“It never works. Well, come in, I have quite an assortment of oddballs for you.”
Anne was standing on the stairs with Florence, looking amused.
“Hi, Florrie!” Alice cried. “Happy birthday, gorgeous girl!”
“That’s Anne, Adam’s mum.” Coralie swept Alice into the sitting room. “This is Alice; Alice, this is Tory Tom—”
“ConservativeTom.” He shook her hand. “Florence’s half sister’s brother’s dad.”
“Stefan from work; my brother, Daniel; Florence’s other granny, Sally, who volunteers at Charleston.”
“Ooh,” Alice said. “Lovely. Bloomsbury, very cool.”
“Zora you’ve already met.”
Alice nodded. “What are you reading, Zora?” Zora held up her graphic novel, a Sherlock Holmes rewritten for kids. “Someone once told me I wasso thick,” Alice said, “I thought Sherlock Holmes was a block of flats.”
“No, it’s Holmes, with anL,” Zora said.
“Well, I know thatnow!”
“That’s a lovely dress,” Stefan said. “Is it RIXO?”
“Sorry, it’s Portobello,” Alice said. “People hate it when I say that! Vintage!”
“It’s lovely,” Sally said approvingly. “So how do you two know each other, or is it really the babies who are friends?”
“Oh, no!” Alice grasped Coralie’s arm. “We’re friends!”
They were, against all odds, despite Alice being a literal ten who hadn’t read a book since school and Coralie being a charmless Australian who commuted on the bus, had a dull winter complexion, andstillwore Uniqlo elastic-waist trousers. They’d met when they’d both picked up their daughters late on the same day. In the shed, they struggled with their buggies, both with burning faces, until Alice said, “I hate being told off, don’t you?” They walked home together through the park. Alice paid for three days a week of nursery by renting her flat out as a photo shoot set. It was on a corner above a former pub in Dalston and got the light from “three aspects.” Alice revamped it seemingly every month, repainting, tiling, putting up shelves. She also made lampshades, wall hangings, and tapestries, which she got bored with after a short time and sold through her Instagram. Ever since that first meeting, they messaged each other to walk to nursery together. Sometimes, when Nicky was away, and Coralie was in the bath, she and Alice texted for an hour straight. So, yes—they were friends.
Anne put Florence down so she could pull herself up and try to walk. Immediately all the adults crouched to encourage her while Adam made the tea. The doorbell rang. Tory Tom went to open it. “Florence,” he called. “It’s your little pal.”
After a dramatic pause, a small girl toddled in. Seeing the large group, she stopped in her tracks before running back to clutch the baggy corduroy trousers of her tall and diffident father. “Look, Beauty, there’s Mama.” Nicky pointed to Alice on the sofa. Beauty ran over and climbed into her lap.
“Hi, Nicky,” Coralie said. She noticed Stefan stare toward the kitchen at Adam, who raised his eyebrows. “Wait.” She jogged over to him. “Let’s have it all in the kitchen—we can do the cake now and have it with the tea.”
“Cor,” Adam said urgently. “You didn’t tell me Nicky was Nicky Adebayo.”
“I didn’t really know he was Nicky anyone?”
“I thought you were the Google fiend?”
“Not about men! Anyway, I knew who he was from Alice. I just didn’t thinkyouwould know him. What were you saying to Tom before? There won’t be an election, will there?”
“No. No, no. Nicky, hi!” Adam stretched out his hand. “Adam!”
“Nicky,” Nicky said.
“That’s lucky,” Anne said. Everyone turned to her. “That Beauty is beautiful. You know—that name’s a real gamble.”
Nicky laughed. “We chose it after she was born, when it was safe.”
“Well, well done.”
“Tea?” Adam said. “Coffee? Cake time? Flossie, is it cake time?”
Florence made a happy noise. Everyone exclaimed that she’d clearly said “Cake time,” and it felt natural after the applause to go straight into “Happy Birthday” while processing in a group to thekitchen. Adam lit the candle and picked up Florence so she could blow it out, and Coralie took a lovely candid photo of them together, illuminated by the bespoke glazing. There were no lovely candid photos of her (at all) and especially none of her with Florence. A few times, in the park, or once on mat leave when they’d gone to Charleston and Coralie had just had her hair done, she’d asked Adam to take a photo of her and the baby. He’d gamely agreed, widened his stance, leaned back from the waist, pointed the camera up her nose, and counted down loudly from five. By two, there were tears in her eyes. She’d deleted the photos without looking. “Happy birthday, dear Florence,” the group sang, at which point they all became aware of a single standout voice: Nicky Adebayo singing like an actual cello.
