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Chapters (86)
  1. Title Page
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Love
  4. Before
  5. One
  6. ONE
  7. Two
  8. TWO
  9. Three
  10. THREE
  11. Four
  12. FOUR
  13. Five
  14. FIVE
  15. Six
  16. SIX
  17. Seven
  18. SEVEN
  19. Eight
  20. EIGHT
  21. Nine
  22. NINE
  23. Ten
  24. TEN
  25. Eleven
  26. ELEVEN
  27. After
  28. One
  29. ONE
  30. Two
  31. TWO
  32. Three
  33. THREE
  34. Four
  35. FOUR
  36. Five
  37. FIVE
  38. Six
  39. SIX
  40. Seven
  41. SEVEN
  42. Eight
  43. EIGHT
  44. Nine
  45. NINE
  46. Ten
  47. TEN
  48. Eleven
  49. ELEVEN
  50. Twelve
  51. TWELVE
  52. Thirteen
  53. THIRTEEN
  54. Fourteen
  55. FOURTEEN
  56. Fifteen
  57. FIFTEEN
  58. Sixteen
  59. SIXTEEN
  60. Seventeen
  61. SEVENTEEN
  62. Eighteen
  63. EIGHTEEN
  64. Nineteen
  65. NINETEEN
  66. Twenty
  67. TWENTY
  68. Twenty-One
  69. TWENTY-ONE
  70. Twenty-Two
  71. TWENTY-TWO
  72. Twenty-Three
  73. TWENTY-THREE
  74. Twenty-Four
  75. TWENTY-FOUR
  76. Twenty-Five
  77. TWENTY-FIVE
  78. Twenty-Six
  79. TWENTY-SIX
  80. Twenty-Seven
  81. TWENTY-SEVEN
  82. Twenty-Eight
  83. TWENTY-EIGHT
  84. Eleven Months Later
  85. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  86. Copyright

She looks confused and I mouth, I’ll tell you later as he continues dancing around the kitchen, utterly oblivious to the fact that I’ve broken my phone. I didn’t realise until I was getting dressed at Poppy’s, but it turns out my phone was in the back pocket of my jeans when that bloke knocked me on my arse at the train station so now the screen’s cracked. I can still use it, but it’s not even a year old.

My mother is going to kill me dead and I can’t even tell her that it wasn’t my fault.

Still, until then, at least there’s my father’s spaghetti bolognese.

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I know I’m going to tell my mother about Poppy before I hear her key in the door, but the reality of it – of actually saying it out loud – is making my heart beat so hard, I’m pretty sure that I’m going to throw up.

I shift on the sofa, trying to act natural, adjusting Rosh’s favourite Christmas blanket – the red fluffy one with the white snowflakes – so it just looks like I’m sitting here, reading a book.

No big deal.

I hear the front door close then she’s in the hallway, hanging her handbag on the coat hook and kicking her Crocs off before unbuttoning her coat. She must see the light on in the living room, because the next thing I hear is her padding down the narrow hall towards me and I tell myself to calm down.

‘Ashana,’ she says, walking over to stand by the arm of the sofa. ‘Where’s Daddy and Rosh?’

‘Bed,’ I tell her with a small smile. ‘How was work?’

‘Fine,’ she says, clearly suspicious that the TV is off. ‘Why are you still up?’

‘I was just reading.’

‘Reading?’ She looks even more suspicious. ‘What are you reading?’

‘About Jean-Michel Basquiat. The exhibition I went to see today.’

I hold up the book Poppy gave me and she gestures at me to hand it to her. I do, watching as she takes her glasses from the top of her head and puts them on. She squints at the cover for a couple of seconds, her brow furrowed, then drops her chin to peer at me from over her glasses as she hands the book back.

‘This isn’t art, Ashana. It’s just lines and colours.’

‘Isn’t that what all art is?’

She thinks about it for a moment, then tilts her head from side to side. ‘True.’

She puts her glasses back on top of her head and when she turns to leave, I panic.

‘Mama, can I talk to you?’ I say, my voice far too loud.