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do so,” said Flora. “You just can’t hear them. Like you can’t hear Alisha. Plus she can’t even sing in tune. She goes like this: doh, re, mi-i-i-…”

      Flora’s voice rose, shrill and quavery. One of the ladies at the next table placed a hand over her ear.

      “I’m going to be singing,” said Charlie. “Coop’s already written one of my songs for me. Haven’t you?”

      “Right,” said Coop. “Wanna give them a taste of it?”

      Charlie never needs a second invitation. To be fair she does actually have a good voice. Very high and silvery. Not always quite in tune, but who cares?

      “Lovely, lovely!” cried Mum, when we’d listened to three full verses plus the chorus. Everyone clapped, madly. Dad even shouted, “Bravo!” I was a bit embarrassed so I just tapped my hands together without making any sound, but some people in the restaurant actually turned in their seats and joined in. Even the lady at the next table, the one who’d put her hand over her ear.

      I’m always surprised that people don’t get angry and ask us to be quiet, but they never seem to. I suspect it’s cos of Dad being on the radio, and sometimes on TV, which makes him a sort of mini celeb. Celebs can get away with anything. I bet if ordinary people were to start singing and shouting and making a noise, Raj would say something quickly enough, but he was smiling happily as he brought the champagne. Of course, Dad spends a lot of money in his restaurant. I expect that helps.

      “Someone’s birthday?” said Raj, as he popped the cork.

      “Celebration,” said Dad. “Double whammy.”

      Mum explained about Charlie and Coop and the twins.

      “All reaching for the stars!”

      This time, Raj really did wink at me. It gave me this little glow of happiness. It made me feel that he was on my side. Everybody, but everybody, loves Mum and Dad, cos they are funny and warm and they make people laugh. But maybe Raj understood how it was, being me. Just Peachy, the mouse in the middle.

      “Righty-o!” Dad raised his glass. “Let us have a toast… the McBrides!”

      When we’d toasted the whole family together we toasted Charlie and Coop, and after that we toasted the twins. And then Mum said, “To Peachy!” and they all drank a toast to me. And then the food came and everyone immediately fell on it in a kind of mad feeding frenzy, like in those wildlife films where they show bunches of jackals tearing some poor dead thing to shreds. You have to eat really, really fast if you want to keep up. Sometimes I manage it OK, but sometimes I am a bit slow. What made me slow that particular evening was worrying about how and when I was going to break my earth-shattering news to Mum and Dad and how they were going to react. They were not going to be happy.

      “Peachy,” said Mum, “stop messing your food about.”

      “What’s the matter?” said Dad. “Don’t you want it?” He leaned across and dug his fork into a piece of chicken. The very piece I’d been about to dig my fork into.

      “Oh, well, if she’s not going to eat it,” said Mum, and she leaned across and dug her fork in too.

      “Really,” said Dad, “I don’t know why you order things if you don’t like them.”

      “If you’d have preferred something else,” said Mum, “you only had to say.”

      “No need to be scared.” Dad helped himself to more chicken. “Just sing right out!”

      “She can’t sing,” said Flora.

      I said, “I can so! Shows how much you know.”

      Complacently, chewing chicken, Dad said, “All the McBrides can sing. Even Peachy.”

      Tomorrow I would definitely tell them.

      Usually on a Sunday morning I stay curled up under the duvet for as long as I possibly can. All the family does, except for Mum. Mum is always the first up. She says she likes to have the house to herself for half an hour before the rest of us appear and start banging and clattering.

      “A little bit of peace and quiet, that’s all I ask.”

      Hah! That is a joke. Even when she does have the house to herself Mum isn’t quiet. Or peaceful. I could hear her, that Sunday, down in the kitchen bawling at the radio. I knew I had to make an effort. Catch her on her own.

      Blearily, I forced my eyes open and with one hand threw off the duvet. The hand immediately fell back with a heavy flump on to the bed. It felt like a bag of wet cement. My eyes started to close again. It was a great temptation just to let them. I so didn’t want to have to drop my bombshell!

      An angry bellow from the kitchen jerked me back into wakefulness. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, groped my way into jeans and T-shirt, wobbled out on to the landing and staggered downstairs and along the hall.

      Mum was sitting with her feet on the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and shouting at the radio. Everyone in my family always shouts at the radio. They can’t ever listen to anything without joining in. What Mum was listening to were the Sunday-morning highlights of Dad’s weekday breakfast show, when Dad gives his opinion about what is happening in the world and the public call in and give theirs, and they have a conversation about it. Well, sometimes they do. Sometimes Dad decides that people are idiots and cuts them off. Sometimes they decide that Dad is an idiot and cut themselves off. Sometimes some of them are bonkers. Like this one woman, Monica, that calls in practically every day. She was on there now, her words splattering round the kitchen like machine-gun fire.

      “If-you-ask-me-they-should-all-be-made-to-run-naked-through-the-streets-and-have-raw-sewage-thrown-at-them.”

      I giggled. I loved Monica! “What’s she talking about?”

      “Politicians,” said Mum. “Oh, listen to her, listen to her! That is too much. She is completely mad! JUST BE QUIET, WOMAN, AND GO AWAY! Honestly, I don’t know why your dad puts up with it.”

      “He probably agrees with her,” I said. “He probably thinks it’s a good idea.”

      “What? Naked politicians running through the streets?” Mum rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid! They’re quite bad enough with their clothes on, thank you very much. What are you doing up so bright and early?”

      This was it. The moment I was dreading. I sank down on to a chair opposite her.

      “Mum,” I said, “there’s something I w—”

      “Omigod, there she goes again! Get rid of her, get rid of her!”

      “OK.” I leaned over and switched the radio off. Mum gave a shriek.

      “What are you doing?”

      “You said to get rid of her.”

      “I was talking to your dad! I didn’t mean – oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. I lose all patience with that woman. Did you want to say something?”

      She’d noticed. At last! I braced myself against the table.

      “You know last night,” I said, “when you were saying how there’d be five of us at Summerfield?”

      “Yes! Great fun. But I definitely intend to ask about a reduction.”

      “The thing is,” I said, “I—” I stopped. I couldn’t get it out!

      “You what?” said Mum.

      I gulped. “I don’t want to go there!”

      My voice came out in a pathetic squeak. Mum stared, like I had suddenly gone green or turned into some weird kind of

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