‘Can you make anything from scratch?’
‘Toast?’
‘Get your sister to cook for you.’
‘Helen’s on holiday.’
‘You’re screwed then.’
My head hits the mirror again. ‘Dylan, I’ll have you know that if I wasn’t following your book, I’d be feeding him pizza and taking him to bed.’
I hear him sigh. ‘Any girl can do that. The point of all of this is to prove you’re not every other girl.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ I turn off the taps and call Grace through. She bursts into the bathroom naked, carrying a couple of dolls and a teapot. ‘I’ll be back in five, Grace, don’t splash too much.’
I take my conversation into the living room. ‘You still there?’
‘Cat, what’s your address?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m going to come over and help you.’
‘But it’s late. My daughter is here.’
‘It’s seven, Cat. And so what? Because you’re a single mother, you’re not allowed to have friends over?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Either I can come over and teach you how to make an amazing Bolognese from scratch, or you can buy store-bought food and hope he doesn’t notice.’
‘You think I’m too stupid to look up a recipe online?’
‘Not at all, but I imagine that finding recipes isn’t the problem or you’d be confidently cooking already . . .’
He’s right. I once tried to make a Christmas log for the school fair and Grace refused to let me hand it in, telling me she’d rather die than hand in a cake that looked like a fruity poo. I grumpily concede and give him my address.
‘OK, I’ll be over in an hour.’
I put my phone in my pocket and rush through to Grace, who’s happily still alive and splashing around in the bath.
‘Grace, I’ve got a friend coming over in a little while, so I’d like you to go to bed early.’
‘But it’s not bedtime! I still have HOURS left.’
‘Not hours, ONE hour. You can read or something until eight thirty.’
‘Can I watch Frozen?’
‘Fine, but please don’t sing that Snowman song repeatedly.’
‘Deal.’
I wash and condition her hair while she does the same with her dolls, tipping water from her teapot on to their tiny plastic heads. It takes a further fifteen minutes to do her teeth, get her nightdress on and prise her DVD from under the cat’s arse. Once she’s settled I close her bedroom door behind me.
‘Mum, keep it open. Heisenberg might want out.’
I leave the door slightly ajar, then nip to the kitchen to tidy up. I don’t need Dylan judging me for not having done the dishes for two days.
