Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Good thing Clodagh is cute.
“He’s only the favorite ’cause he’s not here,” Letty says.
“Fair fucks,” I agree.
Seb is visiting Hugo, who plays midfield for Real Madrid, which is probably part of the reason he hasn’t settled down. Hugh is a footballing god over there—everywhere he goes, he’s trailed by wannabe WAGs. Ironic, given he wants neither wife nor regular girlfriend. Ironic and unfair. He doesn’t want a girlfriend, and I can’t keep one.
“As in, not here teaching my child unsavory words.” Letty pinches me again.
“Shit—I mean, ow! What in the name of arse was that for?”
“Guess,” Letty demands as she draws the sides of her cardigan closer, suddenly the very image of our mother. Not that I’d say so because I prefer not to wear my testicles as earrings. This divorce is really doing a number on her. It seems to have sucked all the fun out of her.
And my guess? I glance down at Clo. “Sorry,” I offer.
“That’s three more times, Uncle Matty.” Clo holds up three stubby fingers.
“Ah, come on,” I cajole. “That last one didn’t count. Arse isn’t really a bad word. No worse than ass, at least—which they say a lot where you’ve been living.”
“They don’t say ath a whole lot in kindergarten.” Clodagh gives a twist of the lips that’s far too sardonic for someone who’s yet to reach the age of six. “Uncle Matty? Why does Uncle Seb say you get more ath than a toilet theat?”
“Oh, for feck’s sake,” Letty mutters, rolling her eyes.
“What does that mean?” Clo persists.
“It means you shouldn’t listen to your uncle.” I sweep her up into my arms, which is no easy task, thanks to the hoops of her sunshine-yellow princess dress. “Haven’t I told you all boys are idiots? Especially Uncle Seb.”
“You got that right,” Letty murmurs.
Clo begins to giggle as I swing her around, almost knocking an original George Condo off the wall. But the sound is enough to lighten anyone’s heart.
“Put her down.” Though the words are delivered like a complaint, my sister’s expression is merry as she sweeps up Clo’s coat. “Let’s get you into this.”
“That’s a bit small for me. Oh, well.” I stick out my hand as though I’m about to put it on.
“Uncle Matty, that’s not your coat!”
“Isn’t it?”
“You’re too big!” Clo answers through a delightful-sounding giggle. “Anyway, printheth don’t wear no coat.”
“Prin . . . princesses don’t wear coats?”
This kid needs a speech therapist. Maybe I should’ve paid for sessions instead of theater tickets for Chrithmath. I mean, Christmas. “That’s because princesses don’t live in London in January,” I say, taking the woolen duffle coat from Letty and shaking it out. “In you get.”
“Thucks,” she complains, shoving her fist into the armhole.
“Clodagh!” her mother chastises.
“Well, it does. You gonna wear a coat, Uncle Matty?”
“I most certainly am.” To hide this ridiculous getup, if nothing else. I pull my phone from my pocket as it buzzes with a text. “Car’s here.”
“You sure you don’t wanna wear the matching pants?” Letty taunts as I slide my phone back. “Personally, I think the golden edging was very fetching.”
I send her a less-than-friendly look as Clodagh begins to bounce on the spot.
“And the boots! Please, please! We’ll look like we’re going to the ball!”
“They don’t fit, remember? My feet are bigger than Uncle Seb’s?”
“You mean your ath,” my sister adds with a snicker.
“Jealousy is very unbecoming, pancake pants,” I reply, patting my sister on the head.
“But you gotta give me the wothe,” Clo says, cutting off her mother’s—judging by her expression—unpleasant response.
“The what?”
“The wothe,” Clo repeats, her hip jutted and her palm facing the ceiling. She eyes me like she thinks I’m an idiot. My vacant expression probably confirms her suspicions.
“Belle needs a wothe, Uncle Matty.”
“Uncle Matty doesn’t have a rose for you, baby. He’s never seen the movie,” Letty says softly, “so he didn’t know to bring one.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the guts watching Clodagh’s little face fall. She’s already been let down twice today by the men in her life. Once when her father forgot to call, and the other when fuckin’ Seb conveniently forgot their plans. Ah, fuck it.
“Not a problem,” I say, scooping her up again. “We’ll stop at a flower shop on the way.”
After we’ve secured a red rose, Dave, the driver, drops us as near as permitted to the theater. As he pulls away from the curb and the stupid satin sash whips me in the face, I realize I’ve left my coat on the seat.
Fucking thing, I think as I tuck the shiny piece of shit one-handed into the belt. At least it isn’t raining, or snowing, I decide as I take Clodagh’s hand. I’m not sure I would’ve gotten my coat on anyway, not with the size of these feckin’ shoulder pads and epaulets.