Arielle and Patrice

My wife and I married young and had children before it was fashionable. At present we have three little munchkins rolling like muffins around our house. They are, by name, age, and occupation: Claire, eleven, ballet dancer and humanitarian; George, eight, fringe player in the Australian test cricket team; Becky, five and three quarters, currently a ladybug.

On the first Saturday of each month we host family tea. Family tea is a formal affair, where everyone must dress up in their nicest suit, gown or fairy costume, and sit at the dining table to a three-course dinner, complete with refreshments, aperitif, polite conversation and coffee. At eight o’clock, stuffed full of chicken, we slip out of our jackets and heels, loosen our ties, let our hair down, and retire upstairs for an afterparty. The afterparty is a pathetic geriatric affair, and nine o’clock finds us sleeping face-down in a heap all together on the bed.

We invite different guests to each family tea. Both sets of grandparents feature often, as well as popular uncles and aunts, classmates and their parents, family friends, and prominent local personalities. Santa Claus (Uncle Fred) makes an appearance each December. Jeff from The Wiggles has yet to reply to Becky’s repeated invitations. Claire has reached an age where she laments that Kurt Cobain cannot come. I remain quietly sanguine about Gabor Mate.

This month we invited two guests. The first, Pat, is a fixture of long standing in our house. He is my best friend, Claire’s godfather, George’s bowling coach, and Becky’s first love. He’s tall, green-eyed and handsome, lanky, warm-hearted, and helplessly shy. He works at a good job in the city. Six months ago he went through a painful break-up. He has always been unfortunate in love.

The second guest was Arielle, Claire’s ballet teacher. She’s French, blonde and cute. She wears her hair in a fringe. I can’t help but imagining that she owns a red bike. She came to Australia to study and she teaches dance on the side. She is softly-spoken, classy, and sweet. There is something free and bright that bubbles behind her eyes. She has a joyful smile.

In the afternoon we cooked French food. We baked a quiche, tossed a salad, and attempted soufflés. The children helped. George has his own set of plastic knives which he uses to mutilate veggies. Claire always tries her hand at technical desserts. Becky sits on the bench, waving a wand at people and barking instructions. She is also in charge of turning the oven on and off.

At 5o’clock the girls go upstairs to dress. George and I stay to keep an eye on the quiche. We talk about life, girls, school and work, and we make a colourful lemonade. Then we set the table. Upstairs we hear chattering and giggling, cooing and chirruping, brief arguments, silences, and hasty resolutions. At one point we hear a glass smash. We decide it must have been Becky, and carry on.

At 5:45 the girls appear on the landing. My wife is wearing a blue dress. Claire is wearing green. I am always struck by how similar they are. They have the same dark hair, the same blue eyes, the same way of pressing their tongues against the back of their teeth when they smile. They are so close to each other: all that separates them is a single generation out of ten thousand generations of daughters and granddaughters and mothers. They are a few genes apart, one of God’s heartbeats, a single step in the human march. And yet they are different. One walks a step forward. One ages as the other comes of age. Wrinkles cloud my wife’s face as my daughter’s face begins to resemble it. Sometimes I can’t tell which one of them looks more like the woman I met. When I see them together, I see something I cannot explain: a nostalgia for something I have not lost, a longing for something I have always had; a sense of life and death and the life that outlives death. My heart plays violins. I want to hold the whole world in my hand, and give it the gentlest kiss. At the same time, I want to weep.

No such emotions when I see Becky. I suspect she is the gardener’s child. She looks different, thinks different, behaves differently to everyone else in the family. She is a genetic hiccough, a misfire in the cylinders of fate. She bobs down the stairs like a bridesmaid behind her sister and mother, blonde hair bright in the electric light, face all technicolour, wearing a red leotard hand-painted with black dots and a pair of fairy wings stuck on the back. I smile. No one makes me smile like Becky.

George and I lead the girls to the couch, furnish them with lemonade and compliments, then race upstairs to dress. We put on suits, ties, shoes and socks. I help George with his Windsor knot, though I know he needs no help. He indulges me. We comb our hair, spritz with cologne, and walk downstairs again. My wife is wearing an apron, bending over the bench. The girls are doing colouring-ins on the couch.

The doorbell rings; the door opens. “Paddy!” calls George, running down the hall to greet him. Claire waves from the couch. Becky stands, turns side-on to display the fully glory of her little red-and-black spotted body and her wings, waves with just her fingers, and says in a husky voice, “Good evening, Patrice.”

Pat walks in to the living room. “G’day Becky,” he says. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”
“I’m a ladybug,” says Becky. “Can you tell?”
“Well, I –” says Pat. “I’m no expert in entomology, I admit – I wasn’t exactly sure – I suppose the wings ought to be a giveaway.”
“Mum!” cries Becky, exasperated. “I told you I should of worn antennas!” She stomps off to remonstrate in the kitchen.
Pat walks in behind her. “Hey, Sarah,” he says to my wife, giving her a bottle of wine and a kiss on her cheek. I hug him, and take the bottle away to open it. Pat sits down on the couch. Claire says hello, and George strikes up a conversation about Jimmy Anderson. They were still talking about reverse swing when the doorbell rang again.

This time it was Claire who ran to answer it. She opened the door and did a curtsy. “Bonsoir,” she said.
“Bonsoir,” said Arielle, stepping in to the house. She was wearing a white dress, silver earrings, and a black hat. She took the hat off and hung it on a hook near the door. She straightened her fringe with the fingers of one hand as she walked down the hallway, carrying a bouquet of daisies in the other. She looked like a spring breeze.

We met her in the living room. Sarah accepted the flowers and tottered off to find them a home. I kissed Arielle on her cheek. Pat stood up abruptly, leaving George hanging mid-sentence with his wrist cocked for an outswinger. Pat glared at me with sharp eyes that said “I see.” He felt Arielle looking at him. His face softened as he looked at her.
“Arielle,” I said, “this is my friend Pat.”
Pat couldn’t work out whether to shake Arielle’s hand or kiss her cheek. In the end he did both.
“Nice to meet you,” said Arielle.
“Me, too,” said Pat. He flinched like he’d stood on something sharp.
“This is my son, George,” I said.
George shook Arielle’s hand peremptorily. He turned to resume his conversation with Pat, but Pat wasn’t listening. George looked at him askance.
“And this is my daughter, Becky,” I said.
“Nice to meet you,” said Arielle, offering Becky her hand.
Becky did not accept it. “Who’s she?” she said.
“Arielle teaches Claire ballet,” I said.
“Can’t be very good, then,” said Becky. “I’ve seen Claire dance.”
Arielle let her hand drop. “We do our best,” she said.
“Do better,” said Becky.
“Are you French, Arielle?” said Pat.
“Yes, I am,” said Arielle.
“Oh,” said Pat, “magnifique.” He cringed and made a face like he couldn’t believe he’d said such an abysmal thing. Embarrassed, he turned to George, smiled weakly, then turned back to Arielle. But Arielle was talking to Claire! Pat turned back to George and said, “So, George, I understand you like cricket.” Then he looked at Arielle again.
George stared at him with bewildered pity, like Pat suffered from an exotic and untreatable disease.
I put my hand on George’s shoulder. “You’ll understand one day,” I said.
“Understand what?” said George.
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” I said.
“People are weird,” said George.
“Life is complex,” I said, “cricket is simple.”
George grit his teeth. “Cricket is not simple,” he said.
“Life is, though,” I said.
George stared at me like Pat’s disease might be infectious.

All this time Becky had been computing. “Is she having dinner with us?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Sarah. “She’s not delivering pizza.”
Becky considered briefly. “Why?” she said.
“Because we’re having French.”
“I don’t give a toot about French people,” said Becky primly. “They smell unusual.”
“Becky!” said Sarah.
“Are we having pizza?” said George.
“No,” said Sarah.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re having French!”
“Is that why the house smells of gorgonzola and sick?” said Becky.
“Becky!” said Sarah.
“Or is that just,” Becky extended a finger towards Arielle, “her?”
“Becky!” snapped Sarah.
“Why is she here, I ask myself!” Becky soliloquised. “Doesn’t she have a war to lose?”
“Rebecca!” Sarah snapped.
Becky fell silent.
Everyone turned, and looked sheepishly at Arielle. She smiled. “We’re better at wine than war,” she said.
Becky made a face. “You don’t bathe,” she said simply.
“I do,” said Arielle.
“Yeah,” said Becky. “In vinegar.”
“No,” said Arielle, “in wee.”
Becky guffawed in spite of herself. “Your own wee?” she asked gleefully.
“No,” said Arielle. “My cat’s.”
Becky guffawed again, tittered, then composed herself, and scowled.
Arielle smiled at her. “I think I will win you over tonight, Rebecca,” she said.
“No, you won’t,” Becky said quickly.
“May I try?”
Becky considered. “Can’t hurt,” she said. “I suppose.”
Pat gazed adoringly at Arielle. I could tell Sarah was standing with difficulty.
“Shall we sit?” I said.
“Yes,” said Claire, taking Pat by the arm and shunting him to a seat at the side of the table. Becky tried to sit next to him, but Claire shooed her off like a pigeon. She took Arielle’s hand, did a little jiu-jitsu, and knocked her into the chair next to Pat. Pat smiled shyly. Claire sat down quickly on Arielle’s other side. I sat at the head of the table. George sat opposite Pat in case he cared to be rational. Becky sat opposite Arielle with her arms crossed and her face all pointy. Sarah laid out the salad and quiche.

“Is all this food French?” said Arielle.
“It’s supposed to be,” Sarah said nervously.
Arielle inspected the salad. “But this is a perfect Salad Niçoise!” she said.
“Beg pardon?” said Becky.
“Salad Niçoise,” repeated Arielle.
“Bless you,” said Becky.
“Ni-swahs?” I said.
“Niçoise,” said Arielle.
“You said that almost as well as I did.”
“You have to give it more sass, baby,” said Sarah.
“Ni-swassz!” I purred.
“Better,” said Sarah.
“Worse,” said Claire.
“Better, actually,” said Arielle.
“It’s a beautiful language,” said Pat.
“Cliché!” said Becky.
“That’s the spirit, Becks,” I said.
Becky poked out her tongue.
Pat blushed. “I mean, you make it sound nice, Arielle,” he said.
Arielle smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
“How do you pronounce this?” said Sarah, pointing at the wine.
“Vin,” said Arielle.
“Ooh-la-la,” I said.
“And this?” said Sarah, pointing at the cheese.
“Fromage,” said Arielle.
“Oh, that ‘r’!” I said.
“Just the sound of it makes me hungry,” said Sarah.
George looked at us like we were all exhibiting symptoms of some medieval dancing disease.
“And the dessert?” said Sarah. “How do you say that?”
“What’s for dessert?” said Arielle.
Claire whispered something in Arielle’s ear.
“Soufflé,” said Arielle.
“Delicious!” said Sarah.
“I could eat the word,” I said.
Becky pinched her nose, tilted her head back and made French-sounding noises. Then she blew a raspberry.
Arielle laughed. “Do you speak French?” she asked Becky.
“Never!” said Becky.
“What about you?” Arielle said to Pat.
“No,” said Pat. “Unfortunately – I wish I – we had it at school, but I – in a word, non.” Then he grimaced.
“I could teach you,” said Arielle.
“Hiss!” said Becky. “Boo!”
Claire did a little Rafa Nadal fist pump.
“Do we still eat in this family?” asked George.
“Right,” I said, spooning him some salad.
“Not too much, dad,” he said. “Leave space for the quiche.” He turned to Arielle. “Did I say that right, Arielle?” he said. “Quiche?”
“You said it very nicely.”
Becky blew another raspberry.
Sarah cut the quiche. “Pass me your plate, please, George,” she said.
“Quiche-eh,” said George, passing his plate.
Becky inspected her salad. “What are those?” she said.
“Anchovies,” I said. I turned to Arielle. “Did I say that right?”
Arielle shrugged. “In French it’s anchois.”
“Anchois?” I said.
“That’s right.”
“What’s anchois?” said Becky.
“Small salty fishes.”
Becky looked at me in horror. Then she looked back at her anchois. “Mine have eyes!” she said.
“They all do,” I said.
“What do you expect me to do with the eyes?”
“Eat them.”
Becky appeared to choke. She rocked backwards and forwards in her booster chair. “This is the limit!” she said at last. She turned on Arielle. “Did I say that right?” she said.
Arielle smiled with her lips closed. Her mouth was full of food.
“Which part of France are you from, Arielle?” said Pat.
“Lyon,” said Arielle. “But I lived in Paris.”
“What did you do there?”
“I was studying neuroscience.”
“Neuroscience?” said Pat. “Wow.”
“What’s neuroscience?” said Claire.
“Trying to figure out how the brain works.”
“That’s so interesting,” said Claire.
“Not to me,” said Becky.
“That’s because you don’t have a brain,” said George.
“Hey!” said Becky.
I gave George a fist-bump beneath the table.
“Why did you come to Australia?” said Pat.
“There is a very good school here,” said Arielle. “And I like the sun.”
“There’s sun in France, though, isn’t there?” said Sarah.
“Not in Paris,” said Arielle. “The sun is in the south, with the rich people.”
“Oh, the south of France,” said Sarah. “I’ve always wanted to go to the south of France.”
“It is very beautiful,” said Arielle. “There are beaches and wheat fields and sunflowers and lavenders and fishing boats. It’s like a painting.”
“Oh,” said Sarah. She turned to me. “Darling,” she said, “will you take me to the south of France?”
“One day,” I said. “When the children can pay for it.”
“Hey!” said Claire.
“We’ll spend our afternoons sitting in a café beneath the trees, reading books,” I said, “and watching the fashionable young people promenade; we’ll stroll the streets at sunset, listening to men playing accordions, and I’ll buy you a flower to wear behind your ear.”
“I’ll be hungry,” said Sarah.
“I shall take you to dinner at a small restaurant in an alleyway owned by an old man called Françoise who is secretly the finest chef in all of France.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “What will we eat?”
“Baguette and paté and tapenade and bouillabaisse and ratatouille and crêpes and tarte tatin.”
“Fromage?” Sarah asked anxiously.
“All the fromage you can fit inside your little estomac.”
“Oh,” said Sarah, relieved. “That’s good.”
“And we’ll stay up in the candlelight drinking wine until Françoise says it’s time to leave.”
“I’d like some ice-cream,” said Sarah.
“So we shall walk across the town in search of a late night ice-cream shop, my precious darling, and nibble at ice-cream cones as we pick our way through jasmine-smelling alleys to our hotel with ivy on the walls, open the gate and tip-toe to our room, where the night breeze sighs through the white shutters, and I lower you onto the bed in the moonlight and I –”
“No!” said Claire. “You don’t!”
“That does sound pleasant,” said Sarah.
“Excuse my friend,” said Pat.
Arielle was giggling.
“One day,” I said.
“One day,” sighed Sarah.
“You like brains, do you?” demanded Becky.
We turned to look at her. Her arms were crossed and she had Arielle fixed in a ferocious stare.
“Yes,” said Arielle, “I guess.”
“You look inside people’s heads?”
“I have. Once or twice,” said Arielle.
“Ew!” said Becky. “This girl’s a perv!”
“Becky!” said Sarah.
“What?” said Becky.
“You know you’re not allowed to call our guests pervs.”
“I’m sorry,” said Becky. “It’s just – I don’t see what she has that I don’t!” She looked Arielle up and down. Then she turned to Pat. “Is it breasts?” she said.
Pat froze. “I – well – they are – I mean – I shouldn’t – I”
“That’s not a fair question, Becky,” I said.
“Is it because she dances?” said Becky, ignoring me. “Because I can dance, too.”
Becky clambered down from her booster seat and made her way to the middle of the room, where she hopped up and down a few times on alternate legs, her wings flapping behind her, shedding glitter on the floor.
“Very good, darling,” said my wife.
“I’m not done,” said Becky. She began to interpret ballet. She stood duck-footed, bent and bowed, simpered and fawned, whimpered, flapped her hands, and said in a plummy voice, “plié, dégagé, entrée, flambé, risqué, repartee, Pinochet, cha-cha-cha.” She fluttered across the room, leapt, extended her legs, landed on her tip-toes and blew a raspberry.
“Wow,” said Pat.
Becky did some pirouettes.
“You are very talented,” said Arielle.
“I know,” said Becky. “I’m brilliant.” She returned to her seat.
“Is it time for dessert?” I said.
“Yes,” said Sarah quickly.

I took the dishes to the kitchen. Sarah brought out the soufflés and placed one in front of each of us. George went to dig in to his, but I stopped him.
“Soufflé queen,” I said, “show us how it’s done.”
Claire picked up her spoon, pierced the head of the soufflé, and watched it collapse in on itself. Chocolate goo oozed out the sides.
“Voila!” said Arielle.
“Of course she likes it,” said Becky. “It reminds her of brains bleeding down the side of human skull.”
“Becky!” said Sarah.
“No,” said Becky. “I can’t eat now that I have seen that.” She pushed her plate away. “I shall never look at a chocolate soufflé again.”
“I’ll have yours,” said George.
“No, you won’t,” said Becky, pulling her plate back. “I’m going to bury it in the garden.”
“Bon appétit!” I said, and everyone except Becky dug in.
“Mine is the gooiest,” said Pat.
“No!” said Arielle. “Mine is.”
“Really?” said Pat.
“Of course.”
“I doubt it.”
“That’s your pride speaking, not your reason.”
“Shall we have a goo-off?”
George’s ears pricked.
“No!” said Sarah. “No goo-offs.”
“What’s a goo-off?” said Arielle.
“I don’t know,” said Pat. “I just made it up.”
We all looked at George. “I’m sure I could think of something,” he said, but weakly, for there was soufflé in his mouth.

Meanwhile, silently, Claire reached up with her spoon, and dabbed a little chocolate on the tip of Arielle’s nose.
“What?!” cried Arielle.
“Ahaha!” laughed Becky. “Oo-la-la!” She gazed at her sister with loving eyes.
The Holy Spirit compelled Pat to speak. “You must always watch out for Claire,” he said smoothly, almost coolly. “Secretly, she’s the naughtiest in the family. You can tell that because she is the only one who never gets caught.”
Claire stuck out her tongue.
“Are you presuming to teach me how to handle my own students?” said Arielle.
“I apologise if it sounds that way,” said Pat. “I just don’t feel that you mitigated your risks adequately. You see, George has no soufflé left, so he poses no threat. Becky is, at best, a threat to herself.”
We looked at Becky, who, her compunctions forgotten, was nibbling away happily at soufflé. She felt our eyes on her, and looked up. “What?” she said. There was a smear of chocolate on her cheek.
“Sarah has no stomach for foodfights,” continued Pat. “Jim started several in his time, but now he’s afraid of Sarah. So the only risk was Claire, who you weren’t watching.”
“You are very cocky, mister,” said Arielle.
“I’m prudent.”
“Well prune this,” said Arielle, wiping her spoon gloriously on Pat’s cheek, first the frontside, then the back. Pat closed his eyes, but did not flinch.
Sarah gasped. Claire giggled and clapped.
Pat opened his eyes. “I’m afraid this means war,” he said, digging his spoon into his soufflé.
“No!” cried Sarah. “No wars! Not on my rug!”
Pat took a breath, then sighed. He let the spoon fall from his hand. He looked Arielle in the eye. “You may count yourself lucky, attractive young lady,” he said. “I would have shown no mercy.”
Arielle pouted.
Pat smiled.
“Finished!” said Becky, pushing her plate away.
“Oh, Becks!” said Sarah, seeing the chocolate on Becky’s face. She reached across with her napkin, and started to sponge Becky down.
“Please, mum,” said Becky, shedding profuse glitter, “not my make-up!”
“Sit still, Becky,” said Sarah. “I promise I’ll be neat.”
“Coffee course, anyone?” I said.
“Coffee?” said Arielle, stressing the second syllable. “For the children? How French!”
“Erm,” I said sheepishly. I mouthed: “Frothed milk.”
“Oh,” said Arielle. “Then for me a large.”
“Large for me, too,” said Pat.
“And me,” said Claire.
“Extra-large for me,” said George.
“How did you get chocolate in your ear, Becky?” said Sarah.
“I don’t know!” said Becky. “Stop persecuting me!”

I walked to the kitchen. Arielle wiped the chocolate from the tip of her nose with a napkin. She looked at Pat. “All gone?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. He took his own napkin and wiped his cheek. “Me?” he said.
“You missed a spot.”
He wiped the cheek again.
“No,” said Arielle, “it’s in your stubble.”
Pat tried again.
“May I?” said Arielle.
Pat nodded and faced the wall so that Arielle could access his cheek. She rubbed it with her napkin. But the napkin alone was not sufficient. “I cannot send you home with chocolate still on your face,” she said, licking her finger, rubbing it on Pat’s cheek, then polishing with her napkin.
“Better?” said Pat.
“Better,” said Arielle. “Excuse the saliva.”
“No,” said Pat. “Any time.”
They looked at each other, then quickly looked away. Pat glanced back. Arielle pretended not to see.
“Why don’t you two just have a baby?” said Becky.
“Becky!” said Sarah, unknotting a strand of chocolate from Becky’s hair.

I returned from the kitchen with a tray of mugs full of frothed milk. We sat on the settee to drink them. Arielle complimented me on my milk frothing, saying it was just like the frothed milk in France. George demonstrated to Arielle the game of French cricket. She told him it looked like cricket in a blender. We played it for a little while, kneeling on the floor, using a stress ball and an autograph bat, until Becky got bored of having no attention and showed us her hot potato dance. Claire tried to teach Becky some ballet moves, but Becky said she already knew them. Arielle pronounced that Becky was old enough to join her classes if she wanted to. Becky said she’d thoroughly peruse Arielle’s online reviews and those of her competitors before coming to an informed decision about which studio it was in her best interests to attend. Sarah asked Pat if he knew how to dance. Pat said he’d done some ballroom dancing, but he wasn’t the smoothest. Arielle asked him to prove it. Pat was reluctant, but Arielle insisted. In the end Pat offered Arielle his hand, but Becky took it. I found a Latin playlist on Spotify. Pat and Becky danced a simple salsa. My wife and I joined them. George, still holding the cricket bat, rolled his eyes. Arielle and Claire applauded. Arielle asked Becky if she could steal her partner. Becky shrugged and said, “See if I care.” Then she threw herself face-down onto the sofa. “Ah, Heaven,” I heard her whisper into the cushion. Sarah sat next to her and put her cheek on the top of Becky’s head. I danced with Claire.

At 9o’clock the children were sleepy. We decided it was time to say good night. We led Arielle and Patrice down the hallway. Arielle collected her hat. Patrice opened the door. We said our goodbyes and watched them walk down the drive. They turned around at the end and found us still standing in the doorway, staring. They waved to us. We waved back, like the Flanders family. They turned away. Reluctantly, we shut the door. We paused for a moment, looked at one another, then sprinted all at once upstairs to the master bedroom. We gathered at the window, drew back the blinds, and peeked out onto the street.

Pat and Arielle were standing at the door of Arielle’s car. They were talking. Arielle was fumbling inside her purse for her keys. They stopped talking, and lingered. After two silent moments, Arielle found her keys. She opened the door. Pat said something. Arielle nodded and smiled. She said something back. She paused for a moment, then lowered herself into the driver’s seat.

“Get her number!” shouted Claire.
“Claire!” I hissed.
Arielle and Pat looked up at our window.
“He already has it!” called Arielle.
“Bravo, Patty,” I said beneath my breath.
Claire went, “Yesss!” and punched the air.
“No!” cried Becky, punching the wall. “No!”
“I knew you lot were watching,” said Pat. “I could feel it!”
“What did you expect?” said Sarah.
“We’re going home,” said Pat.
“Together?” said Becky.
“No,” said Pat. He looked at Arielle uncertainly, then looked back. “No!” he said with decision.
“Thank ye Jesus!” said Becky, placing her hands on her chest.
“You can’t let her go without a kiss goodnight,” said Claire.
“Don’t you dare, Patrick!” said Becky, leaning threateningly out the window. I put my hands around her waist to restrain her.
“You watch too many movies, Claire,” called Pat.
“Go on, Pat,” called Sarah. “Give her a kiss!”
“I don’t know if she wants one,” said Pat.
“I do,” said Arielle. She turned to Pat. “Just a little one.”
“What?” said Pat. “With them watching?”
“Do we have a choice?” said Arielle.
“Come on, Patrice!” said George. “Live a little.”
“How grown-up you sound, Georgie,” said Pat. “You know, it’s not that long ago you were –”
Arielle took her hat off, stood up and kissed Pat on his cheek.

Pat stopped talking. We saw his Adam’s apple bob.
“On the lips!” said Claire.
Pat said something quietly to Arielle. She shrugged and smiled. He leant forward and pecked her on the lips. Then he drew back.
“Awful!” said Claire.
“Give it some heart, Patty!” said Sarah.
“I’m finding this extremely uncomfortable,” said Pat.
“Who cares?” said Sarah. “It’s just us.”
“Grow a pair!” said Claire.
“It’s just me,” said Arielle.
“Alright!” said Pat. He took a deep breath, took Arielle’s face in his hands, leant forward and kissed her.
“Give her a dip,” I said.
Pat drew an inch away from Arielle’s lips and looked at her eyes. She smiled. So he put his hand at the small of her back, lowered her down gently until she was floating in his arms, and gave her a kiss on the lips.
“That’s it,” I said.
“Bravo!” said Claire.
“GIVE HER YA TONGUE!” grunted Sarah.
“Baby!” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.” Her face was bright red.

Arielle and Pat stood up. We applauded. They bowed self-consciously. Arielle wiped her lips with the back of her hands, beaming with her eyes.
“Slut!” shrieked Becky.
“Becky!” gasped Sarah. “Where did you learn that word?”
“The Wiggles!” said Becky, and she stormed off to her room.

Pat and Arielle said a few more words to each other, then Arielle got into her car. Pat closed the door. He waved to her through the window as she turned the engine on, pulled out, and drove up the street. Then he turned to us.
“I will never forgive you for this,” he said.
“We can accept that,” I said.
“I will also never thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome,” said Claire.
“Good night, Patty,” I said.
“Night, guys,” he said, and he jived up the street to his car, looking like he was made of jazz music and vanilla.

We put the kids to bed. As Sarah tucked her in, Becky asked, “Mummy, when will I have boobs?”
“Hard to tell,” said Sarah. “Maybe ten years.”
“Ten years?” said Becky. “Good!”
“Why is that good, baby?” said Sarah.
“Because she’ll be ugly by then.”
“Becky!”
“I am going to be the biggest homewrecker.”
“You little devil!”
I kissed Becky on the forehead.
“My little devil,” I said.
Her mother kissed her, too. “Our devil,” she said.
I went to the door; Sarah joined me. We looked at Becky lying in bed. I turned off the light.
“Our angel,” said Sarah.
She put her arm around my waist, I put my arm around her shoulders, and we walked away to bed.