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  ‘I’m not sure I can eat it all, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘Never mind. I’ll have a little nosh, shall I?’ said Mum. ‘Oh chips, yummy yummy.’

  ‘In my tummy,’ I said automatically. ‘Mum . . . is Dad still mad?’

  ‘He’s OK now. He’s just nipped out to the office to check on something.’ She paused. ‘This new Water Meadows deal means a lot to him, Beauty. Maybe that’s why he’s so . . . tetchy at the moment.’ Mum’s voice sounded odd, like she was reading aloud. She wasn’t looking me in the eye.

  ‘That’s rubbish, Mum,’ I said. I nestled up close to her. ‘I’m sorry you got shouted at when it was my fault, getting him all worked up about the rabbit. He was so angry I thought he was going to whack me one!’

  ‘Your dad would never ever hit you, sweetheart,’ said Mum. ‘You’re his little Beauty.’

  She put her arms round me, knocking my glass of orange juice over. ‘Oh no! I’m so clumsy. We’ll have to change the sheets, otherwise it’ll look like you’ve wet the bed!’ said Mum, trying to joke again. Her smile was stretched so tight it looked as if her face might split in two.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I said, starting to cry.

  ‘There now, pet,’ said Mum, rescuing my crayons and drawing pad from my damp bed. ‘Oh, what a lovely chicken!’

  ‘I ate it, Mum,’ I confessed. ‘The real chocolate chicken. I ate it. It’s all gone.’

  ‘Even its little chocolate beak and claws?’ said Mum. ‘Well, good for you! You had to wait long enough for your tea.’

  She shook her head at the picture.

  ‘You’re so good at art, love. Can I keep it? We could frame it and hang it up in the kitchen.’

  ‘Well, I did it for Sam. You’re supposed to send your pictures in to the programme and then they show the best ones on the telly. But I think I’m a bit too old to send my picture in. It’s supposed to be a programme for very little kids. Don’t ever tell anyone I watch it, Mum.’

  ‘As if I would. It’s a lovely programme. I like it. So maybe it’s a programme for little kids and little mums. I like that Sam.’

  ‘So do I. And Lily.’ I sighed.

  ‘Oh, Beauty, I wish you could have your own rabbit. I’d give anything to change your dad’s mind. But there’s no way he’ll let you have any kind of pet, darling.’

  I put my head on my knees.

  ‘I hate him,’ I muttered.

  ‘No you don’t. He’s your dad and—’

  ‘And he loves me very much – not,’ I said. ‘If he really loved us he wouldn’t get mad and he wouldn’t shout at us and he’d let me have a rabbit.’

  ‘He doesn’t often shout,’ said Mum. ‘It’s just when he’s really stressed out. He can’t seem to help it. He doesn’t always mean it. And I’m sure he feels sorry afterwards.’

  ‘Yeah, like, I’m sorry, Dilly, my mouth just opens and out come all these awful words and I swear and say dreadful things but I can’t help it. Has he ever said something like that, Mum? Has he ever even apologized?’

  ‘Don’t.’ Mum smoothed my straggly hair, tucking it behind my ears.

  ‘Maybe I’ll ask Dad to get me boxing gloves for my birthday and then I’ll bash him one if he shouts at us,’ I said.

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Mum. ‘How about eating one little triangle of tuna sandwich, eh? Just a little nibble.’

  I tried a tiny bite. Then another. And then suddenly I was starving hungry and able to tuck into my tea. Mum had a triangle of tuna sand– wich too, and we shared out the chips.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish it was just you and me.’

  ‘Sh!’ Mum looked anxiously over her shoulder even though we knew Dad was at the Happy Homes office on the other side of town.

  When we’d finished our tea and I’d got ready for bed Mum stayed in my room and we read stories together. Mum’s mum, my nana, never read her any stories at all, so it’s fun for Mum reading them for the first time with me.

  We used to read lots of stories about fairies and then another series about a princess. Mum had just bought me a new princess book.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s not the same series. I’ve made a mistake. Typical me! It looks a bit queer and old-fashioned. It’s probably boring. We don’t have to read it if you don’t want to,’ said Mum.

  ‘I think it looks good,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ll start it off, OK?’

  We put the tray on the floor and Mum squashed in beside me. I started reading about this little girl, Sara Crewe. I was interested that it said right in the first paragraph that she was odd-looking. Later on she said she was one of the ugliest children she’d ever seen. I especially liked that part.

  Mum liked the bit where Sara’s father buys her a whole new set of clothes, and then another elaborate set for Sara’s new doll, Emily. Mum took her turn reading while I drew lots of velvet dresses and hats with feathers and fur coats and muffs and old-fashioned lace-trimmed underwear – a long row for Sara and a little row underneath for Emily.

  We got so absorbed we jumped violently when we heard the car draw up outside.

  ‘Oh, lordy, that’s Dad back. Quick, chuck your crayons on the floor and settle down to sleep, pet, OK?’

  Mum gave me a quick kiss, kicked my tray under the bed, switched off my light and rushed out of the room. I lay still. We’d forgotten to change my orange-juicy sheet and it felt uncomfortably damp and sticky.

  I listened out for shouting. I could hear Dad talking but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then I heard pad pad pad as he came up the stairs in his socks. My heart started thudding. I shut my eyes tight and tried to breathe deeply, as if I was asleep.

  I heard my door creak open.

  ‘Beauty?’ Dad whispered.

  I tried not to twitch. I breathed in and out, in and out, in and out . . .

  ‘Beauty!’ said Dad, very near me now. His head was so close I could feel his breath on me.

  ‘I think you’re awake,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure I saw your light on when I drove up.’

  Eyes shut, keep breathing, don’t flinch!

  ‘Oh, well. Never mind. You’re a very naughty girl, plaguing your old dad about pets, especially when I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment. No wonder I get cross! But remember this, sweetheart. Your daddy loves you. You’re his special Beauty.’ His voice thickened as if he was about to cry.

  He gave me a kiss on my cheek. He stayed bent over me for a few seconds. I think he was hoping I’d put my arms around his neck. I kept them stiffly by my sides, my fists clenched. He sighed and then went out of my room, pulling the door to behind him.

  I still didn’t dare move, just in case he poked his head back in and caught me fidgeting. I stayed in exactly the same position, cramped and uncomfortable, until I heard the television downstairs. Then I dared stretch out. My arms and legs throbbed. I breathed out so deeply my nostrils quivered. My insides still hurt though, as if someone had taken my long wiggly intestines and tied knots up and down them, like a string of sausages. I clasped PJ against my sore tummy and eventually went to sleep.

  Four

  Dad had usually left for work by the time I got up in the morning. However, when I went downstairs for breakfast he was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading his newspaper. My tummy squeezed back into sausages even though Mum smiled at me reassuringly. She was looking extra-pretty in her shiny peach satin nightie and dressing gown, her long blonde hair falling past her shoulders, her neck and arms as smooth and white as ice cream.

  ‘Hi, poppet. Would you like an egg?’ she said.

  I shook my head, pouring myself a bowl of cornflakes.

  ‘I’ve got two flaky corns on my feet. Would you like to snack on them too?’ asked Dad, looking up from his paper.

  I made myself giggle, though he’d made that joke hundreds of times already. It came out like a little mouse snicker. Mum poured him another cup of coffee and gave him another round of toast. Dad flicked