I realise as we talk that her eyes are different colours. One brown; one green. They’re beautiful. She’s beautiful. In an understated way, unlike Eloise’s artificial beauty that is painted on every morning and removed every night. Her deep caramel skin is clean and smooth, and I find myself wondering what it would feel like under my fingertips. I’m immediately shocked at myself.

When she says she has to get home for dinner, I feel inexplicably sad. I’ve had fun today. More fun than I’ve had in a long time.

We part ways and walk in opposite directions. I stop and turn to watch her go.

I let myself into the house and throw my schoolbag at the foot of the stairs. Martha appears almost immediately and greets me warmly.

In contrast, my mother is thumping around in her bedroom, oblivious that I am there, flinging outfits from her wardrobe and moaning about not having anything to wear for the trip to America. This has become a daily event – either over-the-top excited or stressing about things like how many clutch bags to pack. Her moods lurch and dip, at once delirious and then anguished. Father has been even scarcer than usual, as though the promise of a holiday has given him the permission he needs to spend even less time at home.

She says nothing to me when I step into her bedroom.

I stub out the cigarette left dangling precariously over the edge of the ashtray that is tossed onto her bed. She screams at me, “Can’t you see I’m busy here? Get out! Get out!” Her face is pulled into an ugly snarl. I leave quickly and she kicks the door shut behind me.

I can’t wait to see the back of them.

*

I push the Rice Krispies around the bowl. The snap, crackle and pop has long since stopped. They are mushy and sodden now, unappetising. Still my father drones on. He’s not normally here on a Friday morning. In fact, it’s been ages since we actually shared the same air. He usually breezes past me without so much as a glance on his way back to London or in a rush to close himself in his office across the hall.

Today he is on an epic rant. My grades aren’t good enough. I’ll never make something of myself. The good universities will be closed to me if I don’t start taking school more seriously.

Yawn.

He is such a hypocrite, sitting there, spooning scrambled eggs into his tight mouth. His lips are so used to being pursed, I’m surprised he can get the fork in.