‘So, ever since then it’s just been you and your mum?’ says Max, his fingers tapping his thigh.
‘Yeah. I think so.’
‘You think so?
‘Well, it’s like … We’ve always been a two-person unit, you know? We moved into a house that my grandparents left her, so no more sleeping under canvas. The fight continues, she’s just channelled it down other routes. More PTA warrior than eco-warrior nowadays.’
‘Well my DNA results are going to be an anticlimax. Sorry, everyone,’ he says, looking to the camera.
‘You never know, we might turn out to be cousins.’
‘That’d make our snog at last year’s Christmas party a tad awkward,’ says Max.
‘Max! You had mistletoe,’ I say, rolling my eyes. Duncan and a few others laugh behind the camera. I feel buoyed. The LED viewer count at the front of the studio ticks over into its first thousand.
‘Here we go!’ says Max, as two envelopes are dangled in front of us. I take the one with Max’s name on and he takes mine. The crew are fixed on me, their gaze flicking between me and the envelope in Max’s hand. Annoyance prickles up the back of my neck. This is really happening. There’s a handful of people here who know that I’m about to get some pretty fucking huge news and their priority was to push me in front of a camera first and ask me how I feel about it second. My hands are clammy. The teleprompter displays a question. I repeat it aloud.
‘Nationality. Any guesses before we dive in?’ I ask, reading the words in monotone. Just get through the next few minutes, I tell myself.
‘Ah, easy. A hundred per cent legend.’
‘Hundred per cent delusional?’ I ask, giving the camera a side-eye as though the viewers are in on the joke. Max grins like he’s trying to ruin his school photo.
‘You?’
‘Couldn’t say. I have an … unsubtle jawline, so … a bit German?’
‘And your dad’s side?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Shall we?’ says Max in a sing-song voice, wiggling the envelope at me.
On set, an off-key sound effect plays to build suspense, but it’s more like entrance music for a pantomime baddie. I clutch the side of my stool, my nails scratching the painted MDF as Max slips a finger under the envelope flap. He pulls out a folded piece of card and maintains a neutral poker face, giving the camera a conspiratorial glance.
‘Someone lied to you, mate. There’s no German, but there is evidence of recent ancestry in Russia on your mum’s side.’
‘Wow. OK. Maybe it was an awkward time to be part of the Soviet Union?’
‘I have always wondered why you get so upset at the unequal distribution of stationery around the office,’ says Max. More laughter ripples across the studio.
‘Ready for your dad’s side?’
In the monitor, my face fills the screen, make-up intact thanks to the sheer quantity of hairspray that serendipitously locked it onto my skin. It was worth the face full of carcinogens.
‘How do we feel about haggis?’ says Max, peeking at me from behind the gold envelope.
‘Never had it,’ I say, my stomach tightening.
‘Odd, considering that your DNA has a strong Celtic link, which indicates a close ancestor according to our expert over at The Ancestry Project.’ I feel my eyebrows retreat up my forehead. ‘We’re not talking a bit Scottish here. This is a paint-yourself-blue-and-scare-off-the-Romans level of Scottish,’ says Max. He launches into a poor imitation of Mel Gibson’s Braveheart, which sends laughter round the studio.
‘How’re you feeling?’ says Max, his excitement palpable.
I rub my collarbone and take a staggered breath in, nodding slowly as my heart rate levels out. Rory was right. This wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Now I know that my father is from Scotland, I can find a way to tactfully ask Mum about any trips she’s taken up there and work backwards without risking her going into a spiral of denial. Good. This is progress.
‘Guys,’ says Max at the camera, running a hand through his floppy hair. It falls into annoyingly perfect waves. ‘We’re glad you’re here for this, because Ava’s about to get a bit of a treat.’
‘I’m good for treats,’ I say with a laugh. Max pushes his chair out as a flat-screened TV wheels into view. Oh God, what now?
Max taps the screen. A map of the UK comes into focus, a handful of countries shaded in blue. Up in an area of north-east Scotland, a tiny outcrop of land is ink-dropped by the deepest colour. He taps it again. From London, an animated arrow travels up to a place called Kilroch, where it bounces on the spot, demanding attention like an over-excited toddler.
‘Let’s give it a look,’ says Max, grinning past the camera to where Duncan sits. He knows already. Everyone must know, except for me. I smile. Behind it my brain is thick like overcooked porridge, but 16,437 viewers are watching the live stream, so I nod in agreement. ‘OK, sure.’
Max rubs his hands together and winks at the camera. I don’t hear what he says, distracted as I am by an invisible hand that clenches my ribcage and squeezes.
‘You have a half-sister,’ says Max.
‘What?’
‘Moira.’
The phrase doesn’t register. Max could have asked my opinion on Coco Pops and I wouldn’t know what to say. ‘I … don’t have a half-sister.’
‘Turns out you do. How about that, guys? Our own family reunion here at Snooper!’ Max nods to catch someone’s attention and
