Dad frowns and puts another sweet in his mouth even though he hasn’t swallowed the one he’s chewing yet. “What are you talking about?”
“Does she like strawberry jam?”
“No. She’s always hated it.”
“So why is she eating strawberry jam, Dad?” Then I look at him with the most obvious meaningful expression I can get on my face. I promised Annabel I wouldn’t tell him, but I never told her he wouldn’t work it out for himself.
Although frankly, at the rate my dad’s brain works, there’s a really good chance the baby will be in school by the time that happens.
“Do werewolves eat jam?” Dad asks in surprise.
I roll my eyes. “No. They eat people.”
“So does Annabel. Do you think maybe she’s trying to scramble my brain up and trick me into divorcing her by accident?”
“No.” God, this is like pulling teeth. “Is Annabel any plumper than normal?”
Dad nods knowingly. “It’s all the strawberry jam. Or people.”
I look at him so hard it feels like my eyes are going to pop out. “Yes,” I say meaningfully. “Or people.”
Dad stares at me blankly.
“So,” I continue slowly, “she’s getting fat. She’s eating things she hates. She keeps changing her mind about things. She’s crying about inconsequential things and shouting a lot and peeing all the time.”
I’m ticking the points off on my fingers and holding them pretty much under his nose. There is no way he won’t get this now. No way.
Dad nods slowly, a look of realisation starting to dawn on his face (he has a red and yellow stain on the corner of his mouth and I’m trying really hard not to look at it). “My God,” he says in a stunned voice. “She’s… she’s…”
“Yes?”
“She’s… having an affair with a strawberry jam manufacturer?”
“Oh, for the love of sugar cookies,” I shout, standing up. How have I managed to grow into such a balanced, reasonable person with him as a role model? “She’s pregnant. Annabel is pregnant.” Then there’s a long silence while Dad’s entire face goes white.
Oops. I didn’t mean to just throw it at him like that. He’s quite old. Over forty. He’d better not have a heart attack.
“Sh-she can’t be,” Dad finally stammers. “It’s utterly impossible.”
“Is this the part where I have to tell you about the birds and the bees and the fact that it has nothing to do with either?”
“No, I mean the doctors have always said she can’t have children. Almost totally impossible. We’ve been trying for years.”
OK: ugh. That’s disgusting.
“Too much information,” I interrupt. “Well, she is. The proverbial bun is cooking in the proverbial oven.”
“She’s pregnant?” Dad says again. He looks like he’d fall over if he wasn’t already sitting down.
“I just saw her. Trust me, she’s pregnant.”
Dad inexplicably looks even more astonished. “You just saw her?”
“She’s not the Loch Ness monster, Dad. She’s in her office, doing paperwork.”
“She’s pregnant. With a baby?” For some reason Dad looks at me questioningly.
“Yes, with a baby. What else is she going to be pregnant with?”
“A mini werewolf perhaps,” he mumbles. Then there’s a long silence while he puts his head in his hands. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” he mumbles through his fingers. “A total idiot.”
There’s no beating around the bush here. “Yes. I think it must be in our gene pool.”
“I need her. I need to tell her I need her immediately.”
“No, you don’t.” I shake my head crossly. “You need to show her that you’re there for her when she needs you.”
And then I shut my mouth in surprise. Oh. Oh.
Is that why Nat is so angry with me?
Dad looks at me in shock. “When did you get so smart, missy?”
I put my nose in the air, totally offended. “I’ve always been smart, actually.”
“Not that kind of smart, you haven’t.” Dad thinks about it and then stands up and dramatically takes off his dressing gown like some kind of superhero transforming. Underneath, he’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a cardigan.
“Hey!” I say crossly. “That’s my trick!”
“Like I said, I’m a maverick. And you’re a chip off the old block.” Dad stretches the muscles in his neck. “Now grab your coat, Harriet. We’re going to get your not-so-evil stepmother back.”
have absolutely no idea where we’re going.
“Annabel’s office isn’t in this direction,” I point out as Dad pounds down the street in the steadily increasing drizzle, with me jogging along behind him. I’ve never seen him looking so purposeful (apart from when he’s on the Easter egg hunt, and that has chocolate at the other end of it).
“She’s not in her office.”
“But she is, Dad. I was just there.”
Dad looks at his watch. “The cleaners come in at seven and Annabel hates the sound of a vacuum cleaner. She’ll have gone. I know my wife. Werewife or not.”
He takes another turning and I can feel myself getting steadily more anxious (which is not helped by the fact that my phone keeps vibrating in my pocket). “We’re going shopping?” I say as Dad takes an abrupt right turn into a clothes shop.
“Trust me, Harriet.” Dad picks up a shopping basket and throws a green floral dress into it. “This is part of the master plan.” I look with concern at the yellow ruffled shirt he’s chucking on top of it, followed by a pink catsuit and a sequined boobtube.
“Have you ever met Annabel before?” I ask in concern as he shovels more hideous clothes into the basket. “They’re not suits or dressing gowns.”
“They’re not for Annabel.”
I look with alarm at the purple hotpants he’s just picked up. “Tell me they’re not for you, Dad.”
Dad laughs.
“Or me,” I say sternly. I’m still looking at the hotpants.
“They’re not for you, Harriet.” Dad marches abruptly into the baby section.
“They’re not going to fit the baby either.”
Dad picks up a pair of baby socks and strides over to the cashier. If he screws this up, I’m going to have to move into Annabel’s office with her. And – frankly – I’m a little concerned about just how many beds she can get in her cupboard.
“Right,” Dad says when it’s all paid for. “Let’s go to the park.”
“Annabel’s in the park?” I huff as we charge to the bit of grass about fifty metres away. It’s not really a park because there are no flowers or trees, but now is probably not the best time to split that particular hair.
“Have you met Annabel before?” Dad says as he hands me the hotpants, puts the baby socks in his pocket, throws the rest of the brand-new clothes in the mud and starts jumping up and down on them. After a couple of minutes, he looks up. “That doesn’t look very much like helping me, Harriet,” he says.
“But—”
“Pipe down and stamp on the shorts, kid. As hard as you can.”
So even though I am quite distinctly not a baby goat, I pipe down, throw the recently purchased hotpants on the floor and start jumping up and down on them like Rumpelstiltskin when he finds out that he’s been tricked out of the Princess. Three minutes later, we’re both exhausted, dripping wet and covered in mud. We stop and look at each other. “That should do it,” Dad says, nodding, and then he grabs the clothes and puts them back in the bag.
“But where are we—”
“All will become abundantly clear imminently,” Dad explains in a mysterious voice. “Learn some patience, sweetheart.”
Which – frankly – is a bit rich coming from him.
And then he starts charging back towards our house again, trailing mud behind him.
It’s only when Dad takes an unexpected turn that I finally realise where we’re going. I stop, very still, on th
e pavement and stare at him.
“We’re going to the launderette?” I finally manage to say. This makes no sense at all. This is where I come. This is my hiding place.
“It’s where Annabel always comes when she’s upset, Harriet. She used to take you with her when you were tiny.”
Suddenly a memory comes bursting forward. Annabel and I, sitting in the launderette, listening to the washing machines. Me curled on her lap, sleepy and sniffing the soap bubbles and feeling totally content. And then it hits me. I don’t come here by chance, or by magic, or by coincidence. I come here when I’m sad or scared or anxious because – without even knowing it – it reminds me of Annabel and makes me feel safe again.
“There she is,” Dad says. And my heart figuratively skips a beat, and possibly literally skips a beat too, I’m so surprised. Because Annabel is asleep in the same chair I fell asleep in a few days ago. Her head on the same tumble dryer.
ad looks at the sleeping Annabel with a silly expression on his face and then opens the door as quietly as he can.
“Annabel—” I begin, inexplicably wanting to climb back into her lap, but Dad motions for quiet. She hasn’t opened her eyes yet and I’m guessing from this gesture that he doesn’t want her to.
Dad opens the bag of wet, muddy clothes and dumps the contents on the table. Then he opens a washing machine and starts putting each item in, very slowly. My pocket has started vibrating again, but I studiously ignore it.
“The thing is, Harriet,” Dad says loudly, “I’ve made a real mess of things.” I look at Annabel; her eyes are still shut. “You see this shirt, Harriet? I really mucked it up. It was lovely, and now it’s not, and it’s my fault.”
I glance at Annabel again. She hasn’t moved, but one eye has opened a little bit.
“And do you see this jumper?” Dad continues, holding up a green one. A big dollop of mud falls off the sleeve on to the floor. “It was beautiful and now it’s ruined.”
“Mmm,” I say and peek at Annabel again.
“I can’t help it,” Dad continues, picking up a skirt and putting it in the washing machine. “I’m an idiot and sometimes I don’t even know I’m mucking things up until they look like this.” He holds up a pair of dripping brown trousers. “And I’m so angry with myself because they were such an awesome pair.” He pauses for a few seconds and then adds, “Of trousers.”
Annabel has both eyes open now and is quietly watching Dad fill the washing machine. Dad is pretending he can’t see her. “And it’s so sad,” he says, picking up some gloves, “because they made such an amazing couple.” He pauses again. “Of gloves. What do you think, Harriet?”
I clear my throat. “I think I messed things up too,” I say, pulling out the hotpants and holding them up. “And I’m so sorry because I really love them.”
I don’t, just to make that clear. I don’t love the hotpants. But I love Annabel and that’s what the hotpants stand for. At least, I think that’s what the hotpants stand for.
“Exactly.” Dad continues to fill the washing machine. “And you should always look after what you love properly and keep it safe.” He pauses. “And not jump up and down on it in the mud.” Then he makes a large sweeping gesture with his hand and moves into the centre of the room.
“You’ve gone too far,” I whisper to him under my breath. “Rein it in, Dad.”
“Sorry,” he whispers back. “But maybe,” he says more loudly, holding his hands together, “it’s not too late. Maybe we can make everything lovely again.”
“Maybe,” I say, glancing at Annabel again and moving into the middle of the room to support him.
“I hope so. I’ll do anything it takes because I really don’t want to screw these up too.” Dad promptly pulls the clean baby socks out of his pocket and dangles them in the air.
And then – I’m going to assume this is the final scene of the final act – he closes the lid of the washing machine and stands there like a wally, holding the baby socks and staring at Annabel with the expression Hugo makes when he pees on the carpet.
There’s a long, long silence, broken only by the comforting sound of a tumble dryer going round and round.
Finally Annabel sits up and rubs her eyes. “You know what gets things clean?” she says, yawning.
“What?” Dad says eagerly. He takes a few excited, dripping steps towards her.
“Turning the washing machine on.” Annabel looks at it pointedly.
“Oh.”
“And you know what else gets things clean?”
“Saying sorry again?”
“Washing powder.”
Dad and I both stare at the washing machine. We’ve piled all the clothes into it and then just left them there. Presumably to clean themselves.
“Now just wait a minute,” Dad says in a horrified voice. “I actually have to wash the clothes? I mean, actually wash them?”
Annabel glances at the ceiling. “Yes, Richard. You have to actually wash them. They’re covered in mud and dripping wet.”
“But they’re a metaphor,” Dad explains. “They’re supposed to symbolise our relationship, Annabel. Are you telling me I have to wash the metaphor?”
“Yes, you have to wash the metaphor. You can’t just leave them in the washing machine like that. It’s a public washing machine.”
“Can I take them out and throw them away?”
“No. We’ll wash them and take them to a charity shop.”
Dad looks shell-shocked and then visibly rallies himself. “Am I forgiven, though? Will you take me back, with all of my adorable foibles and charming idiosyncrasies?” He thinks about it. “And handsome quirks?” he adds with round eyes.
Annabel’s mouth twitches, but I don’t think Dad sees it. He looks really anxious, although this might be partly because he really doesn’t like doing laundry. “We’ll discuss it while you’re doing the washing. And the drying. That should take a good couple of hours at least.”
Dad sighs and looks at the washing machine. “I guess this is fitting punishment,” he says in a humble voice.
“Oh, no,” Annabel says, winking at me so that Dad can’t see it. “This isn’t the punishment, Richard. This is the metaphor for the punishment.”
Dad looks terrified, and then sighs and takes her hands. “No matter what you do to me,” he says, slipping effortlessly back into B-movie mode, “no matter how hard you try, I’ll always be glad I knew where to find you.”
“Me too,” Annabel says and then she flicks his nose hard with her thumb and middle finger. There’s a pause while they both look at each other and something unspoken passes between them, something I don’t really understand. Which is good because I don’t think I’m supposed to.
“High five for Medical Miracle Baby?” Dad finally says, holding up his hand and grinning at her. Annabel bites her bottom lip, and then laughs and hits it twice.
“High ten,” she corrects. “Although we’re going to have to work on a better name than that.”
Which must mean Annabel’s coming home again.
ow I don’t want to be smug or anything, but not having a plan seems to be working miraculously well. In fact, you could say that the plan of not having a plan – because that’s how I’m now thinking of it – is working a treat. I’ve fixed Dad and Annabel pretty much single-handedly and left them in the launderette. And next on my not-plan plan is Nat.
My phone rings again.
“Pamplemousse?” Wilbur says as soon as I pick it up. It’s been vibrating in my pocket at three-minute intervals for the last four hours and I can’t ignore it any more. There’s a really fine line between playing it cool and just being rude, and I think any more than four hours is pushing it. “Is that you, my little Pamplemousse?”
“It’s still me, Wilbur.”
“Oh, thank holy chicken monkeys. Where have you been?”
“The launderette.”
“I can’t help but feel your priorities are a little out of whack, my Chestnut-bean. But
if clean clothes are what you need to be a star, who am I to argue?”
I sigh. I couldn’t feel less like a star now if I tried. I’m covered in splashes of mud and I smell vaguely of washing powder and socks. “Did you want something, Wilbur?”
“Banana-muffin, I need to talk to you about an opportunity that’s come up, but they need to see you tomorrow mor—”
“I can’t do it.” I look at my watch and immediately pick up speed: I need to get where I’m going faster. I frown, and then bend down in a moment of pure inspiration and click the little button on the side of my trainers so that the little inbuilt secret wheels pop out. And no, I am not of an age group too old to be wearing these. No matter what Nat says. Just in case you were wondering. They wouldn’t make them in this size if I was.
Anyway.
“You can do it,” Wilbur protests.
“No,” I say again as I start wheeling down the pavement. “Whatever it is, I can’t do it, Wilbur.”
“But you don’t underst—”
“I’m sure it’s great, I’m sure it’s amazing, I’m sure that every girl in the world wishes she had the same opportunity.” I wheel-hop over a double drain. “But I don’t, OK? This isn’t me, Wilbur. None of this is me. I’m not the swan. I’m the duckling. No, I’m the duck. I just want things to go back to how they were before I met you.”
Wilbur laughs. “You really do make me giggle, my little Darling-pudding,” he titters. “As if that makes any difference!”
I’m so busy calculating if I’ll get where I’m going faster if I start running rather than wheeling, but have to stop again in a few minutes – average speed versus immediate speed – that I’m hardly listening to him.
“Difference?” I say distractedly, skipping over a crack in the pavement.
“Kitten-ears, you’re under contract.”
I slam the stopper on the toes down and abruptly stop in the middle of the road, with the sound of the wheels still whizzing behind me. “I’m under what?”
“Contract, Sweet-bean. You know the pieces of paper you signed? That’s what they call them in the legal industry apparently. Visa-vee: Yuka owns you. Plumptious, she wants you to do this so you have to do it. Or she’ll just go right ahead and sue you.”