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“Henry!” she squeals and stamps her feet onto the ground.
“Ewwww,” I cried, pitching into an ear bashing scream of shear disgust. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume Dani’s husband’s older brother is still a knobhead. Therefore totally worthy of aewwww.
I’m so busy laughing and stamping my feet, I almost slip and ask if Freddy has any children with anyone.
Dani evaluates me, probably guessing at the thoughts I have whirling through my mind. She’s always been able to read my expression like I’ve taken a thick black marker pen and just scrawled my thoughts all across my face. She chews on her bottom lip, the exact same way she used to when we were kids and she used to want to tell me something but couldn’t.
“I don’t want to know!” I state firmly.
Dani holds her hand up in surrender. “Okay, okay.” She laughs and peers into the wine bottle. “Shall I go and get another one?”
A smile starts to spread across my face. “Okay. I’d better feed Mum and Isaac though before I drink anymore.”
“Okay, I’ll be back and then you can tell me all about you being married and how you haven’t mentioned your husband yet.” Giggling, she gets up from the rickety garden chair and marches for the gate, and with a desperate groan, I head into the kitchen and to the burnt Bolognese. That is one conversation I’m not in a hurry to have. Well, that and any conversation involving Freddy Bale, because I have a sneaky suspicion the two conversations are intricately linked with one another.
