Page 18

ROSIE

I’m chopping peppers when my mother rings. I wipe my hands on a towel and place it on speakerphone

“Hello,” I answer. “Sorry, I’m hands-free while I cook.”

“What are you making?”

“Risotto.”

“Just for you?”

“I’m making a big batch,” I tell her, stirring the rice in my cast iron pot and not sure how to tell her that I’m cooking for my six foot five baby daddy who eats enough for three people.

The bright orange casserole pot is a knock-off of the Le Creuset that Cleo got one year.

I asked for one for myself the year after and got this instead.

I can’t complain though. She uses hers for decoration, but I use mine nearly every week.

I’d end up using a real one so much that it would lose its color or scratch the base.

“You know you have to double the recipe for that?” Mum reprimands. “You need to add protein. You always need to add protein to your diet, you can’t survive on just vegetables.”

“Yes, I know I’ve got tofu. ”

“You should just use chicken, it’s much nicer with real meat.”

I sigh but continue chopping. I’ve been a vegetarian for almost nine years now, but we have this argument every time.

“I don’t have chicken, I have tofu,” I say patiently.

Mum huffs down the line, so I divert before she can turn it into another lecture about how every meal needs meat, veg and carbs.

“Are you up to anything nice this weekend?”

“We’re in the city for the day,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. They hardly ever come to London, preferring the countryside and their small town. Dad gets stressed driving through the city but refuses to take a train, so it’s typically a rare occurrence. “You should have said, I would have come and met you somewhere.”

“It was a last minute decision.”

“Is Cleo with you?” I ask.

“Hmm?” she answers distractedly. I can hear my Dad’s low voice on the other side of the line as her attention is pulled away.

“I said, is Cleo with you?”

I tip my peppers into the pot and adjust the heat as I hear a low mumble in the background. “I’ll let you go, Mum,” I raise my voice to be heard over her other conversation.

I don’t get a reply before the phone line goes dead.

I nod my head. Sounds about right. I still haven’t told her about the baby, but whenever we have one sided conversations like this I remind myself why I haven’t.

I lose myself in my cooking, Michael Kiwanuka’s voice serenading me through my speaker. When I’m nearly finished, I hear the buzz of the intercom .

Jackson’s early. I quickly down my tools and cross to the phone, letting him up without waiting for a reply.

I quickly turn the burners off and wipe my hands on my towel just as a knock sounds at the door.

I fix my frazzled hair, which has escaped the messy bun I threw it up in, before swinging the door open with a smile.

A smile that drops at the sight of my parents and sister standing at the door with expectant faces.

“Well?” Mum asks, with a quirked brow as I freeze on the doorstep. “Are you letting us in or making us stand here like solicitors?”

Wordlessly, I step backwards and allow them in. We’re not a hugging family so I hold onto the door for longer than necessary just for something to do with my hands.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We couldn’t decide on a restaurant so decided risotto sounded nice. Don’t worry, I bought some chicken from the shop that you can add in.”

What?

I’m so stunned by the presence of my family in the flat that they’ve never been to before to even compute the words.

“Uhm, I?—”

“Where do you keep your chopping boards?” Mum asks, rummaging through the cupboards as if they aren’t propped up on the side.

I turn helplessly to my dad, hoping he’ll help me make sense of the situation, but he’s already pulled out a seat at the head of the table and is thumbing through his phone.

My attention is pulled to Cleo, who’s wandering closer to the living room, her silky blonde hair swinging behind her.

I rush after her, cutting her off. “What are you doing here? ”

She sends me a saccharine smile between full lips, as if we haven’t avoided being in the same room for the last ten months. “Why so stressy, Rosa-pee? You’re so jumpy.” The nickname grates over my skin the same way it has since I was eight years old.

Cleo had let me join her birthday sleepover with all her friends.

We had fun, watching films and stuffing our faces with chocolate.

Until we woke up the next morning and Cleo poured her water bottle on my sleeping bag and told the other girls I’d had an accident in my sleep.

I had spent the rest of the day locked myself in my room crying and the nickname stuck.

I brush away the memory to focus on the more pressing matters. Like getting rid of all the evidence of Jackson or the baby that I possibly can.

“Cleo, come look at this,” Mum calls. I dread to think what she’s found that they can comment on in the kitchen, but I know more trouble can be found in every other room in the flat.

As soon as Cleo swans back to the kitchen, I fly around the room grabbing every baby book, spare item of Jackson’s clothes and the pillow he’s taken to sleeping on when it’s too late to drive back to his hotel and hide them in my bedroom wardrobe.

If only every time I cleaned I was this frantic. I could actually get quite a lot done.

When I’m sure every item of baby paraphernalia or male belongings are out of sight, I return to the kitchen. My mother has taken over my cooking and my nearly perfect risotto now has large chunks of unseasoned, cooked chicken floating on the top.

I take a deep breath even as my stomach lurches, and I shakily take a seat at the table .

“So, what have you been doing today?” I ask my dad, desperate to fill the tense silence.

“Hmm?” he asks distractedly, lifting his eyes from his screen.

“By all means Rosalie, sit down, relax. I’ll do all the work shall I?” Mum snaps from the stove top.

My stomach sinks as I rise to my feet, my once organized kitchen and nearly finished meal now chaotic and busy. “I can do it,” I say, sliding next to her and attempting to take the spoon out of her hand.

“It’s fine, you get the drinks.”

I press my lips together and head to the fridge, removing the drinks and bringing four to the table.

“No alcohol?” Cleo asks, in a sugary sweet voice that makes my skin crawl.

I shake my head. “Haven’t been to the shop for a while.”

Dad sighs heavily as he takes a sip of his Coke. “It’s fine.”

I grit my teeth but ignore them, taking a sip of my drink and attempting to calm my racing heart.

How have I lost control of the situation so quickly?

I’m not used to them descending on me like this, they’ve never even been here before.

I wouldn’t even be sure that they knew my address if it wasn’t for the fact they had to forward on letters that arrived home by mistake.

My phone buzzes on the counter and I nearly choke on my drink as I dart towards it before my mum–or God forbid, Cleo –picks it up for me.

I swipe it off the side and escape to my bedroom before answering.

“Hello,” I breathe into the phone.

“Hey pretty girl, you okay?”

I take a full breath for the first time since my parents barged into my house. “Uh?— ”

“What’s up?” Jackson asks, on full alert.

“My family is here.”

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “I didn’t know they were coming over.”

“Neither did I,” I mutter.

“You need some backup?”

I take a deep breath. Backup sounds really nice right about now, but I can’t ask him to do that. He’s already done enough for me. I can’t ask him to rush to my aid when all that’s happened is an impromptu dinner with my stressful family.

“No, no, it’s fine. Just thrown me off a little. I can let you know when they leave.”

He hums on the other line. “Okay pretty girl. But you let me know if you need me. Send me a codeword or something. Oh, text me ‘Glitterball’ and I’ll rush right over.”

“Can’t it be something like SOS? It’s a classic for a reason.”

Jackson scoffs. “Don’t be so basic, Rosie. We’ve got our own secret code. It’s perfect.”

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have since I opened the door. I’ll get through this and they’ll leave soon. Plus, now I have backup on standby. I’ve got this.

“Okay, I’ll text you.”

“Good girl,” he says in a low voice and I have to squeeze my thighs together. Not now, I scold my horny inner self. This is so not the time.

“I’ll call you back when they’re gone.”

“Good luck.”

I hang up the phone and straighten my spine. I once read that if you stand in a superhero pose for a few seconds, it tricks your brain into thinking you’re confident. So I stand there like Wonder Woman and take a few deep breaths before returning to the kitchen.

My family are sat at the table, each with a bowl of risotto in front of them.

“Who was that?” Cleo asks innocently.

Before I can come up with a lie, Mum says, “We didn’t know how long you’d be so didn’t want to waste it.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, before spooning some of the risotto into my bowl.

This was supposed to be a week’s worth of lunch but there’s probably only one portion left.

Plus, since partially cooked, processed chicken was added, I don’t even know if I can have it.

Never mind the vegetarian in me, the baby in me is almost certainly not allowed processed meat.

Maybe I can eat around it? I think miserably as I sit at my table. Not wanting to bring attention to the culinary dilemma I’m facing, I stir my food around in my bowl.

“So,” Cleo starts and I glance at her warily. It’s always tense the moment before she opens her mouth. I never know what she’s going to say but I brace anyway. “How have you been Rosie?” She asks the question so earnestly that I’m shocked for a second.

“Uh, good. I’ve been good, you know, just working.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I furrow my brow. “No.” My voice is firm even if I’m not as convinced myself. I’m seeing Jackson often and in a lot of different positions.

Oh, and I’m having his baby in four months.

“Rosalie, there’s far too much butter in this, no wonder it looks like you’ve gone up a size,” Mum scolds, barely looking up from her dish.

I suck in a breath as Cleo grins into her drink.

“This table is wobbly,” Dad announces, shaking the table and causing the bowls to rattle on the wood. “You should fix these things before they get too loose, it’s a hazard.”

“I can’t believe you can even fit a six person table in this kitchen,” Cleo says, leaning back in her chair and glancing around. “It’s so…quaint.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out under the table.

Jackson

Proof of life please

I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips.

I type before I can help myself.

ME

glitterba

Before I can finish typing, Mum snaps, “Rosalie, get off the phone at the dinner table.”

My thumb nudges the screen as I hasten to lock it.

I turn back to my food, pushing it around my plate.

Then, the handle turns on the front door and Jackson Harper walks into my kitchen with a smile.

“Hello, Taylors.”