Page 69 of A Very Happy Easter

That’s a bad thing?

Me

There are six thousand of them.

Heath

Ah.

Max fetched Bryson, and together with Salma, they began carrying boxes of Easter eggs into the house. I considered taking a leaf out of Annabel’s book and leaving them on the pavement with a “Help Yourself” sign, but a part of me still thought there’d been a big mistake, that four hundred and fifty of the boxes were destined for supermarkets all over London. Plus with my luck these days, I’d probably get arrested for littering.

My housekeeper appeared and made the sign of the cross, and she must have told the gardener because he showed up a minute later, open-mouthed.

“You have kids, right?” I said. “Please, take them some eggs.”

“I don’t mind taking a box for my nephews,” the truck driver offered.

“My bloody hero.”

Me

Thinking positive, nobody’s breaking into my house any time soon. They won’t fit.

Heath

Move over, Max, Humpty Dumpty’s in town.

Me

If anyone throws a Molotov cocktail, bring marshmallows—we’re having chocolate fondue.

Heath

Strawberries would be healthier, no?

I teared up, not because of strawberries but because Heath got my sense of humour. After the rape, any time I laughed, people would say, “Oh look, Edie’s joking around, thank goodness she’s okay again,” but I wasn’t okay. Far from it. I just used humour as a coping mechanism, but I’d quickly learned that it gave people the wrong idea. Now, I projected more socially acceptable emotions—stoicism, polite sadness, gratitude that I was “in a good place now.”

But I understood Heath. He was hurting, I knew he was, but better to laugh than cry.

Me

Toasted strawberries?

Salma squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t be upset; we’ll sort this out. Maybe you could try Polly again?”

Polly didn’t answer the phone until two hours after the driver left. By that point, Salma and Jerilyn had gone out to shop for Heath, and I had boxes stacked in the library, the dining room, the drawing room, and the entertaining room. At least, that’s what Grandma Elizabeth had called it. Really, it was the hermiting room because that place hadn’t seen a party since I moved in.

“Sorry, sorry, I was filming. You tried to call?”

“I left a voicemail. About the Easter eggs?—”

“They didn’t come?”

“No, they did; there were just more than I was expecting.”

“Five hundred boxes, right? They sent extra? That’s okay—just keep them.”

“I thought we were getting five hundred eggs.” Small eggs.