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back with my drink.

      ‘Do I get to know your name?’ I ask.

      ‘I’m called Ed,’ he says.

      ‘Why? Isn’t that your real name?’

      He gives me a close look. ‘As it happens, no.’

      ‘Is it that bad, the real one?’

      He grins. ‘You don’t get it out of me that way, either.’ He takes a swig of his beer. ‘So,’ he says, ‘you didn’t answer my question.’

      I frown. ‘Question?’

      ‘I was saying, you must come here a lot?’

      ‘Oh. No, I never come to these parties if I can help it.’

      ‘You don’t like the company?’

      ‘No. Not much.’

      I’m looking at my mother, now given up dancing and talking to one of my father’s colleagues, standing close, too close, with her head tilted fetchingly to one side, laughing too much. Ed’s gaze follows mine.

      ‘Pretty obvious, isn’t she?’

      It’s startling to hear someone say it out loud. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’

      ‘I wonder if it’s all show. Or if she really lives up to her reputation.’

      My stomach churns a little. Somehow I thought that I was the only one who would find my mother embarrassing; I never thought that she might have a reputation.

      ‘Don’t you know, then?’

      ‘Me? I’m a newcomer. Just moved to town. I’m here with my mate, Steve, he works for Vince.’ He nods at a man talking to my father, across the room, but I don’t recognise him. Then Ed’s gaze travels back to my mother. ‘Word is …’ He stops. ‘Look, I might be speaking out of turn. I hope she’s not your best friend, or your sister, or something like that.’

      I’m watching my mother, as she puts her hand on the man’s arm and says something in his ear. He laughs heartily. ‘I suppose you mean she sleeps around.’

      Ed turns to me, squinting slightly as someone’s cigarette smoke drifts across our field of vision. ‘Look, I’m not saying …’ He’s backtracking now, probably wondering if he’s dropped himself in it. ‘Steve says he thinks she’s not very happy, a bit desperate.’

      I look back at my mother. I’ve never thought of it in those terms, that my mother might be desperate. I’ve always seen her as being totally in control.

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Maybe.’

      Ed peers at me through another wreath of smoke. ‘So, do you know them well – Kathleen and Vince?’

      ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘sort of, yes.’

      ‘Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s me all over, putting my size nines in it.’

      ‘It’s okay. I know how things are.’

      He waits for me to elaborate, and when I don’t we fall silent; in the long pause I wonder if he wants to extricate himself now, but is too polite. My head feels a bit swimmy after all the red wine and the couple of Stellas I was bought at work, and I start to think I should go to bed and save myself the embarrassment of Ed sidling off at the first opportunity. Then I catch my mother looking our way again, and change my mind. For want of something to say I begin to interrogate Ed. I find out that he comes from Leeds, hence the accent; that he’s been living and working in Cambridge, but moved here for a job on the local paper; that he’s the youngest of four boys; and that he’s staying with Steve, an old school-friend of his older brother, while he looks for a flat to rent. I begin to wonder how old he might be, as it’s hard to tell.

      ‘Is this your first job?’ I ask, and he shakes his head.

      ‘No. I’ve served my time as junior reporter, not to mention office gofer. This is a promotion.’

      ‘Gofer?’

      He laughs. ‘If someone wants something, you go fer it.’

      ‘Ah.’ I’m still calculating. Twenty-four, five? But before I can glean any more information my father appears in front of us.

      ‘Eva, can I borrow Ed for a minute? Someone wants to meet him.’

      I shrug. ‘Okay.’

      ‘Hope you don’t mind?’ he says to Ed.

      ‘Of course not.’ Ed turns to me. ‘Excuse me.’

      I watch him go, and tell myself he must be relieved. Of course not. I would have liked to carry on talking, but I doubt he’ll be back, and as a loud burst of laughter comes from the group he joins I decide there’s no point hanging around like a lemon. I should just go to bed.

      Upstairs, though, I realise I’ve left my bag; when I go back down I see my mother has now commandeered Ed and is talking to him at the far side of the room. Talking is a loose term; there’s a lot of flirting going on, she’s laughing and standing close, the way she does, with her eyes hooked on his. It’s so naked it’s embarrassing, and I hate to think of what Ed might say about my mother now, with firsthand experience of how ‘desperate’ she is. I shouldn’t care, I really shouldn’t care what others think, but somehow I still do – I can’t bear to see my mother making a fool of herself. I wonder if I should go and interrupt her, somehow prise her away from him, but that will piss her off even more and I’m not prepared to get the sharp end of my mother’s tongue in front of Ed.

      Back in my room, I stand listening to the babble downstairs. Someone has just changed the music, and ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ drifts up the stairs. She’ll take a tumble on you, roll you like you’re a dice. Would she? Does she actually do that? I can hear her laughter now, above the rise and fall of voices, and to shut it out I put my hands over my ears. I stand there, frozen, with my heart hammering and my eyes squeezed tightly shut. When at last I open them I stride to the door and run smoothly, quickly, downstairs. In the lounge my mother still has Ed cornered and I watch them for a moment, trying to read Ed’s body language, to decide if he’s lapping it up or attempting escape, then I whirl round and go in search of my father. He’s in the kitchen, stashing empty bottles into a box.

      ‘I need to talk to you.’

      ‘Do you? What, right now?’

      ‘Yes. Right now.’

      He picks up a box of empties and turns towards the side door. ‘Just open the door, will you?’

      I follow him out, and I’m wondering what to say, because when I came back down I hadn’t got as far as that. ‘Dad, don’t you think you should wind the party up now? It’s late.’

      He gives me a puzzled look. ‘Don’t be daft, Eva. It’s just getting going.’

      ‘Dad, listen, please. It’s Mum.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘She … she drinks too much.’

      He laughs. ‘No more than anyone else. Don’t be daft.’

      ‘No, it is more, way more. And … Dad, you need to sort this out.’

      ‘Eva …’ He’s shaking his head, smiling. ‘You funny girl.’

      My father puts the box down by the bin, the bottles chinking together. Then he makes to move round me, to go back inside. I put my hand on his arm. ‘Dad, please, just tell them all to go home. Make them go home.’

      He pauses for a moment, caught by the threat of tears in my voice. He reaches up and smoothes my hair on one side. ‘What’s wrong, Eva? It’s only a little party.’

      ‘It’s a party every week, Dad, and she drinks as much on all the other nights. It’s out of control.’

      He

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