I’m terrified about Dad coming with me to Balmoral, what he’ll say and think about the groomed school grounds, the epic buildings, the august portraits on the wall. Even worse, I’m worried how he’ll act around Ms Nouri and the other parents, what random topics he’ll raise or, worst of all, what will happen if he decides to talk politics with them.

I can’t figure out if it’s going to be the worst or greatest night of my life.

I return to the garden, squint into the light. I need to add myself into the photo somehow. Maybe I should get Dad to take some photos of me in my Balmoral uniform, then print them out and make a collage, cutting and pasting to construct a frame.

More work, in short.

Because no one’s around, I allow myself a little growl that turns into a satisfying anguished groan. This project is taking over my life.

‘Who’s that?’ Mum asks, when my phone lights up.

‘Natalia. Again.’

‘You two seem to get along well.’

‘Hnnh,’ I say, even though she is sort of right. I read Natalia’s message and then stow my phone. ‘She’s desperate to see how the photo is going. Like, desperate.’

Natalia does this thing where she doesn’t type out a full message and send it like normal people do, she types out single thoughts or phrases, and then sends them separately, making my phone go off like a machine gun.

‘How is it going?’

‘Don’t ask.’

I wrap the roti in foil, ready to reheat in the oven. Rendang spice fills our entire flat. Sam’s having a sleepover at his friend Louis’s house and we don’t have to cater to his kid tummy, so Mum is making this thing hot. I cough from the fumes and move further away, to the other side of the bench.

‘I think I need to have a break from it. I’m going to stay home tomorrow and do some practice English responses instead.’

I kick my foot up onto the stool, leaning forward to stretch my hamstring. Ouch. Even a jog with Arnold couldn’t clear my head. It’s like someone is blowing up a balloon inside my brain. It’s pressing outwards and I can’t deflate it.

‘Sounds good.’ Mum tips a tin of coconut milk into the pan and stirs. ‘This will need to simmer for at least an hour. Want to watch an episode of something?’

Once we settle on the couch with a pot of oolong tea I say, ‘Ma, if you promise not to tell me off, can I tell you something?’

She makes that face that means she’s steeling herself about the demonic sex cult I’ve joined.

‘You know Dad was out all today? Well, I kind of had a snoop around his garage.’

‘Oh, Chloe.’ Mum uses her disappointed voice.