‘She is.’ She lets herself smile this time. ‘She won the Nobel Prize in Physics last year.’

‘No way! For what?’

‘I don’t know.’ She sighs lightly and flicks her hair again as if she doesn’t care, but I can tell that she does. ‘Something to do with the cosmos. She was the first woman to win it in fifty-five years, apparently.’

‘Wow.’

‘I love her. She’s the best mum. Such an inspiration.’ Poppy is practically beaming with pride now, deep dimples I’ve never seen before appearing in her cheeks. ‘She grew up in Whitehawk, you know?’

‘Fuck off did she.’

‘She sure did. Swallow Court.’

‘I live in Kingfisher!’

‘The one with the sea view!’

‘Sea view is pushing it somewhat,’ I concede with another chuckle.

‘I’ve never been there, but she talks about it a lot.’ Poppy nods and smiles to herself. ‘She was born in East County, grew up in Swallow Court, went to Whitehawk High School, like you.’

I grin. ‘Like me.’

‘Then she got a scholarship to Cambridge.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘Are you surprised?’

‘No.’ I shake my head as I think about it. ‘Just hopeful, I guess. For Rosh, I mean. I can see her being Professor Roshaan Persaud one day.’

‘It certainly has a ring to it.’

‘So what did your mum study at Cambridge?’

‘Maths. That’s where my parents met, actually, at university. My father always says that he didn’t have much choice; she was the only woman on their course.’

She laughs, but I don’t.

Is that supposed to be a compliment?

‘Does your dad have a Nobel Prize as well?’

‘Not quite.’ She laughs again, but there’s an edge to it this time. The slightest hint of bitterness.

‘What does he do?’

‘He teaches at the Institute of Astronomy.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Cambridge.’

‘But I thought they lived on Chichester Terrace?’

How does her father go back and forth to Cambridge every day?

‘They do. They have a house in Cambridge as well. He splits his time between the two.’

Well, I guess that explains why she boards at Roedean if her parents live in Brighton.

She must know what I’m thinking, because she adds, ‘Mum isn’t around much, either.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She travels a lot. Since she did that documentary for the BBC she’s doing more and more TV stuff. Plus, she’s always giving guest lectures. She’s at MIT in the US as we speak, opening a new lab, or something.’

‘That must be . . .’ It takes me a second to think of the word. ‘. . . disorienting for them.’

I’m not sure I’d like that. I need my stuff. My bed. My pillow. My towel.

I need to walk in somewhere and know that I’m at home.

‘I guess, but she loves it. Dad, not so much.’

‘How come?’

‘Because she’s more successful than he is.’

I whistle, my eyes wide at her ruthless honesty.