Today's Reading
When Dan left, he took some lamps and two side tables that I haven't replaced. The furniture I do have is inoffensive and neutral, mainly chosen for its durability or price tag rather than any coordinated vision. The bookshelves are overloaded with jigsaws and board games that the children have outgrown, and the foot of this L-shaped room still holds Jess's old play kitchen and a dresser full of long-forgotten toys. Everything is tidy enough, but also cluttered and chaotic.
"Sorry about the mess," I say to Lottie, pushing a box of Lego beneath the sofa with my foot.
"Don't be silly, I love your house, it feels so lived-in," she says, but then, looking around, adds, "Though if you did ever want to redecorate, I could help you do a spring clean. We could make a weekend of it."
"Thanks, but it's not really a priority right now," I say, wondering, somewhat meanly, how long Lottie's beautifully curated aesthetic will last when she has a toddler roaming the house. Lottie only shrugs, undeterred by my rejection of every one of her suggestions.
"This is the client I told you about, Fergus," she says, opening her phone and leaning over to show me a picture of a man with gray hair and designer stubble. "He's fifty-four but looks younger. What do you think?"
"I think he looks fifty-four and like he would tell me a lot of information about pecans," I say as my cat, Katniss, jumps onto my lap and starts purring appreciatively as I stroke her head.
"Fifty-four isn't that old. What's your cutoff?" Lottie asks.
"I don't have a cutoff, because I'm not looking to meet someone. What is it with married people and their assumption that all single people must be just yearning to get back into a coupled state? People are not chopsticks; they do work alone."
"Okay, I know, but humor me. Who else is there? What about your hot neighbor? He's your age, that would be 'so' convenient," Lottie says, tucking her legs beneath her like a dainty doll. "I know it's tragic and everything, but there is something so romantic about a young widower."
"Noah? Ha! Noah has the social skills of a spoon."
"Okay, what about at work?" Lottie asks. "Who's that tall, sexy guy with the glasses? The one I met when I took you for lunch that time?"
"Will Havers? Um, no," I say, pulling my lips into a grimace.
"Yes, him! What's wrong with him?"
"Where do I start? He's arrogant and entitled, way too young—"
"What is he? Late twenties? People wouldn't think twice about a thirty-eight-year-old man dating a twenty-eight-year-old woman," Lottie says, sloshing her drink into her lap as she gesticulates.
"I know, but regardless of age, he's not my type."
"You don't have a type, you had a Dan."
She might be right, but my patience with this conversation has expired.
"Will Havers is a serial dater who objectifies women. I know for a fact he only dates girls under thirty-three and over five foot eight. He wears shirts monogrammed with his initials, thinks he's God's gift to journalism, can't pass a mirror without checking himself out, and he mansplains in meetings." I finish my rant, exhale loudly, then take a large swig of wine. Lottie grins. "What?"
"For someone you have zero interest in, you seem to know quite a lot about this man," she says, raising an eyebrow at me. "At least we're narrowing down your age bracket: younger than fifty-four, older than twenty-eight." Lottie taps her nose and gives me a sly grin. "I'm just happy to hear you sound so passionate."
"I am not passionate about Will Havers," I say, throwing a cushion at her. She bites back a smile as she hands me the bowl of crisps. Just as I think the Spanish Inquisition might be over and I might be allowed to enjoy a peaceful evening, we hear the sound of two baby elephants thundering down the stairs.
"Auntie Lottie! I told you I heard her," Ethan yells as he dives onto the sofa beside her. "Can we play poker?" Ethan is only seven, but Lottie has been teaching him all the card games she knows. She is one of those fun aunts who loves board games and knows how to make papier-mâché.
"Not poker. Maybe a quick game of Uno, then straight back to bed. It is a school night," I tell him.
"I'm brilliant at Uno," Ethan tells us.
"Mum always cheats at Uno," says Jess, who, at twelve, has taken up a new hobby—criticizing everything I do.
"I do not," I say, giving up my chair and moving to sit on the floor.
"Uno, Uno, Uno!" Lottie chants, and I see I am outnumbered.
"Ooh, crisps," says Ethan, taking the bowl from my lap.
This excerpt ends on page 16 of the paperback edition.
Monday we begin the book Remember When: Clarissa's Story by Mary Balogh.
...
