‘Now it really is bedtime,’ I say, hugging him back.
‘Can I keep it on for a just a few more minutes?’
‘Sure, don’t touch it too much though, the plaster isn’t quite dry.’
As I’m walking out of the door, Felix jumps up and throws his arms around me. ‘That was the best birthday ever. Thanks, Mummy.’
‘You’re welcome, darling boy,’ I whisper back.
On my way to bed I send Roisin a message and photo of Felix beaming behind his cake: One happy boy! Wish you were here too. x
Chapter 31
On Monday morning, Felix and I are at the school gates waiting for Mrs Fremantle as soon as she arrives. I’m holding the heart, now dry and pulsing in a cardboard box.
‘Mrs Fremantle, please can I have a quick word?’ I ask.
She stops, surprised.
‘Felix finally finished his heart assignment. I know it’s late but . . .’
Mrs Fremantle takes her glasses off and peers into the box.
‘Felix, you really did this?’
‘I helped him put it together, but the design was all his. He spent hours on it.’ I stare at Mrs Fremantle, willing her not to disappoint my son.
‘It’s wonderful, Felix. Highly commendable.’
‘Can I enter it in the project fair tomorrow?’ Felix asks.
‘It’s a little late, I’m afraid. The entries have all been decided.’
My boy looks crestfallen. ‘And the purpose of the fair, Mrs Fremantle?’ I ask, following her as she walks towards the school, eager to get inside. ‘On your website it says it’s to engender a love of creating, of problem solving, a passion for art and science. Well, I’ve never seen Felix more enthusiastic about coming to school than he was this morning, wanting to show you this.’
Please, please, please let him have this.
‘Fine.’ Mrs Fremantle sighs. ‘But it needs to be in the school display first thing tomorrow. You’ll need to make your own signage; I don’t have time to design more.’
Once she’s gone, Felix and I high-five each other.
I take the model back to the car, to keep it safe for tomorrow. As I’m walking away Felix runs back up to me and says, ‘Didn’t I say you were good at crafting?’
‘I guess I am,’ I say, feeling a swell of pride.
As I get back into the car, an alert goes off on my phone. Ninety minutes until the pitch off. I need to hurry – if I miss the next train, I’ll be late.
The Bamph studio is packed. Everyone in the company wants to witness this showdown between me and my Badgers and Coleson and his Ferrets. I didn’t register there would be such a big audience and now I’m relieved Michael’s doing the pitch rather than me. Coleson looks different from how I remember him. He’s dressed in a sleek black suit, with a turtleneck, and his hair is slicked back with gel. He looks, in my opinion, ridiculous, like he’s turned up for the final exam at Villain School.
‘Don’t feel bad, Rutherford,’ he says to me. ‘I’ll give you an internship at Ferret TV, so you can see what it feels like to be on a winning team.’
‘Coleson, I forgot to tell you, Magneto called, he wants his suit back.’
‘Magneto? Bit of a dated reference there, Grandma.’
Damn. It’s hard to make cultural reference jokes when you’ve missed so much culture. As I’m trying to think of a comeback, Michael arrives and I do a double take. He looks terrible, like he’s been up all night drinking vodka and then slept in a skip. Instead of his trademark three-piece suit, he’s wearing baggy jeans and a scruffy grey T-shirt. Something is wrong, something is very wrong.
Grabbing his arm, I pull him out of the busy studio and into the hallway.
‘What’s happened? You look terrible,’ I say as soon as we’re alone.
‘It’s Jane. I think she’s been sleeping with her aqua aerobics instructor.’
‘Oh no. I’m sorry. What makes you think that?’
‘I found them in bed together.’
‘Did she, um, forget she was married again?’ I ask hopefully.
‘I don’t think so. When I walked in on them, Marcus said, “Oh shit, it’s your husband.” Then Jane said, “Oh shit,” too.’
‘That must have been a shock.’
He hangs his head. ‘That’s not the worst part.’ Michael swallows, as though he can hardly get the words out. ‘This guy, Marcus, he was wearing nothing apart from a baseball glove on his right hand. My baseball glove.’ Michael’s face is racked with anguish. ‘My vintage glove, signed by Ozzie Smith himself. It’s a collector’s item. Heaven knows what they were doing with it.’ Michael shakes his head. ‘How can I ever look at that glove the same way now?’ I pull him into a hug as he starts to sob. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I’m a mess, I don’t think I’ll be able to present today.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll handle it,’ I hear myself saying. Michael nods limply, like a child grateful to be told what to do. Trey catches my eye as we come back into the room, but there’s no time to explain because Coleson is now taking the stage. His team all look smug and confident so I suspect their idea must be something fiendishly brilliant. A heavy sense of dread settles in my stomach as I realise that without Michael, our pitch might not be good enough to win this.
Gary Snyder, Bamph’s CEO, stands up to address the room. His face looks pained, as though he’s googled ‘how to look serious and reverential’ but is struggling to make his eyebrows do what he wants them to.
‘No one enjoys letting people go.’ He sighs. ‘I could have reinterviewed you all – let you reapply for your jobs, toed the HR line, but I’ve witnessed what strong units both the Badger and Ferret teams are. I see the logic in keeping one team together.’ Gary looks sombre. Amid the strangely gladiatorial atmosphere, maybe we do need reminding that many of the people in this room are losing their jobs today. ‘And to ensure complete fairness, the decision is not going to be down to me. Kydz Network’s newest commissioner, Melanie Durham, is going to be the person you’re pitching to this morning.’
Melanie? Melanie is the new commissioner? We all turn to see her come in. She looks incredible, like a younger, hotter, Judi Dench with twice the attitude. Wow, I hope I look that good when I’m in my sixties.
‘Lucy, Coleson.’ Melanie nods towards both of us, her voice smooth as polished marble. ‘My former runners battling it out for the top development job, how poetic.’
‘There are no traffic jams on the extra mile,’ Coleson says, furnishing Melanie with a grin full of veneers that he certainly didn’t have when he was a runner.
‘Exactly, Coleson,’ says Melanie. Tell me she’s not impressed by that? It doesn’t even make sense.