seemed so normal. Dad ignored me, his eyes glued to Daybreak on the telly and Amy hogged the bathroom for so long I thought I was going to wet myself. In the end I couldn’t wait any longer, so I picked up my bag and raced off to school with a piece of toast and jam between my teeth without even saying goodbye.
If I’d known I was never going to sleep in my bed again or sit on our sofa or lie in our bath under the bubbles, I might’ve snuggled down in the warm a bit longer, soaked up that feeling of home. I might have given Dad a kiss, begged him to change his mind; at least I could’ve asked him why. I’d definitely have grabbed more toast.
Toast would’ve been good because I had no idea how hungry I’d get, or how cold.
The most annoying thing though, apart from what Dad did, is that he didn’t put my little photo of Beckett with the letter. I hadn’t seen or heard from Beckett or Mum for seven years, nothing at all since the day they left. So not having the photo made everything so much harder.
Things were fine when it was just Dad and me. We never really talked about anything important, but we were OK. I missed Beckett loads and wished he could’ve stayed with us, but I was relieved Mum had gone. I hadn’t felt scared in the morning for ages. I hadn’t had to hide under my covers at night, smothering my sobs by biting on Blue Bunny’s ear. And although Dad never bought flowers, like my best friend Grace’s mum does every Friday, our flat was still nice; it was our cosy home.
But that was before Amy came along and ruined everything. I could tell she didn’t want me around from the start. The way she kept glaring at me and sighing; the way she got into a huff if Dad so much as even looked at me. She kept clinging to him like tangled ivy up a wall, batting her spidery eyelashes, whispering in his ear. If I were a piece of old furniture, Amy could have taken me along to the tip with all the other old stuff that belonged to Mum. It would’ve made it much easier for her to chuck me out of her life, to pretend I’d never existed.
The worst thing was, Dad didn’t even tell me she was moving in. I was there, digging through the iceberg in the freezer, looking for chips to go with eggs for our tea and she arrived with a million black bin liners, bulging with stuff…
“Where on earth d’you expect me to put my things, Dave,” she says, clattering up the hallway, “when this place is so full of junk?”
She opens and closes our cupboard doors, slams around the flat like she owns it. She goes into my room and starts rearranging my stuff, kicking my scrapbook things under my bed, picking bits of fluff off the floor. I can’t believe my eyes. She stands there with her hands on her hips, tutting like a bird, rolling her eyes like a mad person.
“Put them wherever you like, babe,” Dad says. “You know, make yourself at home.”
I wanted to punch Dad then, to wake him up. He’d gone all floppy and pathetic like he used to be with Mum, like a big stupid fat lump of dough. Why did he do this? Why can’t he tell her to get lost so we can eat our eggs and chips in peace and watch the telly?
Dad opens his arms wide and pulls Amy in so tight his big belly bulges like whale blubber around her.
“And you, Mister,” she says, pulling away from him and jabbing at his belly with her sharp red fingernail, “need to shed a few pounds.” She pats him like he was her puppy. “Can’t have my man being a big old fathead, can I?”
“Look, babe,” says Dad, slapping Amy’s bum, “what’s mine is yours. You’re the woman of the house now. Do what you like with the place. I don’t care.”
That was the wrong thing to say because:
1. I do care.
2. Amy does just that.
Later on she starts pulling the flat apart, rearranging it, putting all her stinky air freshener plug-in things and stupid ornaments all over the place. She clutters up the bathroom with loads of body scrubs and sprays and mountains of make-up.
“Ew!” she says, leaning over the chip pan, almost choking me to death in a swirl of perfume. “What on earth d’you call that?”
My cheeks burn hotter than the chip fat.
“Egg and chips,” I say. “I’m making tea for Dad.”
Amy laughs like a hyena in The Lion King. She rests her hand on her forehead, dramatically, and starts staggering about the kitchen on her pink high heels.
“You’re not seriously gonna eat that rubbish she’s making you, Dave, are you? You might die from food poisoning! Quick! Quick! Fumigate the place! We might all die!”
Dad leans against the fridge and sighs.
I freeze, stiller than a statue, and watch the edges of the chips frizzle and burn while these huge invisible hands slide inside me and scrunch my tummy up tight.
“Nah, babe,” Dad says. “You’re right! We’ve got a real woman in the house now; we don’t need to eat that old muck. You can cook proper grub for us, right, babe?”
Amy laughs and rolls her eyes, the little red veins threading over them like rivers.
“If you think I’m gonna be a slave to your kitchen, Dave,” she says, poking his belly, “you’ve got another think coming. I’m your girlfriend, remember, not your freaking wife!”
Dad opens the fridge and peers inside. He sniffs a carton of gone-off milk, reeling backwards with the stink.
“How about a takeaway?” says Amy. “You know… celebration time!”
She starts digging in his pockets for his wallet, tugging at his shirt, her bony hands moving all over him. Dad pulls away; his ears glowing as red as a throbbing sore.
“Not tonight, eh, babe?” he says, nudging her away. “Let’s save it for the weekend. We’ll have the egg and chips, shall we? Gabriella’s done them now. I promised her we’d sit together to eat and watch telly. Shame to waste them.”
Amy puckers her lips so tight they remind me of a hamster’s bottom.
“You’re not gonna turn into a mean man now I’ve moved in, are you, Dave?” she says, jabbing her elbow in his ribs. “You know what they say about mean men.”
A line of sweat bubbles above Dad’s top lip. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and digs his fat fingers in to get at the cash. He sighs and all his strength kind of drains away like water.
“All right then,” he says, “anything you like.” He turns to me. “Gabriella, run down to Chang’s, will you?”
“Good idea, Dave,” says Amy, giggling, wriggling her way into his arms, nibbling at his ear. She glares at me and holds Dad tight like she’s won him as a prize.
I ignore Dad and watch the burny bits creep along the chips until every one is black and smoke is billowing into the kitchen. Amy starts flapping her arms like mad.
“I’m gonna choke, Dave!” she squawks. “Open the window, will you, you stupid old fat bum!” She puts her hands on her hips and stares at me. “I’m the woman of the house, Gabriella Midwinter, your dad just said so. So you’ll keep your grubby hands out of my kitchen and get sharpish at tidying up that bedroom of yours. Do you hear?”
My heart thumps in my ears. I glare at her through the swirls of black smoke. My room is none of her business.
“I like it in a mess,” I say. “I know where everything is and Dad doesn’t mind.”
She moves towards me, her shoes clip-clopping on the kitchen floor, her waggling finger pointing. “Well, young lady,” she says, pushing her face so close to mine I can see the streaks of fake tan on her cheeks, “things are about to change round here. I’m the