Frank stares at him in panic.

FRANK

What?

DAD

Just feel it. You’ll be fine. A one, a two, a one-two-three-four.

A cacophony of music hits the air as both start playing. Dad starts singing in a screechy voice.

DAD

(sings)

For her . . . for meeeeee . . . Comin’ round again . . .

(shouts above music)

You do backing, Frank.

(sings)

For her, for meeeee . . .

He launches into a solo. Frank stares wildly at the camera and mouths ‘Help’.


MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

Mum is making lunch in the kitchen as Dad enters, all fired up. She looks up.

MUM

So? How was that?

DAD

It was great! We jammed, we bonded . . . I think Frank really enjoyed it.

MUM

Great! Well done!

She gives him a hug.


MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

Frank sits at the top of the stairs. He addresses the camera.

FRANK

Oh my God. That was the single worst experience of my life.

AUDREY (VOICE-OVER)

No it wasn’t.

FRANK

(scowls)

You don’t know. Maybe it was.

He sags against the banister.

FRANK

Why does Dad want to play old-man rock with me? Why?

AUDREY (V.O.)

To stop you playing computer games.

Frank gives her a dark look.

FRANK

Thanks, Einstein.

AUDREY (V.O.)

I’m just telling you. They want you to have other interests.

FRANK

(explodes)

I don’t want any other interests! What’s wrong with gaming?

AUDREY (V.O.)

I didn’t say anything was wrong with gaming.

FRANK

Gaming develops your reaction times, it helps teamwork and strategy, it teaches you stuff . . .

AUDREY (V.O.)

(sceptically)

It teaches you stuff? What stuff?

FRANK

OK, you want to know? (He counts off on his fingers.) Minecraft – architecture. Sim City – how to manage a population and budget and shit. Assassin’s Creed – ancient Rome and the Borgias and, like . . . Leonardo da Vinci. Everything. All the history I remember comes from Assassin’s Creed. None from school. All from gaming.

AUDREY (V.O.)

What have you learned from LOC?

FRANK

(grins)

Mostly Korean curse words.

(suddenly shouts)

SHEEBSEKEE!

AUDREY (V.O.)

What does that mean?

FRANK

Use your imagination.

From downstairs, Mum calls.

MUM

Frank! Audrey! Lunch time!

Frank doesn’t even seem to hear.

FRANK

You know, in lots of countries LOC is a spectator sport? You know they have arenas?

AUDREY (V.O.)

I know. You told me, like, a million times.

FRANK

You know in the States they have LOC scholarships at some universities?

AUDREY (V.O.)

You told me that too.

FRANK

LOC is sophisticated. It has its own language. It has rules. It’s like . . . it’s like fucking Latin. That’s what it’s like. Latin. And Mum and Dad are, like, ‘Oh it’s so evil.’ What if I was addicted to Latin?

A long pause.

AUDREY (V.O.)

I honestly can’t imagine that.




So Mum’s bought me a phone. That was step one. I’ve got Linus’s number off Frank. That was step two. Now I need to call him.

I input his number and stare at it for a while. I try to imagine how I’ll start the conversation. I write down some useful words and phrases I might need. (Dr Sarah’s tip.) I visualize a positive scenario.

But I still can’t bring myself to call him. So instead I text.

Hi Linus. This is Audrey here. Frank’s sister. I still need to do my documentary and you said you would be interviewed for it. Is that still OK? Could we meet?

Thanks, Audrey.

And I’m expecting no reply, or at least a long wait, but the phone buzzes straight away and there’s his response:

Sure. When?

I hadn’t thought about that. When? It’s Saturday evening, which means we’ve got all day tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Do you want to come round here? 11 am?

I press SEND, and this time there’s a bit of a wait before he replies:

No, let’s meet at Starbucks.

A jolt of panic goes through me like white fire. Starbucks? Is he nuts? Then a second text comes through:

You have to go there anyway, right? Isn’t that your project?

But . . . but . . . but . . .

Starbucks?

Tomorrow?

My fingers are trembling. My skin feels hot. I’m breathing in for four counts and out for seven and trying to channel Dr Sarah. How would she advise me? What would she say?

But already I know what she’d say. Because she’s said it. I can hear her voice in my head, right now:

It’s time for some bigger steps.

You need to push yourself, Audrey.

You won’t know till you try.

I believe you can cope with it.

I stare at the phone till the numbers blur in front of my eyes, then type the text before I can change my mind.

OK. See you there.




I know what it’s like to be an old person now.

OK, I don’t know what it’s like to have wrinkly skin and white hair. But I do know what it’s like to walk down the road at a slow, uncertain pace, wincing at the passing of people and flinching when horns beep and feeling like everything is just too fast.

Mum and Dad have taken Felix out for the day to some garden show and at the last minute they took Frank with them too, to ‘broaden his horizons’. So they have no idea I’m doing this. I couldn’t face the whole big deal of telling them and Mum fussing and all that palaver. So I waited till they left, got my key, got my money and the camera, and just left the house.

Which I haven’t done for . . .

I don’t know. So long.

We live about twenty minutes’ walk from Starbucks, if you’re striding. I’m not striding. But I’m not stopping, either. I’m going. Even though my lizard brain is poised to curl up in fright, I’m managing to put one foot in front of the other. Left, right. Left, right.

My dark glasses are on, my hands are jammed in the pockets of my hoodie and I’ve pulled the hood up for extra protection. I haven’t raised my gaze from the pavement, but that’s OK. Most people walk along in their own worlds anyway.

As I reach the town centre the crowds become denser and the shop fronts are bright and noisy, and with every step I have a stronger desire to run, but I don’t. I push on. It’s like climbing a mountain, I tell myself. Your body doesn’t want to do it, but you make it.

And then, at last, I’ve made it to Starbucks. As I approach the familiar facade I feel kind of exhausted, but I’m giddy too. I’m here. I’m here!

I push the door open and there’s Linus, sitting at a table near the entrance. He’s wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt and he looks hot, I notice before I can stop myself. Not that this is a date.

I mean, obviously it’s not a date. But even so—

Mid-Sentence Stop. Whatever. You know what I mean.

Linus’s face brightens as he sees me, and he leaps up from the table. ‘You made it!’

‘Yes!’

‘I didn’t think you would.’

‘I didn’t think so either,’ I admit.

‘But you did! You’re cured!’

His enthusiasm is so infectious I grin madly back and we do a sort of mini-dance, arms waving up and down.

‘Shall we get some coffee?’

‘Yes!’ I say, in my new confident, everything’s-fine way. ‘Great!’

As we join the queue I feel kind of wired. The music on the sound system is too loud and the conversations around me are hitting my ear-drums with a force that makes me wince, but I’m going with it instead of resisting. Like you do at a rock concert, when your nerves get taken over by the force of the noise and you just have to surrender. (And yes, I appreciate most people would not equate low-level Starbucks chatter to a rock concert. All I will say is: Try living inside my brain for a bit.)

I can feel my heart pumping, but whether it’s because of the noise or the people or because I’m with a hot-looking boy, I don’t know. I give my order (caramel Frappuccino) and the surly girl behind the counter says, ‘Name?’

If there’s one thing I don’t want it’s my name being shouted across a busy coffee shop.

‘I hate the name thing,’ I mutter to Linus.

‘Me too.’ He nods. ‘Give a fake one. I always do.’

‘Name?’ repeats the girl impatiently.

‘Oh. Um, Rhubarb,’ I say.

‘Rhubarb?’

It’s easy to keep a poker face when you’re wearing dark glasses and a hoodie and you’re looking off to one side.

‘Yes, that’s my name. Rhubarb.’

‘You’re called Rhubarb?’

‘Of course she’s called Rhubarb,’ chimes in Linus. ‘Hey, Rhu, do you want anything to eat? You want a muffin, Rhu?’

‘No, thanks.’ I can’t help smiling.

‘OK, Rhu. No problem.’

‘Fine. Rhu-barb.’ The girl writes it down with her Sharpie. ‘And you?’

‘I would like a cappuccino,’ says Linus politely. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your name?’

‘I’ll spell it for you,’ he says. ‘Z-W-P-A-E-N—’

‘What?’ She stares at him, Sharpie in hand.

‘Wait. I haven’t finished. Double-F-hyphen-T-J-U-S. It’s an unusual name,’ Linus adds gravely. ‘It’s Dutch.’

I’m shaking, trying not to laugh.

The Starbucks girl gives us both evil stares. ‘You’re John,’ she says, and scrawls it on his cup.

I tell Linus I’ll pay because this is my documentary and I’m the producer, and he says OK, he’ll get the next one. Then we take our cups – Rhubarb and John – and head back to our table. My heart is pounding even harder, but I’m on a high. Look at me! In Starbucks! Back to normal!