Louise Bentley is a feisty, wild, 'let's-go-to-Capri-for-the-weekend-yeah?' kind of girl. She spends her days working at a party-planning company. Oh, and she never wants kids. Ever.
Ben Langford is a studious, quiet, 'I'm-busy-reading' sort of man...
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"Question," Louise said. "Is it normal to have murderous thoughts about an animated cartoon pig?" She kicked a stone down the path. "Asking for a friend."
She and Ella were walking along the Thames, bundled up in scarves and jackets, and — in Ella's case — a baseball cap and sunglasses. The crisp September air pressed cold hands to their cheeks. Across the river, the sun was a cracked egg yolk, bleeding yellow into the city. Ella blew warm air onto her bare fingers.
"Peppa Pig?" she asked.
Louise nodded. "That's the one."
Her friend's mouth curved. "Vienna loves her, doesn't she?"
This, Louise reflected, was an understatement; in the two-and-a-half weeks she'd been looking after her niece, she'd read about a dozen different Peppa Pig books. Bath books, picture books, pop-up books, lift-the-flap books... it was only a matter of time before Louise began dreaming of the little pink she-devil.
Not that she was dreaming much. You had to sleep to dream, and Louise hadn't slept properly in weeks.
"Maybe I'll start making bacon for breakfast," Louise mused. "Subliminal messaging, and all that."
Ella stuffed her hands into her pockets. "Very smart."
Louise kicked another rock. "Or I could get Vienna a Peppa Pig cake for her birthday. Slice the little monster up."
There would be something satisfying about munching on Peppa Pig's head, Louise thought, and Vienna's birthday was only a month away. Perhaps they could throw in a Peppa Pig pinata, too. Ella smiled.
"Slice Peppa's head off," she asked, "or Vienna's?"
"You see?" Louise stabbed a finger in her direction. "The fact that you're asking me whether I'm planning to carve up my three-year-old niece is exactly why I'm not cut out to be a parent."
Ella shook her head. "That's not true."
"Of course it is." Louise dodged a harried-looking woman pushing a buggy. "Do you remember when we did that life skills course at Lovewood Academy? And we had to keep those eggs from breaking?" She shook her head. "You knitted yours a sleeping bag. I fell asleep in class and knocked mine off the desk."
Ella's smile grew. "And then you went out and bought another egg."
"How did I break that one, again?"
"Fell out a window." Ella paused to pick up a stray smoothie cup, placing it in the bin. "But kids aren't eggs, Louise."
"No," Louise said. "Kids are even more fragile."
She turned towards a yellow truck parked by the river, swathed in fairylights and painted with letters that read "JACK AND JILL'S TACOS." Six people formed a queue, including a young dark-haired couple; the girl — American, judging by her accent — raised her camera. Louise stiffened, stepping protectively in front of Ella. But the girl just snapped a photo of the boy, who rolled his eyes and smiled, muttering something about Ohio.
