She looks up at me and grins. “Okay.” Then she leans in, conspiratorially. “But youhaveto promise not to tell him about the peanut butter and the trousers.”
“What peanut butter and which trousers?”
She grabs my hand. “Come and see,” she says, tugging me down the hallway.
In her bedroom, she drops to her knees and wriggles under the bed like she’s done this before. She pulls something out with both hands—a scrunched-up pair of purple boxer shorts. And they’re... well, they’re definitely not clean. There’s a smear of peanut butter across the front like a very unfortunate accident.
I look at her. She looks at me. It’s not clear who’s more horrified.
“I was trying to get a little bit of peanut butter with a spoon,” she says, very fast. “Just a little bit! But I dropped it on the floor and I didn’t want Daddy to see.”
“Right,” I say, slowly. “Understandable.”
“So I grabbed some trousers from the basket and cleaned it up, really quick. Then I heard Daddy coming, so I hid them.”
“Under your bed?”
She nods. “Good hiding, yeah?”
I press my hand to my mouth to stop myself laughing. “Very... creative.”
She shifts from foot to foot. “I didn’t mean to be naughty.”
“I know, Lu,” I say gently. “Let’s sort it, yeah?”
We sneak off to the washing machine like we’re on some top-secret mission. I help her throw the peanut butter boxers in with a couple of jumpers and a tea towel, just to make it look respectable. She pours in enough detergentto clean all the linen at Buckingham Place but I don’t stop her.
“We’ll just tell Daddy we did some washing to help,” she says brightly.
“Exactly,” I nod. “We’re very helpful.”
She presses the start button like she’s launching a spaceship. The machine starts whirring. She beams up at me, proud as anything.
I smile back, because honestly? I’ve just become an accomplice to peanut butter laundry fraud. And weirdly, I don’t mind one bit.
23
Crazy Frog Secrets
Theo
The car hums steadilyalong the motorway, the landscape blurring in shades of green and brown as we head towards Dorset. The “Crazy Frog” song blares through the speakers, and I glance over at Ivy, who’s laughing along with Lucy, their voices bouncing off the car’s interior. Lucy’s giggling so hard that she almost forgets the lyrics, but it doesn’t matter—she’s having the time of her life, and Ivy’s right there with her, her voice rising in perfect harmony with the ridiculousness of it all.
I can’t help but chuckle, shaking my head at the two of them. I never thought I’d see the day when “Crazy Frog” became an anthem for road trips, but here we are.
Lucy, in the backseat, sings the high-pitched ‘ring-ring’ part like she’s auditioning for a role in some cartoon. It’s hilarious, it’s chaotic, and it’s completely perfect. Ivy’s laughter fills the space beside me.
“You’ve got the moves down,” I tease, glancing at Ivy, who’s playfully bobbing her head to the beat.
“Oh, you have no idea,” she grins. “I’m practically a backup dancer.”
“You’re definitely a crazy frog,” I quip back, making her laugh harder.
But then Lucy suddenly pipes up, her voice a little too serious for the song. “I need the toilet.”
I wince, glancing at the rearview mirror to meet her wide, pleading eyes. “You think you can hold it, Ladybug?” I ask, hoping she’s not on the verge of bursting.
“I don’t know,” she whines.
