‘Yeah. He’ll hate me coming to stay. Thanks, bro.’

Gus softens. ‘He does sound nice in his letters, to be fair.’

‘He likes going to the cinema and riding his bike. Same as me.’

‘J’aime faire des promenades à velo avec mon frère?’

‘Sans mon frère,’ I say. Without my brother.

I head for the shower. Gus doesn’t fight me for it because he’s at sixth form and he seems to go to college whenever he fancies it. Gus never had to go on a stupid French exchange because he managed not to take a language for GCSE because he’s dyslexic. Some people are so lucky.

I have Troy’s house-football trophy in my schoolbag and when I remember it makes me hot with shame. What’s wrong with me? It’s a little metal football with a boot kicking it. He won it yesterday: I thought it was going to be me, and so did everybody else. I took it from his bag when he wasn’t looking because I was jealous. What a knob.

I shake my head, shove the trophy to the bottom of the bag and dash out of the house. I’ll give it back to him later and say sorry. I’m a shit friend.

Troy is late. Maybe he’s not meeting me because of the trophy, because he realized it was missing and knew it was me. I stand on the corner and wait. The woman from the next street lets her dog do a poo in the middle of the pavement. She doesn’t pick it up and pretends not to hear me saying, ‘Gross!’ as she speed-walks away, her head down.

Mr Armstrong, the sad man who lives next door, ambles past and says, ‘Ah, hello, Joseph. Just getting my paper.’

I have to make an effort with him. Dad says that since his wife died it might be the only interaction he has all day.

‘Hello, Mr Armstrong,’ I say.

‘Everything all right at your house?’ he says.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m going away later. French exchange trip.’

‘Are you? Oh gosh,’ he says. ‘I used to love France. Bernadette and I went every year. Are you taking the ferry?’

‘We are, yeah. We’re going on the coach, and then the night ferry to Roscoff, and then the coach all the way down France.’ I shiver. ‘I don’t want to go,’ I add. Might as well give Mr A the facts. I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes. What the hell?

‘You’ll have a marvellous time!’ he counters. ‘Do you have any francs? I have a few coins somewhere. I could give them to you.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Armstrong,’ I say, smiling at the thought of his old holiday money. ‘Cheers for the offer, though!’