Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“But Chrissy’s right. He only thinks about getting his leg over.”
“Getting his leg over—” I almost add what but catch myself. Better to feign confusion.
“You know, Mum, s.e.x.”
“What do you know about… that?”
“I know it’s something grownups do and that it’s where babies come from.” Oh. My God. How? Since when? Who’s been corrupting my baby boy? “Don’t look so shocked. I am nearly ten, and we do live out in the country,” he adds in a reasonable tone.
“But…” he used to think the sheep, horses and cows were fond of piggyback rides. Can I rewind the clock to that point?
“Do you think he’ll have a baby with Carly?” A thread of concern weaves its way through his question.
I actually laugh. I can’t help it. But there’s no way I’m adding vasectomy to Hugh’s knowledge bank.
“It’s not funny, Mummy. He can’t even look after the children he has.”
“You’re telling me! I mean, maybe I shouldn’t say so, but I agree with you. It’s wrong he’s not going to be here for your birthday, and I will be discussing it with him.” At volume rather than at length. “But no, your father won’t be having any more children.” Hugh is right, he can’t seem to afford the time or expenditure for the two he already has.
“I hate her,” he says suddenly, his blue eyes narrowing. “Don’t you?”
“Carly? No, sweetheart, I don’t.” My issue is with your father.
“You will when I tell you what she called me when she came to my rugby match last week. You’ll hate her so much you’ll probably want to pull her stupid hair. You said she had stupid hair, right?”
“I think I said it was an improbable shade,” I hedge because I’m pretty sure I said I doubted her collar and cuffs matched—red is such a difficult color to replicate in a salon chair—although Chrissy was scandalized as she thought I said muff. To which Holly added helpfully that girls her age rarely go in for hair “down there.” God, I hope Hugh didn’t hear any of that conversation. “But no, I don’t hate her.” Yet. “What did she call you?”
“An ingrate,” he answers with the hauteur of his uncle, the duke. Bloody Sandy.
“Ah, well.” I straighten my back against the wall. “I think you might’ve misheard.” Because it’s not the kind of word a person would use in a text. Or a social media post.
“No, I didn’t,” Hugh insists, shaking his head, his gaze earnest. “She really did call me that. She’s so mean.”
What she is, I imagine, is childish, given she’s probably only a dozen or so years older than Hugh herself. Perhaps even a little jealous of sharing her time with them.
“Well.” I paste on a bright smile. “Never let it be said your father does nothing for those less fortunate. He’s certainly improving Carly’s vocabulary.”
“How is that supposed to help me?” Hugh complains.
“It reminds you to be kinder to people, for a start.”
As a chuckle sounds from the other end of the dark hall, my son’s head swings to me.
“Who was that?”
“Not the gray lady. Or headless Harry.” I know the owner of that chuckle is a haunting particular to me.
Niko—Van—steps out of the gloom, his arm hooked negligently over a bright blue foam ball that is pressed to his hip.
“Uncle Van!” Hugh jumps to his feet, shoving his cell phone into his pocket, his face wreathed in a broad smile.
Since when has he been Uncle Van? I didn’t realize the pair had even been introduced.
“Hello, Hugh. Sorry if I startled you. I’m sorry to say I got lost looking for my room.”
“You’re leaving the party already?” I scramble up from the floor, hating myself for the tiny audible touch of disappointment in my tone. Yes, I stormed away. Flounced, even. But that doesn’t mean I want him to leave—I don’t want to be the cause of his leaving. Nothing to do with him being excellent eye candy.
“I didn’t think I’d be missed.” A sad-looking smile briefly touches his mouth before his attention shifts. “This must be yours,” he adds, pressing the foam soccer ball into Hugh’s hands.
“Oh, yes! Thank you. Wilder kicked it out here by accident, but he was too frightened to get it because Archie told him about the castle ghosts,” my boy recounts quite happily. “But then my phone rang, and I forgot about it.” And with those words, his expression closes again.
“That was another reason I was going back to my room.”
“Because of the ghosts? You’re not frightened, are you?”
“No.” The corner of Van’s mouth twitches.
“Chrissy says the dead can’t hurt you. Only the living can.”
“Chrissy sounds very wise.”
“But on the other hand, like Cameron”—the gardener—“says, ghosts can make you shit yourself.”
Pressing my hand to my forehead, I groan. Literally groan.
“Swearing doesn’t count when you’re repeating someone else,” Hugh adds, reminding me of a conversation we’d recently had. But that was something different—that was me trying to get to the truth of something, not—“Besides, he got a clip around the ear for saying it.”