I blink at her in surprise. Who’s she copying?
Oh.
Oh God. Actually, I think it’s me.
Which makes me seem like a really mean, horrible mummy, but, honestly, it’s the only way I can deal with her when we’re out shopping.
Minnie’s speech has really come along recently. Which is wonderful, obviously. Every parent wants to hear their child articulate their innermost thoughts. The only teeny issue is, it turns out quite a lot of Minnie’s innermost thoughts are about what she wants.
She doesn’t yell “Miiiiiiine” anymore, which used to be her catchphrase. Instead, she says, “I like it.” We’ll walk around the supermarket and all she keeps saying is, “I like it, I like it, Mummy,” more and more earnestly, as though she’s trying to convert me to some new religion.
It’s not even as though she likes sensible things. She grabs for mops and freezer bags and packets of staples. Last time we went out shopping, she kept telling me, “I like it, pleeeeease,” and I kept nodding and putting the things back on the shelves, out of reach, until she suddenly flipped and yelled, “I want to buuuuuy something!” in such desperate tones that all the nearby customers started laughing. Then she stopped and beamed around, and they all laughed even more.
(I do sometimes wonder if that’s what I was like when I was her age. I must ask Mum.)
(Actually, on second thought, I’m not sure I want to know.)
So my new tactic when we go shopping is to tell Minnie that we don’t have any money. Which she kind of understands. Except then she accosts total strangers and says, “We don’t have any money,” in a sorrowful voice, which can be embarrassing.
Now she’s addressing Speaky, her dolly, in stentorian tones. “Put. It. Back.” She confiscates a packet of peanuts from Speaky and eyes the doll fiercely. “Is. Not. Yours.”
Oh God. Is that what I sound like?
“Talk kindly to Speaky,” I suggest. “Like this.”
I take Speaky and cradle her in my arms, whereupon Minnie grabs her possessively from me. “Speaky is crying,” she tells me. “Speaky need…a sweetie?”
She has a sudden mischievous glint in her eye, and I can’t help wanting to laugh.
“We haven’t got any sweeties,” I tell her, totally straight-faced.
“This is a sweetie?” She picks up the Toblerone uncertainly.
“No, that’s a grown-up boring box,” I tell her. “No sweetie.”
Minnie stares at the Toblerone, and I can see her little brain working hard. She’s never actually eaten a Toblerone, so it was a pretty good guess on her part.
“It’s not a sweetie,” I reiterate matter-of-factly. “We’ll buy a sweetie another day. Now it’s putting-away time.”
I can see Minnie’s conviction wavering. She might think she knows everything, but at the end of the day, she’s only two and a half.
“Thank you!” I take it neatly from her grasp. “Now, can you count the bottles?”
This was a genius move, as Minnie adores counting, even if she always misses out “four.” We’ve managed to get all the bottles back in the minibar and are just moving on to light snacks and refreshments, when the door opens and Mum appears, with Janice in tow. Both are flushed in the face, Janice is wearing a plastic tiara, and Mum is clutching a cup full of coins.
“Hello!” I say. “Did you have a good cocktail?”
“I won over thirty dollars!” Mum says with a kind of grim triumph. “That’ll show your father.”
Mum makes no sense. How will that show Dad anything? But there’s no point questioning her when she’s in this mood.
“Well done!” I say. “Nice tiara, Janice.”
“Oh, it was free,” says Janice breathlessly. “There’s a dancing competition later, you know. They’re promoting it.”
“We’re going to take a breather while you go out with Luke, and then we’re going to hit the town,” says Mum, waving her cup for emphasis. “Do you have any false eyelashes I can put on, love?”
“Well…yes,” I say, a bit surprised. “But I’ve never known you to wear false eyelashes, Mum.”
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” she says, giving me a meaningful look.
What happens in Vegas? OK, does she just mean false eyelashes or something else? I’m wondering how I can ask her tactfully if she’s all right or actually going off the rails, when my phone bleeps with a text.
“It’s Danny!” I say, feeling a lift of delight. “He’s here! He’s downstairs.”
“Well, if you’re ready, why don’t you go down and see him, love?” says Mum. “We’ll give Minnie her bath and put her to bed. Won’t we, Janice?”
“Of course!” says Janice. “Dear little Minnie is never any trouble.”
“Are you sure?” I wrinkle my brow. “Because I can easily do it—”
“Don’t be silly, Becky!” says Mum. “I don’t see enough of my grandchild these days. Now, Minnie, come and sit on Grana’s knee.” She holds out her arms for Minnie to run into. “We’ll have a nice story and play some games and…I know!” She beams. “Let’s have a lovely yummy Toblerone!”
SEVEN
I find Danny at a corner table in Bouchon, which is a posh, linen-tablecloths kind of restaurant. He’s deeply tanned (it’s got to be fake), he’s wearing a baby-blue biker jacket, and he’s sitting with a very blond, very pale girl with no makeup except deep-purple lipstick.
“Danny!” I hurry over and throw my arms around his skinny frame. “Oh my God! You’re alive!”
I haven’t seen Danny since he tried to cross the Greenland ice sheet for charity; he had to be airlifted out because he grazed his toe, or something, and go for a recuperative holiday in Miami.
“Only just,” says Danny. “It was touch and go.”
It was so not touch and go. I’ve spoken to his business manager: I know the truth. Only he said not to contradict Danny, because Danny thinks he nearly died.
“Poor you,” I say. “It must have been terrifying! All that snow and…er…wolves?”
“It was a nightmare!” says Danny fervently. “You know, Becky, I’ve left you a bunch of stuff in my will, and you were this close to getting it.”
“Really?” I can’t help feeling interested. “You’ve left me stuff? Like what?”
“Some clothes,” says Danny vaguely. “My Eames chair. A forest.”
“A forest?” I gape at him.
“I bought this forest in Montana. You know, for taxes? And I figured Minnie could go play in it or whatever—” He breaks off. “This is Ulla, by the way.”
“Hi, Ulla!” I wave a cheery hand, but Ulla just blinks nervously, mutters, “Hi,” and returns to work. She’s sketching something in a large artist’s pad, and as I glance over, I see it’s a close-up of the flower arrangement on the table.
“I just hired Ulla as my ‘inspiration finder,’ ” says Danny grandly. “She’s already filled that pad.” He gestures at it. “My whole new collection will be Las Vegas–inspired.”
“I thought it was going to be Inuit-inspired?” I object.
Last time I was in contact with Danny, he was talking about raw bone and Inuit crafts and the infinite expanse of whiteness, which he planned to represent in a pair of oversize men’s culottes.
“Inuit meets Las Vegas,” says Danny, without missing a beat. “So, did you gamble yet?”
“I don’t dare.” I shudder. “This woman has just told me gambling is like crystal meth and if I dip my toe in, I’ll get sucked in forever.”
I’m hoping he’ll say, That’s bullshit, but Danny nods gravely.