You’re pretty… you have nice eyes… these shop windows… these knocking-shop fronts…

Ó Maidrín rua, rua, rua, rua, rua…

An maidrín rua tá dána.

Silly moo, ignore me… Emily?

Your mum and I have a pact… It means I’ll never let her down again… Helen and me, we… Auntie Bridge?… Sexy shots… Mum? Mummy?

I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sor—

Emily… I’m with Emily. We’re in Hampton Hill… no we’re not; we’re in Twickenham, in a café. We’re sitting at a table for two. She’s bought me a mochachino. It’s halfway between hot chocolate and coffee. It’s a teenager in a cup, I think: halfway between being a kid and a grown-up. I smile at this idea. It’s quite clever, you know, for me.

Your mother’s very careful with you, isn’t she? Emily’s head is on one side, like an animal hearing a sudden noise.

She gets worried, I say. Foam tickles my top lip. I lick it off.

I can see that. But you’re a big girl, my dear. You are a young woman, and a very talented, very beautiful one at that.

My face goes hot. Er, no, I’m not.

Emily laughs and shakes her head, and she gets this, like, look on her face, sort of smiling and looking at the ceiling and then shaking her head again.

Ah, how youth is wasted on the young, she says. It is our great shame and tragedy that we don’t see how beautiful we are until later, when it’s gone, and we look back and wonder why we didn’t see, why we didn’t know. Why we didn’t seize it and use it to conquer the world. She leans across the table. Her bosom squashes against the tabletop. Her eyes are shiny, as if she’s about to cry or something, but she looks pretty stoked too. I was beautiful once, she says. I was lovely, like you.

Yeah, I saw your photo, I say. She’s being weird, but I don’t want to be rude. You’re still pretty though, just in a different way. She’s so not, but she seems a bit down about it and I’m trying to be nice.

She smiles again but she looks sad, and she’s like, I was. But I didn’t fight my corner. I let things get out of my control. Sometimes you have to fight, Rosie. People try and cage you up, but you can’t let them. You can’t be a prisoner of other people’s madness, do you know what I mean? You have to leave the nest if you wish to fly. You have to get out!

I think Emily’s been smoking weed. Her eyes are a bit red and she sounds proper batshit.

Yes, I say. I don’t know what else to say. She’s not scaring me, she’s just, like, gone a bit weird. The menopause drove Auntie Bridge crazy. Maybe Emily’s got that. She is fifty-three.

When is this? When did we go to this café?

Emily melts, her face runs like thick sauce… like thick…

Auntie Bridge… there’s noise… new noise… the bubbling sound of people talking… we are in a pub. It’s the Cricketers on Richmond Green, I recognise it – hurray! We are outside at the tables at the front. It’s still light. There are people on the green, the air is warm and mellow – it has absorbed the sun. The air smells of heat from the pavement, of bodies, and of Auntie Bridge’s patchouli. The people on the green drink beer from plastic cups, sit around on picnic rugs with bottles of wine, bags of crisps, ice creams. Two men kick a football and hold their pints at the same time. We are drinking lager too, from glasses, and Auntie Bridge is smoking a roll-up. It smells sweet, and I think she’s put some dope in it, but I don’t ask her because that’s not cool. She has a pint. I have a half because I’m an underage squirt. I think this is just after my fifteenth birthday, like a week or something before I went into Year 11. I don’t even like lager. I only drink lager with fruits of the forest in it, which Auntie Bridge says is an abomination. She has chewing gum for both of us for afterwards, to disguise the smell of alcohol for me and cigarettes for her.

So that you don’t find out.

We are waiting for Helen.

Do you think you and Helen will get back together? I ask.

She shrugs and pulls on her fag/joint. Depends.

On what?

On Helen. On me. On your mum.

Mum’s fine. She’s fine now.

But you’ll be off to uni in a year or two, won’t you, Squirt?

Yes, but that doesn’t mean…

I don’t know what I was going to say. I don’t know if I ever knew.

Neither of us has found anyone else, I suppose, and… Bridget takes a drag of her cigarette, and her eyes narrow like they do when she’s going to say something difficult. She’s about to say it, but then Helen arrives.

Hello, you two. Pissed again? She kisses Auntie Bridge on the back of her neck, which is weird considering they’re supposed to be ex-partners, and nods to me. I told you to stay away from her, Bridge. That Rosie Flint is a bad influence.

Helen is smaller than me. Auntie Bridge calls her Titch. Grown-ups have more nicknames than teenagers, I think, or maybe it’s just Auntie Bridge. Helen has long brown hair, which she always ties back because she says it’s like rats’ tails, which it so isn’t. She has cool glasses, like 1950s ones, and a wicked sense of humour, which if I tried to do it would just come out wrong or cruel or sarcastic but when she does it, it’s funny. She’s an actor like Auntie Bridge but she doesn’t do any acting any more, she writes screenplays for television. She writes for EastEnders and earns a lot of money. She is the love of Auntie Bridge’s life, but Auntie Bridge told me that when she’d had a few too many, and in the morning she told me never to tell anyone what she’d said.

Not even your mum, OK, Squirt? Especially not your mum.

Grown-ups are weird… grown-ups are…

---

I’m just home from rehearsal for Little Red. You’ve made leek and potato soup. It’s delicious. You watch me as I eat it, smiling like I’m doing a good thing, but I know you like it when I enjoy eating what you make. You’re a good cook, Mummy. Sorry, I don’t really say that. No one’s cottage pie is as good as yours.

Auntie Bridge makes better chilli con carne though, LOL.

Peng munch, Mum, I say, dipping my toast in.

What? What does that even mean?

Peng munch? It means nice food, duh.

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. Honestly, you speak a whole other language.

I say goodnight early. I tell you I’m tired, but I’m so not. In my room, I check my phone. Ollie has messaged! I get into bed with my clothes on and pull the covers over my head. I make my cave of light.

Hey, beautiful.

Beautiful! Like it’s my name! I start to reply, but I think, wait, leave it a few minutes. I look on his Facebook page instead. He’s posted a cute photo of himself as a little boy. His hair is practically blonde in it, and he looks so cute in dungarees and a little stripy T-shirt. His cheeks are bright red and he has put the caption: Human cherry. I like the picture, then back over on Instagram:

Hey, ugly mug. Jokes. Saw your pic on FB. Winking-with-tongue-out-face emoji.

You’re in the living room watching the news, but I’m still scared you’ll see or hear or… just know, by telepathy or something.

OMG, he is typing…

What’ve you been up to today?

We message for a bit. You knock at my bedroom door and open it.

Rosie? You’re not still up, are you?

Shit shit shit. If you pull back my covers you’ll see I’m completely dressed.

Just reading.

OK. Lights off now, babe.

OK. Night. I can feel you’re still there. I turn off my phone and my secret cave goes dark.

Night, love. Love you.

Love you more.

Wrong. Love you more.

Night.

Night.

I listen, still as a rock, for the shush of the door on my bedroom carpet. I hear the water run in the bathroom and switch on my phone again. Ollie and I message for, like, forty-five minutes. That’s a record for us. He’s so interested in everything about me, and he knows about acting because he asks if I’ve read any Ute Hagen and I’m, like, Oh my God, yes! We talk about Stanislavski and our favourite actors. His is Jake Gyllenhaal. I think Jake Gyllenhaal is too ‘big’, but I don’t say that. He likes Claire Danes too, and I agree with that. She’s not my total fave – that would be Carey Mulligan or Jessica Chastain – but Claire Danes is up there. She is awesome. Messaging him, I feel all warm and relaxed, as if I’m in a hot bath, but at the same time I have butterflies kind of everywhere. It’s midnight. You are asleep in bed and I’m still awake, and I know I’m going to be wrecked in the morning, so I make a mature decision.

GTG.

What is GTG?

Got to go, silly! Crying-with-laughter face.

OK. Kiss emoji. Crying-face emoji.

I am in love. I am in actual love. But I can’t tell you or Auntie Bridge. And I can’t tell my friends, not even Naomi – not yet. It’s too embarrassing, because if I tell her, she’ll ask questions and then she’ll find out it’s actually nothing because we haven’t met or spoken or anything so she’ll think that we aren’t legit friends. She won’t understand the connection. Because that’s what this is: a deep love connection.

I clean my teeth and quickly pull off my clothes and put on my nightie. When I get back, I check my phone again, just in case. Red circle! He’s sent a picture. OMG! A picture – a private picture just for me. I can’t figure out what I’m looking out at first, and then I realise: it’s a close-up of a big toe.

His. Big. Toe.

Normally that would creep me out, but that’s just Ollie – he’s really good-looking but actually he’s really interesting and funny when you get to know him. And even his toe is hot. The nail is a soft brown, like that golden caster sugar we get. There’s a thin white strip at the top and a creamy white crescent moon at the bottom. I drop the phone. I know boys’ toes aren’t rude or anything, but my heart pounds and I have to breathe in and out through my mouth. A memory… toes… toes… toes wiggling in the sand. Little toes, and big toes.

Wiggle your toes, Rosie. It’s my dad’s voice. It’s my daddy’s toes!

I’m giggling. It’s my toes! My toes are next to his!

My dad bends all his toes except his big toe, which sticks up from his foot. Look at my toe, Rosie. Look at it. What does it look like to you?

A toe, silly. My tiny little voice is so cute. Happiness warms my guts like spices.

No, not a toe. That’s no toe, young lady. That, my little fox, is a spaceman.

Silly Daddy!

The memory dissolves. I pick up the phone again and read the caption:

Show me yours?

My heart kind of blows up. I think it will jump into my throat and right out of my mouth. I sit on the edge of the bed and try and figure out which foot is the best. Neither – they’re both bluey-white and gross. I run and grab the nail scissors from the bathroom and trim my toenails. I run back into the bathroom and grab your bag of nail varnishes from the cabinet. I tell myself it’s OK to take them because I always paint your toenails for you so you kind of owe me. I choose bright red, like Lego bricks. Oh my God, you will so kill me if you see I’ve painted my toenails. With your nail varnish.

I paint my right foot, thinking I can do the other one later, once I’ve taken the photo. The varnish smudges, so I run my fingernail along the nail’s edge to neaten it. There is nail varnish all over my thumb now, bright as fresh blood. It looks like I’ve cut myself, but it doesn’t matter because my toe looks proper dank and that’s all that matters. I wish I had a toe ring or something cool like that, but I don’t. It’s twenty past midnight. I’m gonna be so wrecked. The toe will have to do.

It takes less than a second to take the photo. I play around with the filters, decide on no filter, up the brightness. Attach.

Here is my toe, LOL. Blushing-grinning emoji.

Send.

Waiting for him to reply is torture. I paint the other foot. Hopefully he’ll think I have my toes painted all the time, just for, like, hanging at home. I’ll have to hide my feet from you for defs. After ten minutes – ten years, more like – he replies.

Your toe is very sexy. I’m going to call u Sexy Lady from now on. Goodnight, Sexy Lady.

Sexy Lady? Me? O to the M to the G.