beard, to which Charlie had responded by crossing his eyes and yelping, eliciting giggles every time.
By the second week of August, Charlie was still to be struck by inspiration. Lauren might have had time to adopt a ‘slow and steady’ approach to all Charlie-related problems, but Becky needed him to fill a gallery at the start of January and couldn’t leave the matter to natural processes of erosion. She needed the advice of a jackhammer. And fortunately her favourite jackhammer also provided cake.
So Becky left Dylan with Phoebe and made a late afternoon trip to Sweet’s to indulge in some therapeutic moaning. ‘I don’t know, Ron. I’m good with practical things, but how do you inspire someone?’ She pouted and stirred her tea. ‘And he isn’t helping. Every time I feel we’re making progress I look up and there he is, with his stubborn, grumpy head stuck in a big barrel of doom.’
Ronnie laughed and signalled to one of the interns to bring them more carrot cake. ‘No one is happier than me you’ve finally realised he needs a swift kick up the backside. But let’s come back to that.’ She took the cake from the waiting flunkey, giving no acknowledgment or thanks for the speed at which they’d produced it, and slid Becky’s plate across to her. ‘Did you say you have somebody working for you?’
Becky nodded.
‘Wow. We are talking about another person, right? Or have you found a way to clone yourself?’
Puzzled by Ronnie’s surprise, Becky replaced her cup in its saucer and said, ‘I think Phoebe qualifies as another person. Don’t you?’
‘Absolutely. I just can’t believe you’re willingly handing off work to anyone else. Particularly someone so young. And inexperienced. Someone who could easily screw up at any—’
Becky held up a hand. Ronnie’s words were making her skin itch and she didn’t need her friend to list the worries she was doing her best to ignore. ‘I will be supervising all her work, obviously. Until she gets the hang of things.’
Ronnie smiled. ‘Thank God for that. I was starting to worry you’d hit your head. Or you’re an alien imposter.’
Becky drummed her fingers on the table, refusing to get drawn into an assassination of her own character. So she liked to keep on top of things. Why was that so terrible? And why was Ronnie’s chaotic approach to life and work so much better? ‘Can we get back to Charlie not painting, please?’
‘Why don’t you take it a little easier? You look tired already, and there are months before the finish line.’
Done with her personality, Ronnie had moved onto her appearance. Becky wondered if there was any part of her Ronnie couldn’t find fault with. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, although her words came out as more snarl than statement.
‘OK, OK,’ said Ronnie. ‘I should know better by know than to argue with a Taurean. Appropriately bullish and stubborn, the lot of you.’
Becky sighed. When Ronnie wheeled out astrology to make her point there truly was no arguing with her. Instead, Becky tried to give her a mighty ‘that’s enough’ stare. Thankfully, it seemed to work.
‘Look, I’d say anyone who hasn’t left the Comptons for a few years is in love with their rut,’ Ronnie said. ‘You’re going to have to drag him out of it. Get him and his hair out of here for the day. Why not take him up to London? See if that doesn’t improve his mood.’
Becky’s irritation with her friend vanished. For all her hard edges, Ronnie was simply brilliant. ‘That’s not a bad idea.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘But will it be enough to get him painting?’
‘Doubt it.’ The only things Ronnie couldn’t sugarcoat were her opinions. ‘You’ll have to get him there and then hit him with something spectacular. You must be owed a few favours from your old clients. Cash them in. Blow the grumpy bastard’s mind.’