Page 14 of C is for Comfort

She grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and throws it at me, which I deserve.

I catch it and take a bite. “Thanks. Nice apple.” I lean on the breakfast bar and watch as she whisks the pancake mixture together. “I don’t want to settle down. I’m happy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Face it, Em. Your brother’s a confirmed bachelor.”

“If they did a gay version of The Bachelor, would you go on it?”

“I don’t watch that show.” Reality TV is not my thing, especially when it involves unrealistically gorgeous people vying for one person’s attention. It’s so fake.

“Is that a no?”

“That’s a hell no.”

We have this conversation a lot. She’s convinced that because she’s happy with a husband and two point four children that I must be miserable. But I’m quite happy to have my king-sized bed all to myself, except when I choose to bring a guy home for some fun. I like being able to leave my dirty laundry lying around and to not bother doing dishes for a day or two if I’m too tired. I like being able to watch what I want when I want, and I like having lie-ins without having noisy—but adorable—kids jumping all over me. As well as Hamish’s monthly parties, I’m also on a couple of hook-up apps, one of which is specifically for people into kink to meet each other. It’s not hard to find someone who wants their arse spanking and is happy to call me Daddy for a night.

“On the other hand, if I had someone to cook me pancakes every morning, I wouldn’t say no.”

“That’s called a chef, Spence, not a boyfriend.”

“Oh. Someone to clean and do my dishes?”

“A cleaner.”

“Huh. I guess that’s where I’m going wrong.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And yet you start this conversation with me every time I visit.”

“That’s because you only visit when you’ve been out having sex with strangers.”

“What’s sex?” Robbie asks from the doorway.

Emily’s face goes bright red.

“I’ve got this,” I say.

“Don’t you dare.”

“It’s fine. I’m a doctor.”

Emily grumbles under her breath as I crouch down in front of Robbie.

“When grown-ups love each other, they’re share a special kind of cuddle.”

“Only grown-ups?”

“Yes. It’s a type of cuddling just for grown-ups.”

“When will I be grown up?”

“In twenty years,” Emily says.

“Only twenty?” I tease.

She glares at me and slams the frying pan onto the hob.