‘These are genuine buttermilk pancakes,’ he says. ‘How many d’you want?’
‘They’re an eight,’ adds Maisie. They started ranking pancakes five years ago. To begin with they had a log book, but while that’s long since been abandoned, the need to allocate marks has endured.
‘Just the one, please.’
Adam may have aged – of course he must have – but to Becky his face is the same now as it was at school. Kind, curious and easy to read despite his efforts. His buttoned-up skinny-fit shirts give the impression of him being a well-turned-out kind of guy, but she knows the cupboards and drawers of his Shoreditch apartment are total chaos. His jeans, like his face, are unchanging, always bought from the same website in the same size, same shade of indigo, a replacement sought once the old pair has faded and thinned at the knees. He’s as loyal to his jeans as his friends.
‘Adam dumped Brooke,’ chirps Maisie. ‘She offered to get the cover of his favourite magazine, Men’s Health, tattooed onto her back to try to make him love her.’
Adam erupts into laughter. ‘Men’s Health isn’t my favourite magazine!’
‘She got as far as inking the title across her shoulder blades.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Becky says.
‘About what? Brooke’s shoulders?’ Maisie loves being in the middle of any conversation when they are all together. She’s grown up that way, thinks Becky. It might have done her good to have a sibling. And then she thinks, it’s not too late for her to have a sibling, is it? Becky’s only thirty-two after all so there’s still plenty of time, a decade perhaps … And then she has to remind herself to put those thoughts down and concentrate on what’s in front of her. A pancake bubbling over heat. A plane to catch.
‘How did you do it?’ demands Maisie. ‘Gory details. Come on.’
‘I don’t find break-ups easy …’ Adam blushes.
‘No one does but come on, she was planning your interiors. You had to pull the trigger.’
‘I didn’t really read that as a sign she might want to stay,’ he says. ‘I thought it was handy because, you know, she had good taste. I thought she enjoyed picking out blinds.’
Maisie slaps her forehead in delighted disbelief.
‘Was she American, with a name like Brooke?’ asks Becky.
‘Tell her the surname!’ crows Maisie. ‘What was her surname, Dad?’
‘Waters,’ says Adam, sheepish, as if he’d named her himself.
‘Brooke Waters!’ howls Maisie. ‘Damn, girl! Headline for the week: Adam’s Waters broke.’
‘Hey, Maisie,’ says Adam. ‘Can you go into my bag and grab the blueberries I bought?’
‘Yep, I’ll be a minute OK? Got to get sorted for tonight first.’ She takes a few steps toward Becky and pecks her on the cheek. ‘You’re amazing, my hero, I totally love you.’ Then she wanders out, answering her phone on the way.
‘Thanks for keeping an eye on her tonight. I appreciate it.’ Becky stifles a yawn and looks round the kitchen trying to remember where she put her travel-sized sun cream. ‘What stuff is she getting sorted? Are you guys doing something fun tonight? Bowling …’
‘Well no,’ Adam looks up, perplexed. ‘The sleepover?’
‘At Jules’ house? I told her she couldn’t go to that until we’d discussed it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you’d … the way it …’
Becky’s chest tightens. ‘I said no to her.’ Her whole body is tense now. ‘She’s playing us off against each other, Adam, she—’
‘Hold on a minute,’ he says. ‘When she said there was a sleepover I asked her questions like who’s there, what time are you going. I suppose I assumed she was already going … we were talking about other things at the same time: hash-browns and climbing walls.’ The two of them do go off on tangents. ‘I can’t quite remember how the conversation went but it’s possible she thought we’d already spoken.’
Becky is a combination of anxious and irritated. ‘Why did you assume anything? Didn’t you think I might have some concerns about her staying at a stranger’s house?’
‘It’s not that, the last thing I wanted to do was … I just thought you’d made a call on it already because, well, honestly? It all sounds fine to me.’
‘But I’ve never met this guy … Jules, or whatever. What if …’
‘I have.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes, he’s nice. He’s sweet. Totally unthreatening. I’d be more worried about him. He looks malnourished: Maisie could take him down in five seconds flat.’
There is a silence as Adam watches Becky’s fingers flick over her cuticles in quick and silent clicks then dart to the silk skin on her wrist and back again. He knows what she’s thinking.
‘She’s a sensible kid, Becky,’ he says eventually.
‘I know that. But I was a sensible kid before that night in the Hampstead house.’
‘That was different. You were … no one could have predicted … This is so different. Sober school night, parents down the corridor, the girls sharing a room. It’s not a party, they won’t even be drinking. It’s all good, I honestly think it’s all good.’
But he sees from her expression that she’s not convinced and so he continues, ‘She’s growing up quickly. If we box her away from what everyone else is doing she’ll do it anyway and then won’t tell us about it.’ Becky bows her head. Knows he’s right. ‘We have to trust her.’ He’s sweet to put it that way when what he means is that Becky is the one that must trust.
‘It’s not Maisie I don’t trust. It’s other people.’
‘So let’s make Jules wear a monitoring device?’ says Adam brightly, hauling them both back into the present. ‘With the capacity to shock him remotely?’
‘You really think he’s OK?’
‘He’s passionate about the polar ice caps and Dinosaur Junior. That makes him
