a page. I note that his hands don’t look like those of an office worker, although I gleaned from his phone conversations in the car yesterday that that’s exactly what he is. They are big, tanned, hard-working hands. There’s a vein running along one that I want to trace with my fingertips.
Ryan takes a sip of coffee and pulls the sort of face you see on contestants undertaking a bushtucker trial on I’m A Celebrity . . . Get Me Out Of Here! ‘Think I’ll stick with juice,’ he says, handing the cup back to me.
As I take it from him, our fingertips touch and an electric current shivers through me. I take a deep breath and tell myself to get a grip. ‘So, you work in the city?’ I ask, hoping to spark something approaching a conversation.
‘Yup,’ he replies, turning a page of his newspaper.
‘What is it you do?’ I ask.
It takes him a second to register that I’m still speaking. ‘Oh, I work for a global sportswear company.’
‘Ooooh.’ I nod approvingly, wishing I could think of a more intelligent comment. It hardly seems to matter, though, because I don’t think he’s listening. ‘So, are you a salesman or something?’
‘Vice-president of communications.’
‘That sounds . . . fascinating,’ I add, although I can’t help thinking that communication hasn’t struck me as his forte so far. ‘Did you have any plans for today? Only I need to sit down with you for ten minutes to go over a few matters. About the children’s regime, what activities you’d like me to do with them and, um, my days off.’
‘Well, I gotta be somewhere today,’ he replies unapologetically. ‘I’ll be gone for most of the day so it’ll have to keep for now.’
‘Right. If you’ve got five minutes now—’
‘I haven’t,’ he snaps.
I feel ridiculously wounded by the sharpness of his response, as well as infuriated. Is asking for a couple of minutes so unreasonable?
‘Daddy,’ says Ruby, tentatively, ‘can’t we do something together today?’
‘Sorry, honey, not today,’ he replies, at least looking a little sorrier than he had when he addressed me.
‘But, Daddy. ’
‘Come on, no buts,’ he says, putting down the paper as he pulls her on to his knee. As she puts her arm round his neck, she looks tiny compared with him.
‘But I made a card for you, Daddy.’ She hands him the collage to which she’s spent the last half-hour gluing bits of dried pasta and rice.
‘That’s sweet,’ he tells her, barely glancing at it. Then, as if hit by a flash of guilt, he pulls her to him and kisses her head. His eyes close as he breathes in the scent of her hair. When he opens them, they’re softer than before and his smile intended to be bright and reassuring, is almost melancholy.
‘We’ll do something next weekend, I promise,’ he murmurs.
Now Samuel is at his daddy’s side and clambers on to Ryan’s other leg. Ryan laughs and ruffles his hair. ‘Okay,’ he says finally, disentangling himself from the children and standing up. ‘I really have to go.’
‘Awwww,’ says Samuel, but Ruby grabs his hand and squeezes, perhaps to prevent a tantrum. I glimpse her dejection as she puts an arm round him.
‘Come on, Samuel,’ she says, with an authoritative air, as she guides him to the TV and turns it on.
I wonder if I should persuade her to turn it off and do some more drawing, but something compels me to run after Ryan.
Now, I know that questioning a parent’s decision is not part of my remit. And that Anita – my old boss back at Bumblebees – would have given me such a bollocking if I’d done so that my ears would have been ringing for three weeks.
But something in Ruby’s face drives me to action. Besides, I can be diplomatic when I want to be. I could give Kofi Annan lessons. All I need to do is think of a subtle but effective way of suggesting that Ryan spends some time today with his kids.
‘Er, um!’ I say, as I reach him in the hallway.
He spins round and my heart
Ryan takes a sip of coffee and pulls the sort of face you see on contestants undertaking a bushtucker trial on I’m A Celebrity . . . Get Me Out Of Here! ‘Think I’ll stick with juice,’ he says, handing the cup back to me.
As I take it from him, our fingertips touch and an electric current shivers through me. I take a deep breath and tell myself to get a grip. ‘So, you work in the city?’ I ask, hoping to spark something approaching a conversation.
‘Yup,’ he replies, turning a page of his newspaper.
‘What is it you do?’ I ask.
It takes him a second to register that I’m still speaking. ‘Oh, I work for a global sportswear company.’
‘Ooooh.’ I nod approvingly, wishing I could think of a more intelligent comment. It hardly seems to matter, though, because I don’t think he’s listening. ‘So, are you a salesman or something?’
‘Vice-president of communications.’
‘That sounds . . . fascinating,’ I add, although I can’t help thinking that communication hasn’t struck me as his forte so far. ‘Did you have any plans for today? Only I need to sit down with you for ten minutes to go over a few matters. About the children’s regime, what activities you’d like me to do with them and, um, my days off.’
‘Well, I gotta be somewhere today,’ he replies unapologetically. ‘I’ll be gone for most of the day so it’ll have to keep for now.’
‘Right. If you’ve got five minutes now—’
‘I haven’t,’ he snaps.
I feel ridiculously wounded by the sharpness of his response, as well as infuriated. Is asking for a couple of minutes so unreasonable?
‘Daddy,’ says Ruby, tentatively, ‘can’t we do something together today?’
‘Sorry, honey, not today,’ he replies, at least looking a little sorrier than he had when he addressed me.
‘But, Daddy. ’
‘Come on, no buts,’ he says, putting down the paper as he pulls her on to his knee. As she puts her arm round his neck, she looks tiny compared with him.
‘But I made a card for you, Daddy.’ She hands him the collage to which she’s spent the last half-hour gluing bits of dried pasta and rice.
‘That’s sweet,’ he tells her, barely glancing at it. Then, as if hit by a flash of guilt, he pulls her to him and kisses her head. His eyes close as he breathes in the scent of her hair. When he opens them, they’re softer than before and his smile intended to be bright and reassuring, is almost melancholy.
‘We’ll do something next weekend, I promise,’ he murmurs.
Now Samuel is at his daddy’s side and clambers on to Ryan’s other leg. Ryan laughs and ruffles his hair. ‘Okay,’ he says finally, disentangling himself from the children and standing up. ‘I really have to go.’
‘Awwww,’ says Samuel, but Ruby grabs his hand and squeezes, perhaps to prevent a tantrum. I glimpse her dejection as she puts an arm round him.
‘Come on, Samuel,’ she says, with an authoritative air, as she guides him to the TV and turns it on.
I wonder if I should persuade her to turn it off and do some more drawing, but something compels me to run after Ryan.
Now, I know that questioning a parent’s decision is not part of my remit. And that Anita – my old boss back at Bumblebees – would have given me such a bollocking if I’d done so that my ears would have been ringing for three weeks.
But something in Ruby’s face drives me to action. Besides, I can be diplomatic when I want to be. I could give Kofi Annan lessons. All I need to do is think of a subtle but effective way of suggesting that Ryan spends some time today with his kids.
‘Er, um!’ I say, as I reach him in the hallway.
He spins round and my heart
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