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I laugh. I love Charley’s babies ... once a week, when I pop in to make myself a cup of tea while she flaps around the kitchen clearing up toys, food, and clothes on repeat.
“This isn’t a permanent arrangement. I’m registered with all the agents, so I’ll be the first to know if something comes up in my pricerange.” I love my parents, of course, but living with them? Facing my father’s silent displeasure every day? I tolerate it, since they’re helping me out massively, but as soon as something comes up, I’m out of there. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hop out and wave as Abbie honks her horn, driving off.
Letting myself in, I drop my bag at the bottom of the stairs and kick my shoes off, following the sound of Mum in the kitchen. I walk in and find Dad at the table with theFinancial Timesspread out, and Mum at the stove stirring a pot of something. Soup, by the smell of it. Leek and potato if I’m not mistaken.
“Smells good,” I say, as Dad looks up over his glasses, smiling.
“Darling.” He ushers me toward him with one hand, taking his glasses off with the other. “How is it the first time I’ve seen you today when it’s your birthday?”
I smile as I bend, letting him kiss my cheek. “You were still snoring when I left this morning.”
He snorts his disgust. “The only person who snores around here is your mother.”
“Dennis!” Mum gasps, outraged. “I do not snore.”
Dad winks and pulls me closer. “It’s getting worse,” he whispers. “Heavy breathing, she says. How was your spa day?”
Not what I expected.“Lovely.”
“Did you stop off at work on your way home?” he asks, looking up and down my dress.
“No, I stopped off on the way. I had a panicked client go into meltdown because the FTSE 100 opened on the wrong side of okay.”
His face goes straight back into his paper, and I roll my eyes. God forbid I talk about my career with my father. So I go to Mum, and she holds out her spoon, offering me a taste.
“Hmmm,” I hum, wiping the corner of my lip.
“More seasoning?” she asks.
“It’s perfect.” I pick up the bread knife and start slicing the fresh loaf. “How was your day at Abbie’s shop?”
“Oh, wonderful,” she chirps. “I never knew working could be so much fun.” Looking out the corner of my eye, I see her nose scrunch.
I gasp dramatically. “So not only did you do a day’s work, you enjoyed it?” I look over my shoulder to Dad, who still has his face buried in his newspaper. “Did you hear that, Dad? Mum went to work and actually enjoyed it. Outrageous.”
“What, darling?” he asks, looking up with high, telling brows, as Mum giggles again.
“Nothing,” I muse. He heard me. “What else is cooking?” I ask, piling the bread in the basket and opening the oven.
“Lamb hotpot. Your grandpa’s favourite.”
I close the oven. “Grandpa and Grandma are coming?”
“They’re here. In the lounge in their usual spots.” Of course they are. They’re always here. I head for the lounge to see them. “And Clark will be here soon with Rachel,” Mum calls.
I stop at the door, looking back. “A family dinner?” I ask. No one mentioned a family dinner.
“It’s your thirtieth!” Mum reminds me. “Of course we’re having a family dinner.”
I force a smile. “Wonderful.” I wanted to eat and go to my room to clear my inbox. Tomorrow is already going to be long. God damn it.
I carry on to the lounge and find Grandpa in his chair on one side of the fire, Grandma in hers on the other side. As always, he too has his face buried in theFinancial Times, keeping himself in the know, despite having retired long before Dad supposedly retired as well. Grandma’s knitting needles are going like the clappers. “Evening, you two.”
“The birthday girl!” Grandpa snaps his paper shut and tries to stand.
“Grandpa, stay,” I order, hurrying over.
“I’m not a dog, Amelia Gracie,” he grumbles, ignoring me and creaking up. “And I still have use of all bodily functions.”