Page 105 of Untether

‘My friend Milan has Gorilla Tag and he says it’s the funnest game ever,’ Pip chimes in. ‘He hasn’t got further than the Canyons, though.’

My brain glitches a little.

‘Hang on—you have a friend calledMilan?’

‘Yeah.’ If he thinks that’s fucked up, he doesn’t mention it.

Okaaay then. I’m hoping Milan’s parents have a keen sense of humour, but I doubt it, somehow.

Poor little fucker.

I tighten their headsets and adjust them until both boys tell me they can see the forest around them clearly. Their noisy whoops of surprised delight tell me they like what they see. Once they’ve got their controllers in their hands, I begin my tutorial.

‘Right. So, moving forward is called the funny run. Use your arms like this.’ I grab Pip’s skinny little arms and move them in a doggy-paddle motion. I suspect he’ll require more tutelage than Kit who, sure enough, appears to already be funny running.

We cover off branching—jumping from branch to branch—duking, and lucio, which is running super fast. Within moments, they’re writhing around on the spot, their little arms a blur of movement, their voices growing noisier as they react and interact.

I wonder if Rafe and I look quite so ludicrous when we play together.

Probably.

Still, it cracks me up watching them as they have the time of their lives.

Seems like shameless bribery and novelty factor are the perfect formula for these little guys to accept me into their lives, if only on the most superficial level.

69

CAL

‘I’m going upstairs to check on dinner,’ I say after about twenty minutes. The boys have the hang of the game—it’s truly unbelievable how quickly kids pick these things up—and their disinterested grunts tell me their interest level in where I’m going is zero.

Excellent.

After a quick peek in the oven to confirm the lasagne is on track, I take the stairs two at a time to Aida’s room. I wasn’t focused on anything but her the other day, but her home is undeniably stunning: an enormous fuck-off Georgian villa with a seemingly effortless mix of style and comfort. It wouldn’t look out of place on the pages of a glossy interiors magazine, but it’s very much a home, too.

Once again, this formidable woman makes it look easy. And byitI mean juggling an insane career, single parenting, and running a household big enough to be a hotel.

‘Hey,’ I say softly, mainly as a warning, as I head into her ensuite bathroom. The room is dim, lit only by a scattering of candles on the shelf, the air a warm, fragrant cloud. Aida’s lying in the tub, her head resting on a towel and the waterlevel high enough that her tits are completely obscured by bubbles, more’s the pity. Her collarbones and shoulders glint in the candlelight, but when I crouch down by her side and she turns her head towards me, I can see she’s been crying.

She sniffs. ‘Are the boys okay?’

‘They’re fine.’ I take the hand resting on the side of the tub and run my thumb over her wet knuckles. ‘They’re like pigs in shit down there.’

‘Thanks.’ She gives me a weak smile.

‘Want to tell me what’s up?’ I ask gently.

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’ She looks away and shifts below the water.

‘Try me. You upset about the coverage again?’

She blows out a breath. ‘No, not really. I mean, yeah, obviously I am, but I’ve managed to zone the majority of it out. And I can’t tell you how many shitty, judgemental passive-aggressive comments I’ve gotten from the moms at school this week. But I can handle most of it.’

I wait, the skin of my dry hand flush against her damp one. If these are parents who think it’s all right to name their sonsMilanthen I can only imagine how obnoxious they must be.

‘I’m just… I dunno. I’m spiralling and being pathetic.’

In light of my observation just now, this judgement seems inaccurate at best. Aida Russell’s idea ofpatheticis what most normal people would callcrazily high-functioning.

---