She went round the bend making scones and tooth-friendly, no-sugar fruit cake and chocolate éclairs. Such great care did she take with the masses of food, she entirely forgot to get something nice to wear. That’s when she got the idea of internet shopping, you see. One click and she’d bought a demure, on-the-knee Lycra number. The only thing was, she’d not checked what the size was so when the guests came, she was decked in this miniscule slut-suit: Miss Mint would have died. The dress was appalling, and Mum nearly cried.
Luckily, Martha was there to assist. She doled out the teacakes. “Get out now,” she’d hissed and Mum got changed into cords and a tunic, I think. I tell Miss Mint all this. I see her heart
Sink.
“So she doesn’t do Lycra?”
“She might if it’s right. And not too revealing, or small, or skin-tight,” I say, ‘cos I’m thinking it might be a plan now that Dad’s gone to try and find Mum a nice man.
* * *
I can’t stop thinking about Kai and Miss Mint maybe having sex. We skirted the issue for the rest of the day, like Strictly on Ice , winding and weaving our words, skating round important bits and missing out others. There’s no lies, but we’re up to day six. Six jour. And I’m starting to feel like what we don’t say counts, for sure. ‘Cos my chest kind of hurts, like pleurosis.
* * *
Taff’s back the next day, so we say our goodbyes and I traipse back home, well to 45, and stop off at Waitrose to buy wine, which I can, no ID questions asked. And that’s fine, but what’s not fine is when I get home I pour one massive glass and then slide off of Posy and
Onto
The
Floor.
‘Cos sex with Taff’s definitely breaking the law.
Chapter 15: Sunday, seventh night
“Back by three,” Taff had boomed carefully down the line from the ‘base’ as he calls it. “See you then. Keep things hot.”
And I’d said, “what, the roast? Oh yes, fine. I’ll do pork. Lots of crackling.” He’d cracked up, delighted, ‘cos I’d talked about food, so I hadn’t had time to consider the rude innuendo.
I’ve passed my week’s marking to Miss Mint and she’s given me homework. We argued a bit, ‘cos she seems to think her doing physics revision and me ticking year 7 spelling’s unfair. But I think she should just get a life, to be honest. I’m sitting and struggling with forces and fields; stupid Newton and circuits and weird curving yields, when a figure appears in the window and slinks, pale and lithe, like a stealthy, elasticky lynx, past the house.
It’s Felix. He knocks once on Josh’s front door.
I turn away, glad. I don’t need to see more.
* * *
Taff’s back a bit early: two minutes to three. The taxi draws up as I’m stirring gravy.
Who knew I could do that? Have I stirred it enough? Are there lumps? There are lumps, oh no, oh and they’re big ones and also there’s one in my throat as the door slams.
He’s in and he’s there and it’s wrong. It’s wrong as he pushes me up against the draining board, smoothes back my hair and says, ‘hi’. It’s wrong as he takes the spoon from me and licks, licks it well.
Really well.
And says, ‘yum, this is wonderful, Phoeb. Come here. Grrr.”
But it’s wrong ‘cos it’s not me he’s telling, it’s her.
So to stop all this wrongness, I turn into Mum. I fly round the room, whisk away every crumb, with clanging and basically making as Much Noise as Possible. He’s watching me now, from the oven, and you know that phrase, ‘a smile plays on lips?’ well, his comes back to mine
For a thoroughly, utterly, really good time.
His smile, I mean. Up, down, all over, it skips. It visits my mouth; stays a while, then it strays round my jaw bone, my ear lobe, the nape of my neck. And here I was thinking I’d give him a peck on the cheek and it would all be fine. Not likely.
Taff takes my hand and says, “let’s go upstairs,” and I instantly know that this man really cares for Miss Mint. Phoebe Mint. And it’s not my call to pull him. Nor his. No, it’s not ours at all.
The way I get round it is really quite cool. I wink at him and say, “I bet you’ll drool over all of this food I’ve done, mainly for you,” and I do, so I don’t need to stress it’s not true. It works. He’s interested. His smile takes a break from kissing my fingers. His head starts to shake really slowly, like he can’t believe it’s real that his food-freaked fiancée has made this great meal.
So after we can’t stuff any more parsnips and potatoes in, we sit down on Posy and cuddle. Which is fine, I think, ‘cos Miss Mint wouldn’t mind that. And he says with a twinkle, “Phoebs, I love you but I have to say I love you even more now you’re a tiny bit fat.”