Eve White: Literary Agent

from THE TWO MISS PARSONS

Another momentous occasion: Paige’s birthday… Wow, she looked adorable teetering around on her roller-blades, legs shooting out from under her like Bambi (well, not shooting as in SHOT, I don’t mean like what happened to his mum, because that’s…euw, too awful to contemplate). Anyway. There she was, hauling herself up the side of the table so she could actually reach to blow out her candles without her feet slithering backwards into the fireplace. Bunty grabbed her under the armpits so I could take the obligatory dozen-or-so parental photographs, including the top-of-the-head-alight-with-candles and the lovely nostril-filled-with-pink-icing shot. Paige, giggling and slightly delirious from the red Fanta she’d made me buy, puckered up obligingly, and we all shouted ‘Make a wish, Paige!” So she did. Out loud. Ow, ow, ow, ow, don’t even like to think about it, but there it was, ringing out for all to hear. “For my birthday, I want to meet my dad.” The silence afterwards was so extreme I thought it might burst a window. Everyone looked at me, then Paige, then me, then at each other, and then down at the table which seemed to have developed mystic runic writing on it, judging by how interesting it suddenly became. I cleared my throat. “Oh! Most girls your age want a pony!” “Most girls my age know their dads though, Mummy,” said Paige, with the withering glance that only your own child can master so artfully. My insides caved. “Well, I’m not sure that’s true any more,” I said, holding the carving knife aloft. “Don’t you want a pony?” “Cally, where would you keep a pony?” asked my mother, sensible as ever. “In the shed? Or would it roam the streets like they do in Dublin?” “I’d find somewhere. We mustn’t let a tiny obstacle like the lack of a paddock stand between Paige and her wish for a pony. It’s her birthday, Mum. Anyway, when have you ever been to Dublin? Was it the Rotary club trip? Or something else – that weekend away with Maureen.” I paused. Even I knew that I was guilty of monstrous, heinous subject-changing. Somehow Birthday Mommy, shiny-haired and bright of smile, had disappeared.