Becky’s stomach tightens. She can almost hear the tangle and speed of Adam’s thoughts in the silence that follows.
‘It’s different here, I mean we’re different, it’s a different situation,’ he says.
Becky lays a flattened palm to her tummy, protective of the place where Maisie began her life.
She thinks of the times she wished her body would split in two. One half to live in, one half to burn. Her hand circles and un-circles the phone in her pocket. She wonders what scorn she can pour on Scott’s potential evening plans: a late showing of Nightmare On Elm Street? French onion soup at that bistro in Kentish Town? One day she’ll do it, one day she’ll have the guts to post: I hope you find glass in your soup, that it cuts your throat and you drown in your own blood.
‘What do you want to do with these little cakes?’ says Adam.
‘Shall we just put them all out on the plate? She’ll be back any minute. Hey, why are you laughing?’
‘I just don’t understand what’s wrong with being called Danish?’ Becky can tell that Adam is speaking the words through a broad smile.
Maisie sighs. ‘I’m not talking about that again.’
‘Why is someone calling you Danish an insult, though?’
‘It’s not the Danish thing. He was taking the piss out of my height. So what that I’m the tallest girl in the class? I don’t give a shit about it. Call me the Great Dane. Viking girl. Watch me not give a fuck.’
‘Language.’
‘You know you can height-shame as well as fat-shame?’ Her voice is higher, more agitated now. ‘Stop laughing at me!’
‘I’m not laughing at you. Danish women are famously beautiful. They are known for their beauty. The Vikings loved Denmark because all the girls there are really hot.’
‘Oh, yeah, lovely. Pillage me now.’
‘Jules was probably trying to find a way to compliment you.’
‘No.’
‘It takes some men a long time to just say what they think if it involves feelings. Most of the time boys take the piss relentlessly out of anyone they fancy.’
‘I know, I know. Pulling ponytails. Starts in the playground. Jesus,’ she says with disdain.
‘Adults are big kids at heart. They’re worried about their feelings being spotted sometimes. Covering them up lessens the risk of, I don’t know, being hurt I suppose.’
Becky folds her arms tight across her chest and looks up at the ceiling.
‘It’s a stupid strategy.’
‘How many times did he call you Danish or a Viking or whatever?’
‘All night. I was like, my dad’s short and skinny and looks more like he’s from Spain than Iceland.’
‘I’m the same height as your mum!’
‘And she’s definitely not Scandi?’
‘He’s really got inside your head, hasn’t he?’
‘I really don’t care.’
‘I believe you.’ Adam is deadpan. Becky smiles, pressing a palm to her mouth to stifle a laugh.
‘Shut up, Dad!’
‘I’m saying I believe you!’
‘You’re so annoying.’
‘If it’s any consolation, you take after your mum, and your mum’s gorgeous.’
Becky takes her palm away from her mouth and smiles, feeling the warmth of a gentle kind of joy, alongside a strange sense of achievement – like being awarded a certificate for something.
‘It’s not a consolation,’ says Maisie. ‘I’m still really annoyed with you.’
‘With me?’
‘Yes, you’re being a dick.’
‘You’re not at all annoyed with Jules, and I’m the problem?’
‘That sums it up. And stop laughing!’
Becky enters the kitchen. In an instant Maisie’s ferment is forgotten and she flings her arms around her mum. ‘We missed you, oh Queen of the movie industry,’ she says.
Adam turns to Becky and smiles. ‘Seriously, well done. Welcome to your celebration tea party! You’re actually going to get a feature film made.’
They hug each other.
‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ she says, looking around the kitchen in awe at how they have decorated it: silver lamé hanging off picture rails and cupboard corners, golden balloons bouncing across the floor. She feels loved. ‘But thank you for this. What a lovely way to celebrate a breakthrough.’
Adam, tea cloth flung casually over his shoulder and a smile painted across his flour-dusted face, takes the pile of post from her hands and helps her with her coat. Leafing through it and seeing that only bills remain, he turns to put them in his bag.
‘No, don’t,’ Becky says, taking the envelopes back.
‘Let me,’ he says, pressing his hand over hers in such a way that is more soft than firm, in such a way that she has to let go.
‘Let him, Mum,’ shouts Maisie over the scrape of chair leg on tiles. ‘I would ideally like to continue having hot showers until we’re living off your movie mogul billions.’
‘This is the last time, OK? Thank you, but it’s the absolute last time.’ But Becky is feeling secretly relieved not to have to worry about the bills. And also guilty – at the stab of annoyance she felt when she saw Adam’s unfixed shelf. He is her lifeboat, it’s so churlish of her to worry about the fact he hasn’t repainted the stern.
‘So full of pride,’ says Adam.
‘So much pride and so little money,’ chirps Maisie. ‘It’s fine. I’m going to nail my exams and get my scholarship for sixth-form so at least you won’t have to worry about paying the school fees. And I’ve been thinking,’ she continues sombrely, ‘you don’t have to buy me those Volt trainers, Mum. They are way expensive and I can probably make do with decorating a pair of green-flash with poster paint. It’ll be less waste for the landfill and quite retro. I might even start a new trend?’
‘You’re ridiculous,’ laughs Becky. ‘Thank you for being thoughtful but we had a deal. Work hard, put the hours in
