Christ, my dad’s hit the jackpot if he’s found a way to monetise his home-made videos.
My dad the celebrity chef enters the kitchen, takes one look and gasps.
‘What’s all this mess!’
He points to a side plate and knife in the sink that Imayhave used to eat a Nutella smeared muffin earlier.
‘It’s nothing,’ I tell him guiltily, opening the dishwasher and stuffing them in.
But he’s not listening; he’s already squirting Cif on the sink and scrubbing with a green scourer.
‘People will think we’re slobs,’ he mutters.
He’s always been a neat freak, and it rubbed off on the rest of us. But somehow, we’re never tidy enough.
I catch Yan’s eye. Is it my imagination, or is Dad nervous about his performance? He’s wearing his ‘good’ jeans; deep blue with a crease ironed down the middle. His hair is aggressively parted to the side and locked in place with a lot of Brylcreem. And judging by the smell wafting off him, he’s wearing a litre of AzzaroPour Homme. Has no one explained how cameras work?
I leave them to it and go back upstairs to resume my wardrobe clear-out, only takingveryshort breaks during which my fingers navigate to Dad’s YouTube channel and before I know it, I’ve seen every single one of his clips.
And I’m dying for Greek-style ratatouille with feta and oregano.
Chapter 11
I’m glad I’m getting out of the house tonight, even if it’s only for dinner at Tig’s.
I’m wearing something from the ‘possibly-keep’ pile currently taking up half my bedroom floor: a black T-shirt emblazoned with,It’s Britney, b*tchin neon-pink letters. Vandi and I bought them when we saw her Piece of Me Tour. Vandi only wears hers around the house because, asterisk notwithstanding, the logo’s too rude for her.
Below, I’m wearing skinny black jeans also from the ‘possibly-keep’ pile. I suspect Britney will be a keeper, but the fate of the jeans hangs on whether the intentional rips on the knees look stupid or not. Tig will no doubt let me know.
Sometimes, it’s useful when she’s tactless.
She’s only a ten-minute walk away, but I stop at the corner shop and buy a bottle of Pinot Noir. It’s not my natural instinct to bring wine when I see my siblings, but it’s something Rich always did when we had dinner with his brother or his parents. It weirded me out at first.
‘If I took wine every time my parents fed me, they’d be alcoholics by now.’
He’d grimaced. ‘My mum’s halfway there.’
I’d backtracked immediately. ‘It’s a sweet gesture. I’m sure my family would love the occasional bottle.’
Tig is obviouslynota fan of studied niceties because when she answers the door she scrunches her nose when she clocks the bottle.
‘What’s that for?’
‘To thank Theo for cooking.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Another wanky habit you picked up from that wanker?’
‘Can you lay off Rich for one evening?’
‘As long as you lay off telling me I’m getting married too fast.’
Touché.
I follow her through the narrow corridor towards the kitchen at the back of their ground-floor maisonette.
Tig bought the one-bed flat a year ago. She’s flighty and spontaneous, especially when it comes to boys and clothes, but at least she’s made sure she isn’t relying on a partner for a roof over her head.
Theo is chopping spring onions haphazardly, a tea towel slung over one shoulder. Yan taught us to chop like pros; I’m surprised Tig hasn’t insisted Theo speed up and do it on the diagonal, theproperway.
