Dad looks at his watch. “The cleaners come in at seven and Annabel hates the sound of a vacuum cleaner. She’ll have gone. I know my wife. Werewife or not.”
He takes another turning and I can feel myself getting steadily more anxious (which is not helped by the fact that my phone keeps vibrating in my pocket). “We’re going shopping?” I say as Dad takes an abrupt right turn into a clothes shop.
“Trust me, Harriet.” Dad picks up a shopping basket and throws a green floral dress into it. “This is part of the master plan.” I look with concern at the yellow ruffled shirt he’s chucking on top of it, followed by a pink catsuit and a sequined boobtube.
“Have you ever met Annabel before?” I ask in concern as he shovels more hideous clothes into the basket. “They’re not suits or dressing gowns.”
“They’re not for Annabel.”
I look with alarm at the purple hotpants he’s just picked up. “Tell me they’re not for you, Dad.”
Dad laughs.
“Or me,” I say sternly. I’m still looking at the hotpants.
“They’re not for you, Harriet.” Dad marches abruptly into the baby section.
“They’re not going to fit the baby either.”
Dad picks up a pair of baby socks and strides over to the cashier. If he screws this up, I’m going to have to move into Annabel’s office with her. And – frankly – I’m a little concerned about just how many beds she can get in her cupboard.
“Right,” Dad says when it’s all paid for. “Let’s go to the park.”
“Annabel’s in the park?” I huff as we charge to the bit of grass about fifty metres away. It’s not really a park because there are no flowers or trees, but now is probably not the best time to split that particular hair.
“Have you met Annabel before?” Dad says as he hands me the hotpants, puts the baby socks in his pocket, throws the rest of the brand-new clothes in the mud and starts jumping up and down on them. After a couple of minutes, he looks up. “That doesn’t look very much like helping me, Harriet,” he says.
“But—”
“Pipe down and stamp on the shorts, kid. As hard as you can.”
So even though I am quite distinctly not a baby goat, I pipe down, throw the recently purchased hotpants on the floor and start jumping up and down on them like Rumpelstiltskin when he finds out that he’s been tricked out of the Princess. Three minutes later, we’re both exhausted, dripping wet and covered in mud. We stop and look at each other. “That should do it,” Dad says, nodding, and then he grabs the clothes and puts them back in the bag.
“But where are we—”
“All will become abundantly clear imminently,” Dad explains in a mysterious voice. “Learn some patience, sweetheart.”
Which – frankly – is a bit rich coming from him.
And then he starts charging back towards our house again, trailing mud behind him.
It’s only when Dad takes an unexpected turn that I finally realise where we’re going. I stop, very still, on the pavement and stare at him.
“We’re going to the launderette?” I finally manage to say. This makes no sense at all. This is where I come. This is my hiding place.
“It’s where Annabel always comes when she’s upset, Harriet. She used to take you with her when you were tiny.”
Suddenly a memory comes bursting forward. Annabel and I, sitting in the launderette, listening to the washing machines. Me curled on her lap, sleepy and sniffing the soap bubbles and feeling totally content. And then it hits me. I don’t come here by chance, or by magic, or by coincidence. I come here when I’m sad or scared or anxious because – without even knowing it – it reminds me of Annabel and makes me feel safe again.
“There she is,” Dad says. And my heart figuratively skips a beat, and possibly literally skips a beat too, I’m so surprised. Because Annabel is asleep in the same chair I fell asleep in a few days ago. Her head on the same tumble dryer.
ad looks at the sleeping Annabel with a silly expression on his face and then opens the door as quietly as he can.
“Annabel—” I begin, inexplicably wanting to climb back into her lap, but Dad motions for quiet. She hasn’t opened her eyes yet and I’m guessing from this gesture that he doesn’t want her to.
Dad opens the bag of wet, muddy clothes and dumps the contents on the table. Then he opens a washing machine and starts putting each item in, very slowly. My pocket has started vibrating again, but I studiously ignore it.
“The thing is, Harriet,” Dad says loudly, “I’ve made a real mess of things.” I look at Annabel; her eyes are still shut. “You see this shirt, Harriet? I really mucked it up. It was lovely, and now it’s not, and it’s my fault.”
I glance at Annabel again. She hasn’t moved, but one eye has opened a little bit.
“And do you see this jumper?” Dad continues, holding up a green one. A big dollop of mud falls off the sleeve on to the floor. “It was beautiful and now it’s ruined.”