Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
One more night together without me jumping him.
I can do that.
If I lock myself in the bedroom and maybe barricade it for good measure.
It’s late before we head home. I mean, back to Carson Hayes’ apartment. We’ve surely explored the child-friendly delights of Central Park to the limits of one day. And though I’m sure Lulu would be content to run wild into the twilight, I’m also sure the place doesn’t have the same vibe after dark.
“My feet are sore, and my tummy hurts,” Lulu complains as we step under the fancy-pants marquee entrance to the equally swanky building.
“Well, your feet will be in bed soon.”
“Good evening, miss, ma’am.” An unfamiliar doorman inclines his head as he pulls the door open. I guess he must work the evening shift, and as we don’t normally go out in the evening, I’ve never met him.
“Hello!” Lulu chirrups, her aches suddenly forgotten. “Thank you for opening the door.” I love how she remembers to thank the doorman every time. She may be a bit of a handful, but she’s an unfailingly polite handful. She practically dances through before turning to face him. “My granny might be coming to visit soon. You shouldn’t open the door for her,” she adds in a whisper.
There’s not much point in telling her we won’t be living here then, especially in front of the doorman.
“But that’s my job.” The doorman smiles, all avuncular kindness and patience.
“No. Don’t.” Lulu’s pigtails whip back and forth as she shakes her head. “I told her on the phone we live in a place where a man in a uniform opens the front door for us, and she asked us if we lived in a prison. And when I said no she said God gived her hands so she can open her own bloody doors.”
“Okay, Lu, let’s go!” I know, I’m kidding no one. She said what she said, and we all heard it, but sometimes, talking over your kids prevents more tales of poor parenting from falling out of their mouths. “I’m sure the nice man—”
“Martinez, ma’am.”
“I’m sure Mr Martinez hasn’t got time to listen to tales of”—my mad mother—“granny.”
“I have all the time in the world for sweethearts like you.” He smiles kindly down at her again, and she just beams back at him. And like all mothers, the smile of my own child brings a smile to my face. Urgh! Just look at the three of us smiling like loons.
“Well, let’s go,” I say, ushering her along the marble entrance in the direction of the elevators before she feeds him another gem.
“What a nice man, Mummy. Wasn’t he a nice man?”
“Lovely.” The doors open, and we step into the mirrored car. God, I look a fright. “You want to press the button?” I begin to flatten the escaped wisps from my ponytail before I catch myself.
I’m being ridiculous.
I’m not trying to look appealing for anyone in particular.
And those aren’t butterflies swimming through my insides.
“Oowee! My tummy still hurts.”
“I’m not surprised.” I glance down. “You ate so much at dinner.”
“But it was a big pizza,” she replies as though this is an adequate explanation. “And you can’t leave pizza. Not in New York. The man said so.”
“The man”—also known as the waiter—“said he would put it in a box for you to bring home.”
“I brought it home in my tummy instead!” She rubs over her T-shirt gleefully. “I like New York pizza, even if it’s silly how they call it pie. Pie has meat and vegebables in. And gravy on top.”
I listen, with at least half an ear, as Lulu chatters about the delights of New York pizza versus the pizza she ate in Rome and granny’s skate and sidney pie (also known as steak and kidney pie). As the elevator rises, my limbs begin to feel jittery with nerves though I force them to behave. I can act unruffled. Cool.
“Mummy, why are you pulling a duck face?”
Oh, no. She’s right. I’m actually pouting at the mirror. For the love of God, have I regressed to my teenage years? I know it’s been a while, but this is ridiculous.
“Now you look like you need a poo.”
“Shush. This is my thinking face.”
“Grandpa says some of his best ideas come to him when he’s doing a poo.”
“Please never repeat that again.” Time to have a word with my dad.
The elevator bings, and the doors slide open. As we step out, I’m sure I’ve left my stomach on the ground floor. After I unlock the door, we slip our shoes off, hang up coats, and Lulu is still chattering. Honestly, this child would talk a glass eye to sleep. She’d talk underwater!
Pizza, pizza. Something about her teacher at school. Being sneezed on by the goat at the petting zoo. I guess I must be making the right kinds of responses as we make our way deeper into the apartment before she veers off to visit the little girls’ room.