‘Sorry!’ chimes in Felix, who has been chomping on shortbread biscuits all this time. ‘We have to say sorry to Linus. Sorry, Linus.’ He beams. ‘Sorry, Linus.’

‘Felix, you’re fine,’ says Linus.

I can see Felix gazing at Linus, his dandelion-clock head on one side, as though trying to work out what we’re all doing here.

‘Did Mummy cut your hair?’ he says, as though he’s cracked it. ‘Did you cry? Ben cried because he was happy.’

‘Er, no, Felix, no one cut my hair,’ says Linus, looking baffled.

‘Ben cried because he was happy,’ reiterates Felix.

‘So that’s me,’ says Mum. ‘Chris? Your turn?’ She turns to Dad, who looks a little startled. I’m not sure he realized this was a go-round-the-table apology.

‘Er . . . hear, hear,’ he says. ‘What she said.’ He waves towards Mum. ‘Count me in on that. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ says Linus with a little smile.

‘And, Linus, we’d like to give you a little present to make amends,’ says Mum. ‘A little gift. Maybe a theatre outing . . . or a theme park? You choose.’

‘I can choose anything?’ Linus looks secretively from Mum to Dad. ‘Anything I want?’

‘Well, within reason! Nothing too expensive . . .’

‘This wouldn’t be expensive, what I’m thinking of.’

‘It sounds great!’ says Dad at once, and Mum frowns at him.

‘I want to play in the LOC qualifiers with Frank,’ says Linus. ‘That’s what I want more than anything.’

‘Oh.’ Mum stares at him, discomfited. ‘Really?’

‘You’re in a team already,’ says Frank gruffly. I can tell he’s super-touched from the way he won’t even look at Linus.

‘I want to play in your team. They’ve got a reserve. They don’t need me.’

‘But we haven’t got a team!’ says Frank, and there’s a sudden depth of misery to his voice. ‘I haven’t got a computer, we don’t have a team—’

‘Yet,’ chimes in Dad, bubbling over. ‘Yet.’ He grins madly at Frank. ‘Yet.’

‘What?’ Frank stares blankly at him.

‘You haven’t got a computer yet.’ Dad gives one of his stage winks. ‘Just look out for a big brown box, is all I’m saying. But no more hacking my emails.’

‘What?’ Frank looks almost heady with hope. ‘Seriously?’

‘If you follow our rules and don’t make a fuss when we tell you to stop playing,’ says Mum. ‘If there’s any trouble, it’s going out of the window.’ She gives a satisfied little grin. ‘You know I’ll do it. You know I want to.’

‘Anything!’ Frank seems almost beyond speechless. ‘I’ll do anything!’

‘So you can play in your game,’ says Dad, who looks almost as fired up by this as Frank. ‘I was reading a piece about it in the Sunday Times magazine. I mean, this LOC is a big business, isn’t it?’

‘Yes!’ says Frank, as if to say Finally! ‘In Korea it’s an official spectator sport! And they have scholarships for it in the States. Actual scholarships.’

‘You should read the piece, Anne,’ says Dad. ‘What’s the prize pot – six million dollars?’ He grins at Frank. ‘So, are you going to win that?’

‘We don’t have a team.’ Frank suddenly deflates. ‘We’ll never get a team together. It’s, like, a week away.’

‘Ollie could play,’ suggests Linus. ‘He’s not bad, for a twelve-year-old.’

‘I could play,’ I offer, on impulse. ‘You know, if you want me to.’

‘You?’ says Frank derisively. ‘You’re crap.’

‘Well, I can practise, can’t I?’

‘Exactly!’ says Mum. ‘She can practise. So, that’s sorted.’ She glances at her watch, then at Linus and me. ‘And now we’ll leave you two alone, for Audrey to . . . Well, for you to . . .’ She pauses. ‘Anyway. You don’t want us hanging around embarrassing you!’

OK, the thing is, no one was embarrassed till she said the word embarrassed. As it is, Linus and I wait in awkward silence while they all get up, and Felix drops his biscuit and wants another one, and Dad starts looking for his BlackBerry, and Mum tells him he didn’t have it, and honestly, I love them to bits, but could my family be any more annoying?

I wait until they’ve well and truly left and the glass door has closed behind them. And then I turn properly to Linus and look at him.

‘Welcome to my eyes,’ I say softly. ‘What do you think?’

‘I like them.’ He smiles. ‘I love them.’

We’re just looking and looking at each other. And I can feel something new between us, something even more intimate than anything we’ve done. Eye to eye. It’s the most powerful connection in the world.

‘Linus, I’m sorry,’ I say at last, wrenching my gaze away. ‘I should have listened – you were right—’

‘Stop.’ He plants his hand on mine. ‘You’ve said it. I’ve said it. Enough.’

He has a point. We’ve sent about five zillion texts to each other since I came back. (Only Mum isn’t supposed to know how many, because I was ‘resting’.)

‘So . . . are we OK?’

‘Well, that depends,’ says Linus, and I feel a lurch of fear in spite of myself.

‘On what?’

Linus looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. ‘On whether you can ask that blonde woman three tables away directions to the circus.’

I start laughing in a way I haven’t for ages. ‘The circus?’

‘You’ve heard the circus is in town. You’re desperate to see it. Especially the elephants.’

‘OK. I’ll do it.’ I get up and do a mock curtsey. ‘Look, no glasses! Just eyes!’

‘I know.’ He looks up, smiling. ‘I told you, I love them.’

‘You love them?’ I preen myself.

‘You.’

Something catches in my throat. His gaze is fixed on mine and there’s no doubting what he meant.

‘Me too,’ I manage. ‘You.’

We’re sinking into each other’s gazes. We’re like starving people gorging on cream cakes. But he’s challenged me, and I’m not going to wuss out, no way. So I wrench myself away and go to pester a strange blonde woman about the circus. I don’t look back once, the entire time I’m talking to her. But I can feel his eyes on me all the time. Like sunshine.




Mum’s printed us T-shirts. She’s actually printed us team T-shirts. We’re called The Strategists, which got pulled out of a hat when we couldn’t agree on a name.

You wouldn’t believe the playroom. It looks like Gaming Central. Ollie and Linus brought their stuff over yesterday, so now there are two desktops (Dad’s, which he’s lending me for the match, and Ollie’s) and two laptops, each with a chair and a headset and a bottle of water so we stay hydrated. And – last-minute purchase by Mum – a box of Krispy Kremes.

I mean, we could all play online in our own homes. That would be the normal thing. But Mum was like, ‘OK, if this is a team sport, play it like a team sport.’ And it’s a Saturday morning, so actually it works fine.

Mum’s suddenly become interested in LOC for the first time in her life, and we’ve spent all week explaining the characters and the levels and the backstory and answering her dumb questions, like, ‘But why does everyone have to be so greedy and violent?’ In the end, Frank snapped, ‘It’s Land of Conquerors, Mum, not Land of Community Service Volunteers,’ and she did look a bit embarrassed.

I’ve put in a few hours online and I’ve sharpened up my game a little. I mean, I’m no Frank. But I won’t let them down. I hope. Actually, I think I’m a little better than Ollie, who asked me at our first practice session if I was dating Linus, and when I said, ‘Yes,’ looked deflated for about thirty seconds, then said, manfully, ‘Well, let’s just be good friends and team-mates, then.’ He is quite a cutie, old Ollie.

‘I bought some Cokes for the team!’ Dad arrives at the door of the playroom.

‘Chris!’ Mum frowns. ‘I got them water!’

‘One Coke won’t hurt.’

‘Oh God. Look at this,’ Mum is peering around the room as though for the first time. ‘Look at this room. Coke? Krispy Kremes? Computers?’ It’s like the triumvirate of all the things she despises and fears. I feel quite sorry for her. ‘Are we bad parents?’ She turns to Dad. ‘Seriously. Are we bad parents?’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugs. ‘Probably. What of it?’

‘Are we, Audrey?’ She wheels round to me.

‘Hit and miss,’ I say, deadpan.

‘We’re not as bad as these guys,’ says Dad in sudden inspiration, and hands her a copy of the Daily Mail which he must have bought while he was out. ‘Read this.’

Mum grabs the Mail and her eyes fall avidly on a headline.

‘We have to wear identical clothes every day,’ she reads. ‘Mum forces her six kids into matching clothes. Oh my God.’ She looks up, totally cheered. ‘We’re so not as bad as this! Listen: The children are teased at school but Christy Gorringe, thirty-two, is unrepentant. I like my kids to match,’ she says. ‘I buy my fabric wholesale.’ Mum shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Have you seen them?’

She turns the paper round so we can see a line-up of six miserable kids, all in matching spotted shirts.

‘That’s made my day!’ Mum hastily adjusts her expression. ‘I mean, poor kids.’

‘Poor kids.’ Dad nods.

‘But at least we’re not as bad as that.’ She hits the paper. ‘At least I don’t make my children wear vile matching clothes. Things could be worse.’

I don’t know where Mum would be in life without the Daily Mail.


MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

The camera (held by Dad) shows the playroom littered with empty Coke cans and water bottles.

Seen from behind, Frank, OLLIE, Linus and Audrey are playing LOC intensely. Mum is looking from screen to screen, peering over their shoulders and trying to follow, without success.