Everything was going perfectly! Billy and Mabel were dressed and sitting nicely at the table and I decided to cook sausages! Knowing how much Roxster likes a full English breakfast!!
When Roxster appeared, looking fresh-faced and cheerful, Billy made no reaction and Mabel carried on eating, while staring solemnly at Roxster, never taking her eyes off him. Roxster laughed. ‘Hello, Billy. Hello, Mabel. I’m Roxster. Is there anything left for me?’
‘Mummy’s cooking sausages,’ said Billy, glancing towards the cooker. ‘Oh,’ he said, eyes lighting up. ‘They’re on fire!’
‘Dey’re on fire! Dey’re on fire!’ Mabel said happily. I rushed over to the cooker, followed by the children.
‘They’re not on fire,’ I said indignantly. ‘It’s just the fat underneath. The sausages are fine, they—’
The smoke alarm went off. Oddly, the smoke alarm had never gone off before. It was the loudest noise you’ve ever heard. Deafening.
‘I’ll try and find where it is,’ I said.
‘Maybe we should put the fire out first,’ bellowed Roxster, turning off the gas, removing the sausages and the tinfoil in a smooth movement, dumping them in the sink, shouting above the din, ‘Where’s the food-recycling bin?’
‘Over there!’ I said, looking frantically through various files on the cookery bookshelf to see if I could find the instruction leaflet for the smoke alarm. There was nothing apart from instructions for a Magimix, which we didn’t have any more. Also, where did the fire alarm, as it were, stem from? Suddenly looked round to see that everyone had disappeared. Where had they gone? Had they all collectively decided I was rubbish, and run off to live with Roxster and his flatmates, where they could play video games all day, uninterrupted, and eat perfectly barbecued sausages whilst listening to popular music which was actually current instead of Cat Stevens singing ‘Morning Has Broken’?
The smoke alarm stopped. Roxster appeared down the stairs, grinning.
‘Why has it stopped?’ I said.
‘I turned it off. There’s a code written on the box – which would be bad if you were a burglar, but good if you’re a toy boy and there are burning sausages.’
‘Where are the children?’
‘I think they went upstairs. Come here.’
He hugged me against his muscly shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just funny.’
‘I make such a bugger of things.’
‘No, you don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Fires, insect plagues, sort of thing which can happen to anyone.’ We started kissing. ‘We’d better stop this,’ he said, ‘or we’ll have more burning sausages to extinguish.’
We went upstairs in search of the children, to find they had calmly gone to their bedroom and were playing with their dinosaurs.
‘Well! Shall we go to school?’ I said brightly.
‘OK,’ said Billy, as if nothing at all unusual had happened.
So the motley crew of me, Billy, Mabel and Roxster emerged from the front door to be greeted by an uptight lady from up the road who looked suspiciously and said, ‘Have you had a fire?’
‘You betcha, baby,’ said Roxster. ‘Bye, Billy. Bye, Mabel.’
‘Bye, Roxster,’ they said cheerfully at which he patted me on the bottom and headed off to the tube.
But now, maybe I am having a panic attack. Does this mean things are moving to a more serious level? And surely is inadvisable to have Roxster bond with the children in case . . . Maybe I will text him and invite him to Talitha’s party!
10.35 a.m. Impulsively sent text: <Talitha has invited you to her glamorous 60th birthday party on May 24th. Will be v. glam with LOTS OF FOOD! Do you fancy going?> – but now instantly regretting.
10.36 a.m. No reply. Did not mention had remembered was Roxster’s thirtieth same night (lest thought self stalker-esquely focused on him), but why did I say sixtieth? Why? What could be more off-putting? Why cannot one delete sent texts?