‘You’re not entirely wrong. They have all these plans for me and I just never seem to match up to what they want, and it’s...’
‘Exhausting.’
He murmurs in agreement.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. If I tell them it was a misunderstanding with Laurel, everyone–and I meaneveryone–we know is going to think I was just trying to make Laurel jealous and will think I’m completely pathetic.’
‘But it was my doing?’
‘They won’t see it as you trying to help me out. I have only just managed to stop them trying to set me up with someone new. And they’d finally given up on all the check-ins. The “How are you doing now?”s. The “Aren’t you over her yet?”s. Everything was just going back to normal and... I’m not sure I can deal with that right now... on top of... on top...’
Haf is about to tell him it’ll be all right, when she realises her phone is buried inside the couch and is ringing. She wiggles around and retrieves it from the cushions, and sees it’s her parents.
‘Sorry, let me just get rid of them,’ she says, patting his head as she passes.
She clutches the phone against her chest and scuttles back into the kitchen, cursing at the bite of cold tiles on her tight-clad feet.
‘Haf?’
Haf curses her clumsy fingers for answering yet another video call with her parents, who, at this moment, are getting a close-up of her cleavage. She holds the phone up to her face and recoils a little at the sight of her smeared lipstick, panda eyes and through-a-hedge-backwards hair.
‘Good morning to you too, dear,’ says her mum dryly.
‘Sorry, hi, parents.’
‘Had a good time last night, did we?’
‘Something like that. What time is it?’
‘Oh, about nine.’
‘And that’s a normal time for you to be calling me? Wait is someone dead?’
‘No one’s dead.’
‘Okay, well, that’s a relief.’
She sets the phone against the toaster and pours herself a glass of orange juice in the hope that it makes her feel, if not look, slightly more human.
‘Nine is a perfectly normal time to call my daughter,’ says Mum, a little huffily.
‘I dunno which daughter you’re talking about, but it’s not this one.’ Haf is, of course, an only child.
‘We’re calling to see if you’re all right, love,’ says Dad, interrupting and defusing, as always.
‘I’m fine, Dad, honestly,’ she says, looking through the cupboards for anything that could constitute breakfast. The bag of bread only has the end slices left, truly the saddest kind of loaf there is. Maybe Christopher will agree to a McDonald’s breakfast instead.
‘Could you pay attention to us when we’re speaking to you?’ asks Mum.
‘I’m just trying to wake up. You’re the one who called at the arse crack of dawn without checking if I was hungover, dressed or even conscious. I’m zero for three over here.’
Ambrose swishes into the kitchen in their silk robe.
‘I’m so hungover I might die. But not really, just like... a little bit.’
‘Have you been home the whole time?’ Haf whispers.
