Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Praise
- About the Author
- Title Page
- Intoroduction
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EITHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- CLIMATE EMERGENCY
- Copyright
I spend most of Saturday on the sofa, a bag of frozen peas over my swelling cheek. Mum calls in the afternoon. I let her go through to voicemail and almost smile when I listen to her message. She says she is staying away an extra night, and that there is plenty of food in the freezer. I don’t know why she still says ‘an extra night’, and I tell her unresponsive message that there aren’t any peas left. I almost smile at that too.
But it hurts to smile.
If Dad had a Monday meeting in London, he’d often go in on Sunday and ‘make a weekend of it’; meet up with old friends, then get to his hotel in time for an early night. We’d spend the Sunday evenings watching a film together, or whatever sport was on, our phones clamped to our ears, the tiniest delay in the sound from each other’s TVs like an almost-echo. We wouldn’t speak for ages at a time, but I’d hear him shuffling on his bed, or coughing, or just breathing, and it would be like he was next to me. I’m thinking of those evenings now, a bag of peas on my face.
But it hurts to smile.
Alongside the selection of bad TV I flick through, my aching mind wanders in and out of a few other things – Mum, school – but keeps coming back to last night. The party. How I was. Who I was. It felt like no time had passed at all since I was that relaxed with Jamie. I remember just … glowing. That’s the right word – glowing. The beers helped, I think. They don’t help now though, as I interrupt myself to get another glass of water to try to squash my headache.
But it wasn’t just that. I’d felt somehow whole again. Delicate, maybe, but definitely whole. And that song. The dancing, arms wrapped around a group of people. Dana.
What had I said to her? I can’t remember big chunks of it. I follow the swirling patterns on the lounge ceiling as I try to recall, but like them my thoughts just go round and round and round.
And it hurts to smile.
I camp out in the lounge until pretty late before hauling myself off to bed, and I sleep deep into Sunday. I’ve just showered when Mum gets home, opening windows and complaining about the smell of ‘cooped-up boy’ as I come down the stairs.