“Look how depressed I am,” he says as soon as I walk into the room. He holds up a sweet, looks at it sadly and then puts it in his mouth. “I’m even eating the green ones. I have nothing to get up for any more. Nothing. I think I’m just going to stay here until I grow into the sofa and they have to winch me out of the window every time I need the toilet.”
“Dad,” I say, sitting next to him. The situation is clearly critical. Dad is starting to sound like he thinks he’s in some kind of made-for-TV film. I have to do something. “Dad, does Annabel like strawberry jam?”
Dad frowns and puts another sweet in his mouth even though he hasn’t swallowed the one he’s chewing yet. “What are you talking about?”
“Does she like strawberry jam?”
“No. She’s always hated it.”
“So why is she eating strawberry jam, Dad?” Then I look at him with the most obvious meaningful expression I can get on my face. I promised Annabel I wouldn’t tell him, but I never told her he wouldn’t work it out for himself.
Although frankly, at the rate my dad’s brain works, there’s a really good chance the baby will be in school by the time that happens.
“Do werewolves eat jam?” Dad asks in surprise.
I roll my eyes. “No. They eat people.”
“So does Annabel. Do you think maybe she’s trying to scramble my brain up and trick me into divorcing her by accident?”
“No.” God, this is like pulling teeth. “Is Annabel any plumper than normal?”
Dad nods knowingly. “It’s all the strawberry jam. Or people.”
I look at him so hard it feels like my eyes are going to pop out. “Yes,” I say meaningfully. “Or people.”
Dad stares at me blankly.
“So,” I continue slowly, “she’s getting fat. She’s eating things she hates. She keeps changing her mind about things. She’s crying about inconsequential things and shouting a lot and peeing all the time.”
I’m ticking the points off on my fingers and holding them pretty much under his nose. There is no way he won’t get this now. No way.
Dad nods slowly, a look of realisation starting to dawn on his face (he has a red and yellow stain on the corner of his mouth and I’m trying really hard not to look at it). “My God,” he says in a stunned voice. “She’s… she’s…”
“Yes?”
“She’s… having an affair with a strawberry jam manufacturer?”
“Oh, for the love of sugar cookies,” I shout, standing up. How have I managed to grow into such a balanced, reasonable person with him as a role model? “She’s pregnant. Annabel is pregnant.” Then there’s a long silence while Dad’s entire face goes white.
Oops. I didn’t mean to just throw it at him like that. He’s quite old. Over forty. He’d better not have a heart attack.
“Sh-she can’t be,” Dad finally stammers. “It’s utterly impossible.”
“Is this the part where I have to tell you about the birds and the bees and the fact that it has nothing to do with either?”
“No, I mean the doctors have always said she can’t have children. Almost totally impossible. We’ve been trying for years.”
OK: ugh. That’s disgusting.
“Too much information,” I interrupt. “Well, she is. The proverbial bun is cooking in the proverbial oven.”
“She’s pregnant?” Dad says again. He looks like he’d fall over if he wasn’t already sitting down.
“I just saw her. Trust me, she’s pregnant.”
Dad inexplicably looks even more astonished. “You just saw her?”
“She’s not the Loch Ness monster, Dad. She’s in her office, doing paperwork.”
“She’s pregnant. With a baby?” For some reason Dad looks at me questioningly.
“Yes, with a baby. What else is she going to be pregnant with?”
“A mini werewolf perhaps,” he mumbles. Then there’s a long silence while he puts his head in his hands. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” he mumbles through his fingers. “A total idiot.”
There’s no beating around the bush here. “Yes. I think it must be in our gene pool.”
“I need her. I need to tell her I need her immediately.”
“No, you don’t.” I shake my head crossly. “You need to show her that you’re there for her when she needs you.”
And then I shut my mouth in surprise. Oh. Oh.
Is that why Nat is so angry with me?
Dad looks at me in shock. “When did you get so smart, missy?”
I put my nose in the air, totally offended. “I’ve always been smart, actually.”
“Not that kind of smart, you haven’t.” Dad thinks about it and then stands up and dramatically takes off his dressing gown like some kind of superhero transforming. Underneath, he’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a cardigan.
“Hey!” I say crossly. “That’s my trick!”
“Like I said, I’m a maverick. And you’re a chip off the old block.” Dad stretches the muscles in his neck. “Now grab your coat, Harriet. We’re going to get your not-so-evil stepmother back.”
have absolutely no idea where we’re going.
“Annabel’s office isn’t in this direction,” I point out as Dad pounds down the street in the steadily increasing drizzle, with me jogging along behind him. I’ve never seen him looking so purposeful (apart from when he’s on the Easter egg hunt, and that has chocolate at the other end of it).
“She’s not in her office.”
“But she is, Dad. I was just there.”