you,’ she said in an intentionally dreamy tone, ‘that you know me inside out but I never feel I'm getting on your nerves. You love me in spite of my foibles. You're so tolerant. That's what I so love about you – that you so love me.’
‘Stop it,’ Ben joshed, getting up and checking his pager, ‘you make me sound a wuss. And anyway, I thought you loved me for my enormous dick.’
‘I cannot believe that I'm going to spend my Saturday traipsing around Alexandra Palace at a convention of model railway nutters and their train sets!’ Pip declared, only half joking, surveying the hall and its eccentric population.
Zac raised his eyebrows. ‘Firstly, It's the Thames and District Society of Model Engineers. Secondly, if it wasn't for me, you'd have to spend every Saturday dressed ridiculously trying to entertain roomloads of sugar-crazed party children.’
Pip fanned out her fingers in front of her sulky expression, then furled them away to reveal a winsome look with much batting of doe eyes. Zac crossed his arms and regarded her sternly. She fanned and then furled her fingers once more, reinstating a natural grin to her face.
‘Thirdly,’ Zac continued, ‘we haven't had Tom for two weekends in a row.’
Pip nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I'm only joking.’
‘Look at him,’ Zac said softly, noting that his son had teamed up with a new-found posse of young rail boffins, ‘He's in his element.’
Tom was a thoughtful child; not shy, popular at school, but thoughtful. Zac had a theory that boys were divided into two camps: football and fantasy. His nine-year-old son was firmly in the fantasy camp. It wasn't that the restrictions of his eczema ruled out football, it was that Tom's natural interests were dominated by trains and dinosaurs. My son the trainspotter who knows his connector rods from his couplings , Zac would say with pride. My son who could spell pterodactyl before he could spell his own name , Zac would beam.
Watching an animated Tom admiring the array of essential pieces of kit and name-dropping each model engine from at least fifty paces with his new pals, Pip was consumed by a totally unexpected pang. It was like an electric shock and she jolted physically.
‘Are you OK?’ Zac asked.
Pip nodded earnestly and went off at a tangent to dislodge the thought. ‘Django called us lot the “nit-pickin' chicks” last weekend.’
‘That's a fine Djangoism if ever I heard one,’ Zac laughed, strolling on to the next stand.
‘He hasn't called us that for ages. Mind you, It's been a while since the three of us sat like that,’ Pip said wistfully. ‘We always used to, when we were little – gravitate into a huddle, playwith each other's hair, trace patterns on each other's clothes, tickle each other's forearms. We do it absent-mindedly.’
‘Nit-pickin' chicks,’ Zac mused. ‘I'd've called you a bunch of monkeys, I think. Did you ever actually have nits?’
Pip laughed. ‘I do remember that we all had them at the same time – some epidemic at school. But of course Django couldn't be doing with those torture combs and vile chemical shampoos so he doused our hair in some bizarre concoction of mustard powder and bicarbonate of soda. Or something. Tabasco. I don't know.’
‘Did it work?’
‘The daft thing is, I can't remember,’ Pip laughed. ‘I can only remember feeling slightly miffed that not even a case of head lice was going to make Django conform to conventional methods. I do remember the three of us having pretty short haircuts soon after. Django appeased us by saying our hair was so glorious that He'd been able to sell the offcuts to a master upholsterer in London and we would each be paid £5. We believed him. Even though the salon junior was sweeping it all away.’
‘And you were £5 richer?’
‘We were,’ Pip laughed, ‘though of course, Django made a rod for his back because we expected payment for every haircut thereafter.’
‘You must have done well,
‘Stop it,’ Ben joshed, getting up and checking his pager, ‘you make me sound a wuss. And anyway, I thought you loved me for my enormous dick.’
‘I cannot believe that I'm going to spend my Saturday traipsing around Alexandra Palace at a convention of model railway nutters and their train sets!’ Pip declared, only half joking, surveying the hall and its eccentric population.
Zac raised his eyebrows. ‘Firstly, It's the Thames and District Society of Model Engineers. Secondly, if it wasn't for me, you'd have to spend every Saturday dressed ridiculously trying to entertain roomloads of sugar-crazed party children.’
Pip fanned out her fingers in front of her sulky expression, then furled them away to reveal a winsome look with much batting of doe eyes. Zac crossed his arms and regarded her sternly. She fanned and then furled her fingers once more, reinstating a natural grin to her face.
‘Thirdly,’ Zac continued, ‘we haven't had Tom for two weekends in a row.’
Pip nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I'm only joking.’
‘Look at him,’ Zac said softly, noting that his son had teamed up with a new-found posse of young rail boffins, ‘He's in his element.’
Tom was a thoughtful child; not shy, popular at school, but thoughtful. Zac had a theory that boys were divided into two camps: football and fantasy. His nine-year-old son was firmly in the fantasy camp. It wasn't that the restrictions of his eczema ruled out football, it was that Tom's natural interests were dominated by trains and dinosaurs. My son the trainspotter who knows his connector rods from his couplings , Zac would say with pride. My son who could spell pterodactyl before he could spell his own name , Zac would beam.
Watching an animated Tom admiring the array of essential pieces of kit and name-dropping each model engine from at least fifty paces with his new pals, Pip was consumed by a totally unexpected pang. It was like an electric shock and she jolted physically.
‘Are you OK?’ Zac asked.
Pip nodded earnestly and went off at a tangent to dislodge the thought. ‘Django called us lot the “nit-pickin' chicks” last weekend.’
‘That's a fine Djangoism if ever I heard one,’ Zac laughed, strolling on to the next stand.
‘He hasn't called us that for ages. Mind you, It's been a while since the three of us sat like that,’ Pip said wistfully. ‘We always used to, when we were little – gravitate into a huddle, playwith each other's hair, trace patterns on each other's clothes, tickle each other's forearms. We do it absent-mindedly.’
‘Nit-pickin' chicks,’ Zac mused. ‘I'd've called you a bunch of monkeys, I think. Did you ever actually have nits?’
Pip laughed. ‘I do remember that we all had them at the same time – some epidemic at school. But of course Django couldn't be doing with those torture combs and vile chemical shampoos so he doused our hair in some bizarre concoction of mustard powder and bicarbonate of soda. Or something. Tabasco. I don't know.’
‘Did it work?’
‘The daft thing is, I can't remember,’ Pip laughed. ‘I can only remember feeling slightly miffed that not even a case of head lice was going to make Django conform to conventional methods. I do remember the three of us having pretty short haircuts soon after. Django appeased us by saying our hair was so glorious that He'd been able to sell the offcuts to a master upholsterer in London and we would each be paid £5. We believed him. Even though the salon junior was sweeping it all away.’
‘And you were £5 richer?’
‘We were,’ Pip laughed, ‘though of course, Django made a rod for his back because we expected payment for every haircut thereafter.’
‘You must have done well,
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