‘Yeah.’ I was a bit suspicious of the questioning. Dad wasn’t the gushy sort. I knew he cared but he wasn’t big on showing it. ‘I’m fine.’

‘That’s good.’ He held his head in his hands.

‘Are you okay?’ He didn’t look well. His skin was an odd colour and he’d not shaved. I also figured some of the smell was coming from him.

‘Err. Yeah.’ He lifted his head to look at me and blinked a few times.

‘Good. Did you want some tea? Mag… My friend’s mum gave me some eggs and cucumbers.’

Dad snorted a laugh. ‘Bloody hell, what can you make from that?’

‘We’ve got bread, so I was thinking either scrambled eggs on toast or cucumber sandwiches.’

‘Proper little Gordon Ramsay.’ He rubbed his stomach and belched. ‘I think I’ll pass.’ He glanced up. ‘But thanks for offering.’

I opened the bag to remind myself of what else was in there and got a waft of lemon drizzle cake. ‘And there’s this awesome cake she made. You have to try it. It’s like—’

‘Maybe later.’ He lay back down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

*

I finished reading The Rosie Project and placed it in the box, which I was keeping in the bottom of my wardrobe. It had been different to anything else I’d read. It was funny and my takeaway from the story was that there was someone for everyone out there, even the really quirky people – you just had to work out the best way to track each other down.

It was getting late and the house was silent. I went downstairs. It did smell a bit better. Dad was asleep on the sofa. There was yet another whisky bottle on the table. I gave it another look. This one was half full. I’d already put an empty one in the recycling. I needed to remember to put the bin out on Tuesday. We couldn’t go another week.

The room had grown cold. I shut the windows and drew the curtains. I stared at Dad. He was curled up on his side with his head on a cushion and his lips vibrating as he breathed. He looked quite peaceful. It seemed odd to wake him up to go to bed but I figured that I should. ‘Dad.’ There was no response. ‘Dad, I’m going to bed.’ I jostled his arm and he jerked awake.

His eyes stared through me in alarm, as if for a moment he didn’t recognise me. ‘Was wrong?’ His voice wasn’t his own, distorted by the alcohol, something that was happening so often I barely noticed.

‘I’m going to bed. Night.’ I turned to go.

‘Where’s my tea?’

‘You didn’t want any.’