“Oh yeah?” I ask, helping her getting the pyjama top on. “And how exactly do we do that?”
She pauses, thinking hard, then brightens. “Soup! You always make me soup when I am ill.”
I chuckle as she places her arms around my neck. “Right.”
She nods seriously. “And a card.”
I sigh, already knowing there’s no way I’m getting out of this. I’m also considering it not one of Lucy’s worst ideas. Ivy lives only around the corner and soup is the universal cure for the common cold.
“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe we can take her some of the chicken soup I made last week. I’ll defrost it.”
Lucy cheers like I’ve just told her we’re off to save the world. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirm, ruffling her damp curls. “But first, we need to get you dry unless you want to catch a cold too.”
For once, she holds still while I blow dry her hair, sitting patiently on my bed. She must be really invested in this mission. Once her dark curls are mostly dry, she wriggles out from under my hands and scrambles to her little craft box.
“I’ll make her a card!” she announces, dragging out paper, crayons, and a pile of stickers.
I leave her to it while I head to the kitchen, popping the frozen soup into the microwave to thaw. The apartment fills with the familiar scent of garlic and herbs as I watch the pot moving in circles, keeping half an ear on Lucy’s occasional huffs and mutters from the living room.
When I check on her, she’s sprawled across the floor, tongue poking out in concentration as she adds the finishing touches to her drawing. She finally sits back and holds it up proudly.
I study it, biting back a laugh. It’s… definitely a drawing. Ivy is there, curvy with a wild bun and what appears to be a massive red nose. Next to her, there’s a wobbly bowl of soup (at least, I think it’s soup).
I press my lips together. “That’s brilliant, Ladybug.”
She beams. “She’s sick, so I made her nose big.”
“Yeah, I got that.” I tap the paper. “What’s this bit?”
“The soup.”
I got that right then.
She stares at it, then frowns. “I need words.”
“Go for it,” I say, turning back to the stove.
She picks up a crayon, presses it to the paper—then stops. “I don’t know how.”
I smirk. “Want me to do it for you?”
Her eyes go wide with horror. “No! I have to do it.”
“Right, of course.” I grab a separate sheet of paper and a pen, crouching beside her. “I’ll write it here, and you can copy it.”
I printGet well, Ivyin clear, bold letters. Lucy leans in, nose practically touching the page, as she carefully copies each letter onto her card. The G is massive, the I is wonky, and the V looks like a seagull, but she gets there in the end.
She leans back, inspecting her work. “That’s good.”
I nod solemnly. “It’s perfect.”
Satisfied, she folds up the card while I finish packing the soup and some bread rolls into a tote bag. She can wear her pyjamas for the short distance but even if it is a mild June evening, I grab a light jacket for Lu before we head out.
We stroll the short distance to Ivy’s building, Lucy practically bouncing with excitement. When we reach the coffee shop below her flat, I steer her inside for a quick detour.
She gives me a suspicious look as I grab a slice of lemon drizzle cake from the counter. “We’re just bringing soup,” she reminds me.
