“I don’t like beans.” He kicks Josh viciously; his twelve year old face a wizened prune. His mouth reminds me of Tao’s bum.
“You do when they’re shaped like X Factor ,” Josh orders.
And they are. A big, saucy ‘X’ across Dominic’s toast. He sits at the table and forks up the food Josh’s made in about thirty seconds flat. I’m in awe. I can make beans on toast; even eggs sometimes but not like Josh. He’s always been into cooking. Two years ago his mum had a fit after school when she realised she’d invited people round and had no food. And I mean none . Not even cereal bars.
Anyway, Josh put his homework away and went to Tesco with a big holdall and came back and locked us all out of the kitchen. There were a few bangs and crashes — one of them was his head on the oven hood — and an hour later he’d made bruschetta, lasagne and tiramisu. From scratch. I’d never even heard those words: the closest Mum and I get to Italian’s Domino’s.
And where Dominic’s a little turd, Josh’s youngest brother Edward’s a kitten. He sits on my lap, head like a dandelion and an eight-year-old smile that could’ve come straight from a washing powder advert. As he rests his head against my neck after his tea and purrs contentedly, I think I wouldn’t mind a little brother.
Looking round the kitchen as Josh clears away, I spy a new photo on the fridge.
“Who’s that?” I ask, though I know most of them. It’s a picture of all seven Meadows, plus a deeply tanned couple with two boys about our age. They’re sitting round a table in some courtyard somewhere hot. The writing on the umbrella’s Spanish.
“Hosts,” Josh says shortly. “Our villa was owned by a family. Wouldn’t leave us alone.”
As usual, Greg Meadows jetted back from Hongkers this summer and forked out for three weeks in a luxury villa. Josh got to drive a quad bike: I should hate him. That’s one thing about having a father, whether he’s around or not: more money. Mine may be abroad too but he’s a) not in our lives any more and b) has no money anyway. And boy, could Mum and I use some of that.
“Sweet,” I say. “Wouldn’t mind spending a summer with those two.” I mean the boys, who on closer inspection do look very cute.
“They were ok,” he says and then flips out. “Right, guys,” he says, imitating Mrs Debono immaculately, “who’s for ice-cream? Strawberry and chocolate.”
“I’m allergic,” I say automatically.
“You aren’t ,” Josh’s brow wrinkles. “Stop saying that.”
And he’s right. I got so used to telling people I couldn’t have ice-cream after I got my teeth whitened that Mum said she’d never known vanity like it. I didn’t know what else to say to though — couldn’t tell the truth, could I? That my mum got them discount and I couldn’t eat cold or hot things for a while? So when Erin said my teeth looked like some WAG’s I just smiled and nodded knowingly. Who’s to say eating cereal bars your whole life wouldn’t make them pure white? I told Josh the truth in the end, but only ‘cos he saw the trays next to my bed. Laughed his head off like I knew he would.
The door crashes and Mrs Meadows sashays in, carrying a bundle of blankets with one hand and a supermarket bag with the other. “Staying for supper, Lisi?”
She says ‘supper’, not ‘tea’ like it’s normal, not posh.
The baby starts crying, then so does Dominic.
“No thanks, I should go.”
“Date?”
Yeah, right. Unless you count a facemask and manicure set. I might have the most boring Friday night in the world planned but my nails’ll rival Miss Mint’s tomorrow even if my clothes don’t.
* * *
After Josh’s, I detour past Kai’s. His street’s three up from mine and though there’s no reason in the world to walk down it, I can make up some excuse if I have to ...
“Oi, Reynolds.”
It’s Kai and Felix, bouncing a basketball in the drive and lit up like aliens in the streetlights by Kai’s house. I’d have thought they’d be hanging out in town but apparently not; they have to be right in my path — shame it’s just as I’m picking my nose.
“Nice, Reynolds, nice,” Kai rumbles as he slows his dribbling and pirouettes slowly over. Felix looks at me funny and there’s a flicker, like he knows me but can’t be bothered. He knocks into Kai, and then shuffles off to the low wall to retrieve his phone.
“Alright?” two syllables, delivered with a grin that could end a world war and pupils the colour of storm clouds.