‘Of course it’s no trouble!’ Michael practically shouts. ‘Lily?’
‘No, thanks.’
Josh gets on with the job.
‘Has my boy been looking after you?’ Michael asks.
‘Yes, very well,’ Mum replies.
‘Good.’
‘Pay up, then,’ Josh says to his dad, standing over the table with his hand held out.
‘Later, son, later.’ Michael bats him away.
‘Did your dad bribe you to be nice to us?’ I ask Josh, amused.
‘Twenty bucks,’ Josh confirms with a grin.
‘I reckon you were ripped off,’ I tell Josh.
‘I can see these two are going to be trouble,’ Michael says to Mum rather wearily.
‘Mmm,’ she replies.
That evening, Michael takes my mum out for dinner. She came into my bedroom to talk to me about it this afternoon, soon after my alarm clock had hammered its way into my exhausted consciousness. My eyes felt as if someone had taken a nail file to them, but I didn’t want to stay in bed too long because I want to be able to sleep tonight.
‘Lily,’ she said. ‘Michael has asked me out to dinner.’
‘And?’
‘And I was wondering if it’s okay if I go.’
‘Why are you asking me? You don’t normally ask my permission to do things.’
‘No, it’s just that, well, I feel bad for deserting you on our first night in a new country . . .’
‘Oh, a guilt trip. Don’t worry about me, Mum, I’m used to looking after myself.’ She immediately looked crestfallen. ‘Seriously,’ I added, feeling bad, ‘go out and enjoy yourself. Get to know the guy. He seems nice.’
Her face broke into a huge smile. ‘He does, doesn’t he?’
‘Yeah, so don’t dick him around like you did all the others.’ Sorry, but my generosity has its bounds.
Josh is in the living room watching telly when I finally emerge from my bedroom. Mum and Michael went out half an hour ago.
‘I thought you were asleep,’ he says.
‘I was,’ I reply. ‘It’s a weird and wonderful phenomenon, but people tend to wake up again.’
‘I was about to order a pizza.’ He doesn’t acknowledge my witty sarcasm. ‘Have a look and see what you want.’ He hands me a takeaway menu and I flop down on the three-seater sofa. He’s sitting on a worn-out armchair in the same faded blue velvetine fabric, with his feet up on the pinewood coffee table. ‘Dad left us some money,’ he adds.
‘Ooh,’ I say. ‘Whoopdeedoo.’ He frowns at me and I struggle to keep a straight face as I study the menu. Spotting what I want immediately, I hand the menu back to him. ‘Can I have a crisp?’ I nod at the packet of cheese-flavoured Doritos on the coffee table.
‘Don’t you mean, “chip”?’
‘They’re called crisps where I come from.’
‘They’re called chips where you are now.’
