He left the bags on the doorstep, got on his moped and zoomed off into the twilight.

Dad poked his nose into the bags and peeled back the lid of one of the plastic containers. The smell of delicious food intensified.

‘Is it some sort of joke?’ my mum said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Dad said. ‘At least, the food seems real enough!’

Ben ran out of the living room. ‘Is that Chinese?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘it’s the Emperor’s Banquet.’

‘My flavourite!’ said Ben. He said that by mistake years ago and everyone laughed, so he carried on saying it. We don’t laugh any more, we’re actually a bit fed up with it.

‘Let’s lay the table and open the wine!’ my dad said. ‘This is turning out to be a strange day. But a good one! I wonder what’ll happen next?’

‘I expect there’ll be an earthquake and the house will fall down a chasm,’ said my mum. ‘Or we’ll all be trapped in a fire.’ She likes to bring things back down to earth.

‘No, I think some other good stuff might happen,’ I said. ‘It’s just a feeling I’ve got.’

While we were eating (it was the most delicious Chinese food any of us had ever eaten – I’d wished that it would be) the phone went. Mum went to get it. We could hear her going, ‘What? . . . Who is this? . . . Yes . . . But . . . Is this for real? . . . I can’t quite believe this is happening, but . . .’ Then she burst out laughing – not the sort of laugh when something’s funny, but the sort of laugh when you’re so happy you can’t stop yourself. ‘Of course! I’d be delighted! Yes . . . tomorrow . . . See you then, I can’t wait!’

She came back to the table. Her face was pink and dazed with delight.

‘What is it, Mum?’ Maeve goes.

‘That was Bernard Souter! The art critic, you know. He said . . . He said he slipped into my exhibition incognito last year – and it was the best new work he’s ever seen! He wants to come and have another look at the paintings tomorrow – he wants to buy some – and he’s been working very hard to organize a major exhibition for me at the Tate Modern and they’ve finally agreed, it’s going to be next month!’

‘That’s fantastic, darling!’ my dad said.

‘He said all that conceptual stuff – sharks in tanks and all that – everyone’s fed up with that now. They want good old-fashioned paintings like mine, executed with skill and technique!’

Maeve’s like, ‘You sure it’s not a trick? Someone imitating Bernard Souter’s voice?’

‘Who’s Bernard Spouter?’ Ben asked, scratching his head. He’s had nits ever since he started nursery. And that was three years ago. He gets nit-combed every night but they always come back.