Page 54 of The Interview

“What?” the four of them, including George, who’s been very quiet so far, say in unison.

“What can we do for the victims? I’ll talk to the mental health team on Monday. Let’s get something set up to run alongside the ad campaign—somewhere for victims to go with expertsfor them to talk to. I’m sure there are government-funded organisations, but we’re better placed financially to do more. George, can you look into what’s out there? Find the gaps. Lu, can you look into getting designers on board? H, you can handle the clubs. Kiks, you can work with the Triple M marketing team.”

My kids stare at me. Two mouths are wide open—Harry and George’s—One is opening and closing—Kiki—While Tallulah’s is closed, her eyes narrowed on me and her hand on her hip.

“I woke up this morning thinking, finally, Saint Georgia cheated on her husband with my dad and ain’t such a saint after all. Then, despite everything else you’ve got going on right now, you dive headfirst into this. Don’t even bat a lash extension, just fully support us while giving us free rein.”

“Don’t say ain’t. There’s no such word.”

Cam’s arms tighten, and this time it’s him who braces.

“Thanks, Mum, Dad, for backing us on this,” H interjects.

Cam holds up his palms in surrender. “This one’s all yours. We’ll back you, but you four need to put in the work to make it happen.”

Our kids make their way around the desk, and we both get a kiss and a cuddle from each of them before they leave the room, talking loudly amongst themselves.

“Love the fuck out of you, Kitten.”

“Fuck me, T, I’ve not got much in my life right, but we did a good job with those four. Love you, too.”

I turn and look up at him. It’s not often my husband cries, but right now, his eyes are shining brightly with tears.

“We had none, then we had four. And don’t swear.”

“We’re so fucking lucky.”

“Kitten! Language! Beyond lucky,” he says as he kisses my cheek. “And they’re equally lucky to have you.”

“Us,” I correct him. “Teamwork makes the dream work, baby.”

Cam turns his chair so we can take in the view of the paddock to the side of our house, and we both remain silent for a long moment.

“Did they say anything else? Anything about us, what we did?” I ask.

“The boys had a bit to say before the girls came down, about me, not you. Told me I must’ve had some kind of rizz when I was younger—whatever the fuck that means—to have pulled you in the first place, then to have got you cheating on the rock star.”

“You’re not supposed to smile while you tell me that. I bet there were high fives all round.”

He presses his lips together as he tries not to smile, shrugs, and says, “Fist bumps, maybe.”

I shake my head. “And rizz means charisma, by the way.”

“What?” His dark brows pull together in confusion. “Why? How?”

“Char-ris-ma: Rizz,” I explain.

“But there’s no Z, so it should be ris.”

“The rules of proper English don’t necessarily apply to slang and colloquialisms.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I’m cool, and you’re old.”

“Do I need to give you another lesson with my dick on how oldI’m not?” he asks while burying kisses into the side of my neck.

I let him, devouring every second of his attention, revelling in the sense of safety I feel wrapped in his arms. Again, feeling grateful for what we have, that at fifty-six, I still feel this level of passion for my husband, that we still can’t keep our hands off each other, and that we’re still irrevocably in love.