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Grace puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on, love, no need to shout. Pat’s been really stressed, you know?’
I stiffen under her touch, I didn’t realise I was shouting. I want to shake her off. I take a breath, try to calm my voice.
‘She’s stressing all the time. It’s like, Oh Gethin, we must talk, then she’s like five hours in the studio and when she gets back, she’s in my face again. The other day, she actually asked why I don’t get a job in a shop? Fuck’s sake. Then, totally out of the blue, she chucks a non-existent dad at me? Well I don’t want to know.’
Grace lets go of my shoulder and moves to get a cloth. She pushes my leg away from the mushroom and wipes it up, then rinses the cloth. I stand there feeling an idiot. Look up at Fran who gives a sympathetic nod. I want to hug her, then I think about what Emily said and look at the floor again.
Grace takes her coffee and sits down. ‘Why not just write to her?’
‘Well, it’s not like I’ve gone far. Obviously can’t just stay here forever?’
‘You can stay as long as you like, sweetheart,’ Grace interrupts.
‘Whoa, I so wasn’t angling for that.’
‘I know. But I’m saying it’s OK.’
‘Yeah, well, thanks.’ I feel thrown by this offer taking the wind out of my rant.
‘The point is you need a break. Write and tell her you want to sort yourself out and it’s best you do that away from her for a bit.’
Can it really be that simple? I scuff my shoe against the side of a tile. I feel all mixed up, with no idea what to say.
The timer goes on the cooker. Fran takes the pizzas out and the smell of fresh baked dough sets off about a million taste buds.
‘Perfect monster pizzas!’ Fran puts her arm round me. Her hair smells of fresh apples. I look down and catch a glimpse of white lace edging the soft line of her breasts. Hold my breath. It’s Francesca, for fuck’s sake.
‘Gorgeous.’ Fran says, brushing my bare arm as she moves back to admire the pizza. ‘Let’s take this upstairs and listen to that Katy Perry I downloaded.’
Grace leans back in her chair. ‘Think about what I said, Gethin.’
Francesca’s room is a weird combination of familiar and new. All budding interior designer, with stripy silk cushions piled up on the futon and coloured Japanese lamps. But the big old armchair is still there beneath its new throw, where we used to snuggle while Grace read us a story.
Now we sit on the futon leaning up against the cushions with our pizza – Fran’s laptop between us playing Katy Perry through its tinny speakers. She has like this perfect designed bedroom, but nothing approaching a decent sound system.
But the music does fill the gap between us chewing and we don’t say a lot for ten minutes or so. My head’s full of what Grace said. Why not? Take a break from Mum? Liking the sound of it, allowing the feeling of a weight lifting.
Fran leans over to put her empty plate on the floor, her hair brushing my arms. I make myself carry on eating as she looks at me all fondly, then laughs as she settles back against the cushions.
‘Do you remember our sleepovers? When I had that platform bed and you slept on the mattress underneath? I’d tell you there was a ghost’s shadow lying flat up against the bottom of my bed and you were totally terrified.’
‘Too scared to move. But then I’d say that the ghost was sliding through the mattress to get you?’
Fran shivers. ‘Still gives me goose bumps. Happy days!’
I munch into the last slice, nod at her. She leans forward, looking thoughtful at me.
‘Did we ever even talk about who your dad was?’
‘It was so not an issue. As in I vaguely remember telling kids at school that my mum got some sperm from a nice man or something.’
Fran says she thinks she always knew that, and I point out it’s not like it’s so unusual. There was a kid in our class with two mums, whose dad may have been gay, but we didn’t think about it. Then I remember when we first did sex education in Y3. How I felt right smug when the teacher explained how babies were made. Like I had this great secret – I could tell her no, not all babies are made that way.
‘I don’t remember that,’ Fran says.
‘I didn’t say it. Just liked the idea that I could.’
‘Oh My God, I’ve just remembered.’ Fran bursts into fits of giggles. ‘Gethin, Son of Alien!’
