Free The Flavours of Love by Dorothy Koomson

out to give them easier access to her.
    ‘Aunty Betty?’ Zane shouts. He throws down his controller and jumps to his feet. He hurtles at her, virtually shoving me aside to hug her. From residing in the world on her phone, Phoebe is now here, in the real world, her face lit up like it is Christmas morning at who is here in her living room. She drops her phone and is on her feet, ready to wait in line to steal a hug from her aunt. Guilt oozes into my heart: we haven’t been to see her since Phoebe’s birthday in February, more than three months ago. Joel used to see her at least once a month because she had no one else, and he’d often take the children. They’ve obviously missed her, and it’s been my responsibility to keep up with those visits and I haven’t. These past two days have made me wonder what I’ve been doing with my life. I know I’m always busy, always on the go, but I seem to have been sleepwalking my way through it all, missing out big, important chunks of time.
    Aunty Betty studies Phoebe like she did me the first time she met me – seeking a weakness that will give her something to tease her beloved great niece about. ‘Well now, haven’t you been the busy little bee?’ she says with a cunning but playful grin.
    Phoebe, who has obviously forgotten what a wind-up merchant her great aunt is, seems to grow ten feet taller and wider, her face a vicious snarl as she swings to me. ‘You told her I’m
pregnant?
’ she screams at me. ‘I can’t believe you!’
    Aghast, Aunty Betty draws back, and blinks in fright. Zane stops hugging his great aunt and rotates on the spot to stare at his sister with his mouth open.
    How can someone of the ‘hooking up’ generation make such a rookie mistake?
I wonder.
    ‘Your mother told me nothing,’ Aunty Betty stutters. I’ve never seen her panic like this before, she never usually shows remorse for the things she does and says, so to hear her speak so respectfully is as alien as her opening her own car door. ‘I say that sort of thing to everyone to get them to confess something to me. You know that.’She keeps looking at me, pleading with her beautifully made-up eyes for help. I ignore her. Even if I did know how to speak to Phoebe without enraging her, which I don’t, I wouldn’t help Aunty Betty in this instance – apologising will be good for her.
    ‘I’m sorry, Phoebe, I really had no idea what the situation was.’
    Zane has closed his mouth, but his ten-year-old face is honed on his sister’s stomach. Any moment now he’s going to reach out and prod her abdomen. He is fascinated with pregnant women. He knows the biology of how babies are made, but he’s currently curious about why they have to stay in your stomach for so long, how they feel when they’re in there, and if they’ll know if you poke them. I’m always aware when we pass pregnant women that I may need to stop him from making contact with their bumps. I will also need to ask him not to talk about this. It’s a burden to put on a child, but until Phoebe decides what she wants to do, it’s better no one knows.
    Aunty Betty has stopped speaking. She isn’t used to apologising, it must taste very strange and unpleasant in her mouth, something I’m sure she won’t want to sample again for a long time.
    All eyes are on Phoebe in the silence after Aunty Betty’s apology – we are all waiting to take our cues from her, wondering what she’ll do now she knows she’s exposed herself. What she’ll do, apparently, is burst into loud, uncontrollable tears.

VII
    After the madness, when my family have been herded off to bed, I gather up the post from the day and I sit at the kitchen table. I have the light from the cooker on instead of the main light, and sit still for a moment, pause, catch my breath.
    Zane and Phoebe are both asleep, Aunty Betty is unpacking some of her belongings; most of them, though, are piled up in the corridor or in the corner of the living room. Zane and