The Godmother by Carrie Adams Page A

Nick.
    The girls giggled. I pointed at the youngest. “Snoopy,” Poppy replied, without a moment’s hesitation.
    â€œFrancesca?”
    â€œThe gardener, but don’t tell Nick.”
    â€œWe haven’t got a gardener,” said Poppy.
    â€œDad is the gardener,” said her elder sister. “Derr.”
    â€œZac?”
    â€œIn real life, or in my imagination?”
    I had a horrible feeling I was blushing. “Real life.”
    â€œJen Packer.”
    Caspar sat up. “You said you hadn’t.”
    Zac shrugged. “What can I do, mate? She threw herself at me.”
    â€œPaul?” I asked quickly. “What about you?”
    He took a deep breath. We waited. “Gary.”
    Nick and Francesca swung round to face him. Paul shrugged. There was a nervous silence.
    â€œIce cream anybody?” I asked and winked at Paul.

    As we walked down High Street Kensington, Zac caught up with me. “You didn’t answer your own question.” Although only sixteen years old, he was taller than me, and I’m not short. His legs were so long and his jeans hung loose over jutting hipbones. I had a crazy desire to clench his belt hooks between my teeth and rip the jeans off. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. So I said nothing.
    â€œI know who I’d like it to be.”
    â€œAnd who would that be?” I asked before I got control of my tongue.
    â€œI think you know, Mizz King.”
    The laughter exploded out of me. “Sorry,” I said, and held my breath. It didn’t help. The laughter erupted again. I couldn’t speak. He looked so crestfallen, but I had terrible schoolgirl giggles and they would not stop. I tried to apologize, but the earnest look on the boy’s face kept returning to me, the lick of his lips. I imagined him practicing in front of the mirror in the privacy of his own home, working on his lines, his long, languid looks, and the laughter would not stop. I tried to take his arm to offer some sort of physical apology, but he shook it off. I was in trouble now, and that made it even funnier. Just when I thought I’d got control of myself, the explosion came again, sending spittle flying into the pedestrian in front of me. Zac stopped walking. I continued, absorbed in my own mirth. Perhaps that was why I never had a boyfriend when I was that age. Perhaps that was the reason I still didn’t. I guffawed all the way home, intermittently over the afternoon and many times in front of the mirror as I got ready to go out that night.

    I opened a bottle of wine and treated myself to a long bath. Every person needs a constant in their lives, this was mine: lying in hot, oily water with wine.
    I rang Billy. “Hey, Billy, it’s me.”
    â€œAt last. How are you? When am I going to see you? Was it great?”
    â€œSeems like years ago already. What about one evening next week? Are you busy?”
    â€œHa, ha.”
    Billy was a single mother with no money to go out with and even less inclination. I should have known.
    â€œI’ve got a movie out if you want to come over tonight?” asked Billy.
    â€œThanks but I’m…”
    â€œCourse you are, being stupid. Um…” Billy paused. “So, was it great?”
    â€œYou could come if you want, tonight?”
    â€œThanks but I can’t. Madga is out, so…But have a good time.”
    I knew the answer would be no. It always is. Probably a good thing in this case since I didn’t think Billy and Samira were a good mix. Billy wasn’t robust enough for the likes of Samira and, if I was being truly honest with myself, I didn’t feel like carrying Billy that night. I had a hard enough time holding my own against Samira’s exceedingly forceful gravitational pull.
    â€œHow’s my baby girl?” I asked.
    â€œWonderful.” Billy’s voice softened as it always did when she was talking about her child. We