Mr Adams. Hot dad. Or as he would have me call him, Mac.
It’s such a manly name. Again, maybe that’s just me. But when he’s home, I’m so aware of his presence. One minute, he’s gruff and a little daunting, and the next, he’s sort of sweet and attentive. And that was just last night—our first night together. Not together-together. Wouldn’t that be something. No. Not going there because, well, I imagine he wouldn’t be interested in a twenty-three-year-old virgin, either.
Dinner last night was pizza. Who doesn’t love pizza? Mac and Louis, apparently. It seems the pair have been living on takeaway for a while, so today I’ve resolved to take Louis shopping to show me what he likes. Not that I ran this past his father this morning. He didn’t seem up for conversation, leaving before seven, mostly mute and bleary-eyed. He did, however, leave a wad of twenties on the kitchen counter for ‘stuff’, along with a set of keys. He’s a man of few words. And mostly very gruff.
We haven’t discussed the terms of my contract yet, and cooking an evening meal wouldn’t normally be my responsibility, but seeing as he works away from the home and I work in the home and like to cook—and eat—I don’t mind taking over this area of the household occasionally.
‘Il faut ranger tes jouets avant qu’on sorte.’ You must tidy away your toys before we go out.
I look around for the storage boxes found in family homes everywhere. Toy boxes emblazoned with children’s names or the more inconspicuous baskets and boxes to match the interior of the home.
‘What are you looking for?’ Louis asks, gathering an armful of cars. A child-sized armful that barely makes a dent in the detritus.
‘Where are the baskets or boxes?’
‘Quels paniers?’ What baskets?
‘Where do your toys go when you’re not playing with them?’ I ask him, carrying on the conversation in French.
‘On the floor,’ the little boy answers as though it’s obvious. He has a point, I suppose. ‘I have boxes,’ he then tells me. ‘At my other house.’
Ah. ‘Has your daddy just moved?’
‘Non.’
Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser. Come to think of it, there seems to be a distinct lack of small child . . . stuff. Lots of toys, but not much else. No little stool to stand on in the bathroom, no child-sized table for drawing or Play-Doh—no plastic plates or crockery. Nothing like that at all.
The temptation to ask questions is great. But that would be prying. And wrong.
‘Well,’ I say with a sigh, ‘looks like we’ll have to leave the place a mess.’
Dropping the cars, Louis laughs as if that’s the best idea ever.
We catch the bus to the supermarket, to buy all the sings, according to Louis, and catch an Uber back home, arms full of veggies and meat, noodles and soft, creamy French cheese. And three baskets to make a home for the toys.
Then we take Trouble for a short walk to the park before I start on dinner. Louis’s mother wasn’t wrong. Charles Rififi is a terror of a dog who seems to think he’s the size of a bull mastiff rather than a squirrel. Our trip is short lived, though traumatising, and as I pick up the mutt to carry him home, I make a note on my phone to remind me to google local dog training classes.
‘There you are!’ Mac’s deep voice calls from inside as I open the front door. ‘I was getting worried.’
‘We went to the park, and Charles barked at the gooses, and he chased the gooses, and then the gooses turned and barked at him. And then the gooses chased him and then Charles barked at a big dog, like this, woof!’ Screwing his little fists by his side, Louis draws in his brows to imitate the mutt before continuing his stream of consciousness. All the while, his father’s expression morphs from stunned to pleased to sort of discomforted. ‘And then Waf picked him up and told him his is naughty little wodent, and then—’
‘Why don’t you go wash your hands, Louis,’ I cut in. ‘Then you can help me with the vegetables.’
‘Vegebabals. Yuck!’
‘Go wash your hands, big man. Then you can tell me about the rest of your adventures.’
‘Like the turkles in the sewers? They have adventures.’ Then, with an acrobatic display of his superhero moves, Louis hop, skips, and rolls to the family bathroom, all the while making manly superhero-esque calls. Sort of.
‘Hee-ha-hoo!’
‘Where is my son and what have you done to him?’ Mac’s current expression is easier to read, a smile hiding in one corner of his mouth. His full, gorgeous mouth.
‘Well,’ I begin, ‘we met some gypsies on the way to—’
‘You’d score zero marks on political correctness.’
‘I suppose this isn’t the time to tell you I’m both a card-carrying Satanist and a member of the I-love-fascism club?’ He chuckles as I roll my eyes and add, ‘Fine. Just for you, we saw some travelling folk in the park, so I swapped your kid for one of theirs. Is that okay?’