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He hadn’t been wrong about the colour; its fur a kind of salmon pink. The thing sits on the floor, just out of the line of Dan’s sight, staring up at me with a malevolent eye as Dan leans over the bed.
‘Shit!’
Jumping up, he grabs his jeans from the floor, stabbing his legs into them.
‘I thought we were in the middle of something,’ I demand, rolling onto my back. ‘You’re going to neglect me in case you offend the cat?’
‘It’s not the cat that bothers me,’ he explains. His hair falls across his forehead not quite concealing his deepening frown. ‘She’s usually one half of a pair.’ His words are called over his shoulder as he disappears through the open bedroom door.
‘You have two cats?’ I sit bolt straight. Surely not... the cat can’t be accompanied by his ex-wife?Did they both have visiting rights?
‘No.’ Dan’s head appears around the door, his expression contrite. ‘I’m sorry, but the furry fucker is usually accompanied by my son.’
Chapter Eight
LOUISE
Sitting on the bed, my mind is blank. I’ve no idea what to make of this turn of events. Sure, this is only our second... date? Assignation? But aren’t parents supposed to be inordinately proud of their offspring? Why wouldn’t he have mentioned him?
Because you’re just a temporary attraction, my mind whispers. And not around long enough to matter. I pull the duvet up over my legs because what else am I expected to do? Other than my tank top and bra, my clothes are in the kitchen. Along with Dan. And a child of indeterminate age. One—my clothes—I need in order to leave, the other—namely Dan—deserves a kick in the nuts. But I can’t do either draped as I am in a duvet.
‘Fuck my life,’ I whisper to the empty room.
Pulling the bedding over my head, I fling myself back against the pillows, growling words about fatherless persons having intimate relations with their mothers. Arms and legs straight, I pummel my fists and heels against the mattress, groaning from anger and frustration.
Something lands on my legs; maybe I hear a murmured apology? By the time I’m once again upright and free of the sheet, the door is ajar, but Dan has already gone.
‘Why is your friend asleep in the daytime? Who tucked her in? Is she a very fun friend? Did you play any games when she was awake?’ A solid stream of consciousness spews from the kitchen as I approach the door.
‘Which question do I answer first?’ Dan’s tone is wry and amused. ‘And grown-ups don’t play games. Mostly.’
Oh, Dan. That isn’t true.
‘When Tom sleeps over, we stay awake almost all night,’ the higher voice admits. From my position in the hallway, I inch closer, wondering what the child knows.
‘Does Mummy know?’ asks Dan in a calm tone.
‘Mummy said you had someone over to play,’ the child chides. ‘She told Charles you’d be doing a new friend. I think she meant making, though.’
‘Did she indeed.’ It isn’t a question. Not really. ‘What I meant was, does she know that you stay awake?’
‘I don’t think so. Her bedroom door is always locked. I think they like to watch grown-up TV alone. Did you play Xbox with your friend?’
Pushing the door fully open, I enter the room, reminding myself that I’m a grown-up, and as such, I should appear calm and confident. I’m not certain I manage much more than tense with a small measure of sheepishness thrown in.
I so don’t get kids, and I don’t know anyone with them. As the thought arises, I quash it, reminding myself I don’t really know Dan.
A small boy in Batman pajamas sits at the table where Dan had fucked me sometime earlier this evening. Thankfully, the child was at the other end, the dinner dishes cleared away. But still, the contrast between the act of our passion and the boy’s soap-scented innocence makes me feel a little ill.
Dirty. Illicit. Those thoughts aren’t always fun.
Blissfully ignorant of the sordid relationship between the wood and sex, the small boy continues spooning what looks suspiciously like chocolate pebbles into his mouth with a large, plastic spoon. With an inarticulate noise, chocolately lumps spray across the table, joining the half-spilled box and a puddle of milk.
The noise, without the cereal explosion, might’ve beenhello. Hedging my bets, I murmur the appropriate response, bending to pick up my shoes.
‘Hal, this is Louise, my very special friend.’ Daniel stands farther into the kitchen, guarded by the island bench. He holds a phone in his hand as he addresses his son, though surely he can’t miss the venomous look I send his way. Turning from him, I slip my feet into my shoes.
‘How do you do?’ the little boy intones.
