‘You make me so angry, you sanctimonious bawheaded—’
As Ivy looks about to blow her top, Mac makes, what could be, a tactical mistake as he begins laughing.
‘Macormac!’ she screeches. ‘Go deep throat a cactus!’
‘Is that any way to speak to your brother!’ June exclaims from her wheelchair, arriving at the scene.
I’d met Natasha’s granny earlier in the day, along with Sam, her nurse. At the time, it struck me as odd that a woman as frail and elderly as June would have a male nurse—and a handsome one at that—but when her bright blue eyes had winked at me as she’d pinched his bottom when he bent to straighten the blanket over her lap, it made perfect sense.
It seems the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in Natasha’s case.
‘And you think your family is bad,’ Mac says, catching my attention.
I say nothing. My family is bad. At least, my stepmother is. I still don’t know whether she set up my original interview with Mac as a way of ingratiating herself to him, or simply because she wanted his address. To pop in uninvited. Probably while popping out of her push-up bra. But what I do know is she hinted to Mac that I’d had some kind of affair with the father of my Parisienne charges. Maybe if she’d shown the slightest bit of interest in my life, she might have realised that lie wasn’t going to work. I’d worked for a woman; a single mother of twins. Mac was already in possession of my references, including one from Isobel, should he have cared to check. The main thing is, he saw her for what she is.
‘But he is bawheaded,’ Ivy replies, pointing at Mac. ‘And stubborn and . . . and . . .’
‘A good brother,’ interjects June. She pats the side of her mouth with her lacy white handkerchief, her voice reed thin. I understand she recently had a stroke but is said to be doing well. ‘And Mac is a bonnie son. And now a father.’ Each word spoken becomes more strident, her emotions high. ‘And a good one, fore by! Same as your man here—same as Dylan!’ But then, June’s tone softens, her expression warming as she looks at Dylan and Mac in turn. ‘They’re both good men, Ivy. And even the best of men make mistakes.’
Ivy falls silent. In fact, we all do. Whether out of respect for June or reflecting on her passion, I’m not sure. And as I watch the man I love, he seems to be about to speak, but June beats him to it.
‘Even the best of men,’ she repeats, ‘make mistakes. ’Cause after all, they’re only men. Y’ can’nae expect too much, aye?’
Laughter breaks out around us, and Ivy grumbles about the thick-heidedness of men when June speaks again.
‘Oh. I see something.’ With an air of mystery and circumstance, June holds her hand out for me to take. ‘It’s the second sight,’ she says somewhat airily. ‘I’ve said it before, but it seems I got the message a wee bit wrong. It’s you, dearie, not Ivy that’s carrying twins.’
‘Oh, no. I think you’re mistaken.’ I laugh nervously as I try to extract my hand from hers, but she’s freakishly strong for someone in her eighties.
‘I don’t think so,’ she replies gleefully.
But no, she is wrong. Apart from that one night—okay, maybe the first couple of nights—Mac and I have been super careful. And I’d even done a couple of tests! And, yes, I’ll admit to feeling a little disappointed that I wasn’t pregnant. But that’s just crazy talk. The result of good sex. And a dose of nature. And hormones. And stuff.
I look down at my hand in her papery looking ones, though I can’t resist a quick glance at Mac. But he’s just smiling, as if the idea of me being pregnant not-so-secretly pleases him.
Huh. Pleases him and pleases me, but I roll my lips inward to prevent me from smiling. Speaking. Or any of that stuff.
‘I’m free!’ exclaims Ivy, laughing. ‘Twins are a blessing, so long as they’re not mine. Especially as one of those twins is to be named June Euphemia!’
‘I love my name!’ June declares. ‘Lucky is the bairn who’s named June Euphemia.’
‘Unless it’s a boy,’ replies Natasha.
Those around us dissolve into fits of laughter. Though not Mac and me. But we are still smiling . . .
Epilogue II
Six Months Later
MAC
‘What does Mummy like with her crackers, again?’ I turn, hearing Louis’s slipper-shod feet scuffing against the floors.
‘She likes the smelly blue cheese,’ he says with a yawn. ‘The one you say makes her mouth smell like dirty feet,’ he qualifies sleepily. ‘But she said she couldn’t have none no more. Maybe ’cause she ate it all?’ He climbs up onto the high stool, giving me a very Gallic shrug, the light from the fridge illuminating his wee face.