Rory smacked the table with his hand. ‘I like it. Now we’re talking.’
‘Really?’ said Petra to George. ‘They ate them?’
George nodded.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘Some people.’
Rory ignored her. ‘So, OK, this is good. We kidnap Goose. Petra, I want you to look into logistics. Get the police in – and what? We spin it that he’s been taken for Sunday lunch? It’s a real shame it’s summer not Christmas. George, can we get someone from that farm on camera? Just having that as a story will get the idea into people’s minds. I like it.’
Foppish Rupert added, ‘My parents have a farm in Hampshire. Goose could stay there for a while.’
Petra looked out the window again at the dank, rainy industrial estate. ‘Probably never want to come back.’
Rory nodded. ‘Well that would be even better. A post-kidnapping lovers’ tiff.’
George laughed.
Petra looked back at them all, expression pained. ‘This is really mean.’
Rory sighed. ‘Yes, we know it’s mean, Petra. But if we don’t do it then nothing happens, the film’s a flop, everyone forgets about the bloody birds and some fox’ll probably eat them or the council will evict them. We’re actually doing them a favour – in a roundabout sort of way. Right,’ Rory stood up, grabbed the biscuit packet, and popping out the last custard cream said, ‘Action that, people. Let’s get back to work.’
Later that day, Rory was sitting at the kitchen table opposite Max, drinking a cup of tea and impatiently refreshing his Twitter feed, waiting for a scheduled announcement about the Eskimo-snow BAFTA winner’s latest project. Feeling confident about his own #SwanLovesGoose kidnapping plan, he’d picked Max up straight from the set in a great mood, then cooked an amazing risotto that Max had picked all the peas out of and said was a bit smelly. They had had a row and weren’t speaking when his wife came home from work.
‘Have you seen your sister’s Instagram?’ Claire said, as she walked into the kitchen. She threw her bag down on to the leather club chair by the window and gave both Rory and Max a kiss.
‘No.’ Rory immediately opened up his Instagram app. ‘What is it?’
‘She’s on her way back to Spain,’ said Claire, pouring herself a glass of water while surveying the mess in the kitchen.
‘She’s what?’ Rory scrolled through Instagram in search of Ava’s post.
Max was now forking up all the bits of chorizo from the risotto while simultaneously watching a Minecraft video on his laptop.
‘You’re not allowed the laptop at the table,’ said Claire.
‘Dad’s on his phone.’
‘I’m not eating anything,’ said Rory, his tone exceedingly similar to his son’s.
‘Rory, get off your phone. Max, get off your laptop.’ Claire shut the dishwasher.
‘You just told me to look at this picture!’ said Rory, incredulous.
Max huffed. ‘I need to watch this.’
Claire gave Rory the kind of look they’d shared for the last ten years. A we’re-meant-to-be-in-this-together look that made him roll his eyes then lean forwards and snap the laptop shut.
‘Oh, what?’ said Max.
‘Just eat your dinner,’ said Rory, his tone still reflective of the earlier risotto argument.
Max glowered at him. ‘What about you?’
Rory had to tear himself away from the photo Ava had posted of the sun rising over a plane wing to make a show of clicking his phone off. Max looked smug.
Claire ate a spoonful of the leftover risotto from the pan. ‘You’re getting closer to that spot on MasterChef, Ror,’ she said with a laugh.
Despite the distraction of Ava on her way to Spain, Rory felt a little flush of pride that someone appreciated his cooking, and raised a brow at Max to show how wrong he’d been. Then he was straight back to the subject of the Instagram photo. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone back already! She’s unbelievable.’
Max looked up. ‘What’s wrong with Aunty Ava?’
Claire bit down on a smile. ‘Nothing. She’s just not your father.’
Rory took a slug of his tea and shook his head as if he was being hard done by. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. Although if she were like me I doubt she’d have been hit by a bloody bus and have zero direction in life. You know what she’s like, Max.’ He looked at his ten-year-old son as if he were thirty-five and didn’t just judge his aunt by the presents she bought him. ‘I’ve never met anyone less able to settle down. Aside from my own mother. Talk about thinking the grass is greener. She thinks it’s bloody fluorescent anywhere she isn’t.’
‘She’s got FOMO,’ said Max, standing up to get some ketchup from the fridge.
‘Yes, no – I’m sorry, I have no idea what that means,’ said Rory.
‘Fear of missing out.’
Rory sat back. ‘You’re quite right, she has exactly that. FOMO. I like that.’
‘Where have you been, Dad? Everyone knows FOMO.’
Rory raised a brow. ‘Earning money so that you can know words like FOMO.’
‘It’s not actually a word,’ said Max, ‘it’s an acronym.’
‘There you go.’ Rory raised his hand as if that were the case in point. ‘I’ve been earning money so you know words like acronym. Please don’t put ketchup on that risotto.’
Max squirted red sauce all over the remaining rice. Rory drank his tea to stop himself from saying anything, his fingers itching to get back to his phone and the Eskimo-snow director’s Twitter announcement.
‘At least he’s eating it,’ Claire said, in an attempt to keep the peace, having another spoonful from the pan herself before taking it to the sink to wash up.
Rory stood up, surreptitiously swiping his phone into his pocket so he could go into the living room, check Twitter, and leave the pair of them to their tomato ketchup. But as he started to walk towards the door he paused, a thought suddenly occurring to him. ‘You don’t happen to know where Ava’s staying, do you?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, at your gran’s, I spoke to her earlier. She popped by the office actually to pick up the spare key for her flat – she’s rented it to an airbnb tenant while she’s away. That’s a good idea, isn’t it?’
‘She did what?’ Rory felt his jaw drop in disbelief.
Claire was filling the sink with hot water, distracted, not really listening. ‘Rented her flat to airbnb. I’d like to live in Spain for the summer, wouldn’t you? The beach, the sea, fresh figs, and little coffees and tapas. It’d be amazing. Imagine that rather than having to go upstairs to write a stupid, pointless presentation for a job interview I shouldn’t be having because they should be promoting me rather than interviewing me.’
Rory had completely forgotten about Claire’s impending job interview. ‘It’ll be fine. If it’s got your name on it, you’ll get it,’ he said. ‘Now tell me about Ava.’
Claire raised a brow at him. ‘I will get it, Rory, I would just like to be rewarded for the work I’ve done rather than humiliated by being pitted against