‘She’s going with her boyfriend next summer,’ Claire said once she’d gone downstairs. ‘She met him at the Caribbean Club one Thursday.’ She was looking at me with her eyebrows raised, like there was a secret code and she was just waiting for me to cotton on.

‘He’s coloured,’ she whispered, leaning in.

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve seen a photo. And I’m not talking the guy-from-Hot-Chocolate-black, I’m talking black black.’

I didn’t know how I was supposed to react, but she was waiting for me to say something.

‘Wow.’

‘I know. Can you imagine? My parents are gonna go spare.’

I can hear Dad coming upstairs. He takes them two at a time. He knocks on the door but doesn’t wait for an answer. I close my eyes and go limp. He stops for a minute. He hesitates.

‘Alright, love? You awake?’

I can’t help smiling. Mum would’ve told me to sort myself out and stop being so dramatic. Too late. I’ve given it away now. I sit up.

‘What’s all that noise about then?’

I shrug.

He picks the book up off the floor and sits down next to me. He’s humming under his breath. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

‘Don’t you think you’d better get started?’

‘I hate woodwork. There’s no point.’

He reaches for a pencil on the bedside table. ‘What’ve you got so far?’

I just look at him. He shakes his head.

‘Karen Whittaker, you’re a bloody pain in the arse.’ He looks up to the ceiling for inspiration. ‘A bird box or a pencil tidy?’

‘Whatever’s easier to make.’

‘Don’t mention this to your mother,’ he says and starts to draw.

I sit with my legs crossed, like Claire’s sister does when she’s trying to meditate. I watch him. He’s like a little kid sometimes. He sticks his tongue out when he’s concentrating. I could shuffle nearer and put my head on his shoulder and fall asleep. He’s a big daft sod. Like Mr Reynolds. But better than Mr Reynolds. I wonder sometimes how he ended up with Mum.