Finn turned, trying to direct his stream down Charlie's wellingtons. Fortunately his aim wasn't very good. I rapped smartly on the window and they both waved, so overcome with mirth that they had to hold one another up.

'She thinks the world of you,' said Ivan. 'She says you used to be like sisters.'

'We still are, really.'

'Well, then. I'm begging you to think again. Refuse the offer, get that sign down and find Mr McNamara a job. They're a waiter short at the Beefeater.'

Kit, waiting at the Beefeater. That would be the mighty, fallen. I had a horrible vision of him with his hair standing on end, thunder rumbling on his brow, deliberately pouring beer into people's laps. I pulled my face straight as I turned around. 'What did your father do, before he lost his job?'

'Nuclear physicist.'

'W-wow,' I stammered, wondering how I hadn't known this. 'That's, um . . .'

'Unexpected?' Ivan pushed back his chair. 'Nah, pulling your leg. He drove the mobile library. Might not sound very exciting, but he loved it. The council closed it down. Not cost effective, they said. But . . . thing is, that library wasn't just a bus filled with books. It was the highlight of the week for some people.'

I saw my young visitor out. He stopped by the front door, watching the twins, who were on their hands and knees as they tried to lap water out of the pond.

'Mrs McNamara-Martha. Can I offer you a deal? Change your mind, and I promise I'll p.i.s.s off and never have anything to do with Sacha again.'

Touched, I squeezed him on the arm.

'I mean it,' he insisted.

'I believe you, Ivan.'

'The rest of you will be okay. I can see that.' He c.o.c.ked his head at the boys. 'It's an adventure for those little nutters. For you, it's . . . I dunno, an escape? For Mr McNamara it's a dream. But what about Sacha?'

'I think it's a wonderful opportunity for her,' I maintained stubbornly.

He walked to his car and wrenched at the door. 'I've had my say. I just wish you'd think again.'

The pink Beetle was pulling out onto the road when Mum stuck her oar in.

For Sacha, it's a disaster.

Five.

It all happened so fast, once we sold the house. There wasn't time to take a breath.

Logistics and practicalities devoured our energy: packing, organising, discarding. Clothes to Oxfam, toys to Lou. Selling cars, renewing pa.s.sports, applying for visas. Everything we did became charged with an awful significance because it was the Last Time. That Last Time Waltz was ghastly. I never want to do it again. The word goodbye became meaningless. Yes, we'll keep in touch! Yes, lots of sheep in New Zealand. Yes, ha-ha, if you went any further you'd be clean off the planet. Mm, hilarious. In the end we stopped wanting to see people, especially the ones we most loved. We longed to be teleported away. Scotty, beam us up.

They threw a party for me at work, with all the flags and bunting. Flattering speeches, a natty little video camera and a truly mammoth card signed by everybody, including people I never remembered having met and at least one who heartily disliked me. Kisses, hugs, pretending to wonder how they'd manage. I was touched and nostalgic, but the truth is I'd already left them. My mind was focused on the future.

Some people thought we were making a mistake and felt constrained to say so. Many seemed to interpret our leaving as a personal insult-what, did we think we were better than them? Three, with ghoulish satisfaction, predicted that we would be back within the year.

The one-armed man at the fuel station sucked on the matchstick he always held between his teeth. 'Tedious spot though, isn't it?'

'Oh, I don't think so.'

'Dull as ditch water. Like Switzerland.'

'Is it really? I didn't know that.'

He nodded gloomily. 'Nothing but mountains and smug folk in hiking boots.'

'Do you know New Zealand well, then? Or Switzerland?'

'Tears before bedtime,' he predicted, in his Eeyore drone. 'Never a good idea. Not in my opinion. Gambling with your family's lives, really, aren't you?'

'Got to go,' I said, hastily s.n.a.t.c.hing back my credit card. 'I'm collecting my daughter from school.'

The final bell had gone, and girls were pouring out to begin their summer holidays. Abandoning the twins in the car, I raced up to the fifth-form common room to find a Greek tragedy being re-enacted. Mascara streamed down stricken faces. Ties were loosened, hair crazed in distracted grief. They were all signing Sacha's school shirt with indelible marker pens while munching on the giant cupcake she'd made for them.

Their lavishly coiffured cla.s.s tutor, Belinda Rothman, caught my eye and wiggled her fingers. I went to this same school with Belinda. She used to be a total b.i.t.c.h, actually, but that's another story. I don't know what possessed the board when they made her deputy head. She minced over on ridiculous kitten heels.

'Ma.s.s hysteria,' she sighed. 'I've had to stop one of them mutilating her arms with a compa.s.s.'

'You're joking . . . aren't you?'

'Tanya's a bit of a drama queen. But we're all devastated to be losing Sacha.'

'Sorry.'

'You're public enemy number one in the staffroom.'

I murmured something lame, and the silly woman patted my arm. 'I do hope this move won't disadvantage her academically. She wants to do medicine, doesn't she? And what about her flute lessons? Ooh!'-holding up a finger-'I've got something for you to read!' She skipped over to her French shopping basket, looking smug. Actually, Belinda Rothman's been looking smug for twenty-five years, ever since she stole my part in the school play.

'As it's been an emotional day, I asked all the girls to express their feelings in a poem, essay or poster. Here's Sacha's. She doesn't mind you seeing it.' Belinda was holding out a piece of A4 refill, blackened with angry scrawl. 'You've got a b.u.mpy ride ahead of you!'

Sacha emerged from the wailing chorus with her best friend draped around her shoulders. Dopey little Lydia was off to Tenerife the following day, so this truly was goodbye.

'I'll phone,' Lydia promised. She had chestnut boy-hair and never looked more than half awake. I'd known her all her life; her mother and I were in the maternity unit together. She'd eaten at my kitchen table a thousand times over the years, and swapped awful knock-knock jokes, and was rude about my cooking. 'I'll be on Facebook every single night.'

Sacha burst into tears. 'Night's morning over there,' she sobbed. 'It's all upside down.'

'Get her out,' hissed Belinda from the corner of her mouth. 'Before they become blood sisters. They've still got their compa.s.ses.'

Getting out of the building-past teachers, girls and the janitor-took twenty heartbreaking, horrible minutes. We needed a couple of those hunky bodyguards in black suits and mirrored shades. The car was a blessed sight.

Charlie and Finn hadn't throttled one another, thank G.o.d, and no pa.s.sing do-gooder had called the NSPCC to report neglected children. They were listening to a Mr Men story tape.

'Hey, Sacha. Whadya call a Smartie in a combine harvester?' asked Finn as we got in.

'Shredded sweet!' crowed Charlie, and both boys fell about.

'Listen to your story,' I warned them, 'or I'll put on Radio 4.'

Sacha and I travelled in a loaded silence as it began to rain. I didn't ask how she felt; didn't try to jolly her up. I was tired of her anger. I was tired of feeling guilty. I was tired, full stop. And all the while my mind was scurrying in exhausted circles, fizzing dyspeptically with lists-things to do, things to remember, things I'd just remembered I'd forgotten to do.

Oh, b.u.g.g.e.r. m.u.f.fin. She was going to Dad's until we were settled, but there was a mile of red tape before she could join us in New Zealand. Must get her to the vet's for a microchip. Oh my G.o.d, I hadn't phoned the lawyer back about that wretched eas.e.m.e.nt. Maybe Kit had done it? No, I'd said I'd do it because Kit had flown across to Ireland.

Oh b.u.g.g.e.r b.u.g.g.e.r b.u.g.g.e.r-the goldfish! Perhaps the nursery school would like them? The tank was so encrusted with slime that I hadn't actually seen a fish in weeks. From time to time a flicker of piscine movement would stir, like Jaws, in the green gloom. I'd have to clean it.

'If anyone cares, that was the worst day of my life,' announced Sacha.

I braked for a lollipop lady, my mind on the fish. And the dog. Oh G.o.d, and the eas.e.m.e.nt. 'I'm sorry to hear that, doll.' b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, what if the sale falls through? 'You're feeling sad about leaving your friends.'

'Do me a favour,' snarled Sacha. 'Listen to yourself.'

'Sorry?' I drummed my fingers on the wheel, wondering if I should just drop in at the solicitor on the way past.

'Turn off the professional busybody language, Mum.'

My mobile rang as we were pulling away again. With one eye on the road, I checked the number.

'It's the removal people,' I moaned. 'Oh G.o.d, what's gone wrong now?'

Sacha's hand whipped out. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone out of my fingers and held it to her ear. 'Yes? . . . Oh, h.e.l.lo. Yes, speaking.' She sounded calm, mature and utterly charming. 'Yes. No. Actually, you can cancel the whole thing because we're not going after all. Yes, I'm afraid you did hear right. Cancelled. Sorry for the short notice, but it can't be helped. Change of plan. Thank you. Goodbye.' She switched off the phone and tossed it over her shoulder.

'Ouch!' yelped Finn. 'That b.l.o.o.d.y phone bashed me in the ear.'

'Sacha Basher, Sacha Basher!' sang Charlie.

I pulled into a bus stop. We sat side by side, staring at the windscreen wipers.

Swipe, swipe.

'Pick it up,' I hissed. 'Now.'

Sacha began to fiddle with her own phone, texting.

'That wasn't a request,' I said. 'It was an order. Just phone them back, Sacha. Tell them you were joking.'

'But I wasn't joking. You're acting in breach of my fundamental human rights. I've asked a lawyer. We're going to apply for an injunction.'

She pressed send as a snorting bus loomed in my rear window. Hara.s.sed, I pulled into the road only to be hooted at by a harridan in an Audi. The whole world hates me, I thought. The world, including my own daughter.

'The lawyer is also going to find my father,' said Sacha. 'She says I have a right to a genetic and cultural heritage.'

'For G.o.d's sake!' I slapped a hand to my brow. 'How many more times?'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah. You s.h.a.gged a bloke after a party, and you didn't even ask his surname?'

'Yes, actually! I didn't ask for a name or address or phone number because I thought there was time for that. Your father was the love of my life for about five hours, until he staggered off to the shower and never came back. I'm sure he was a decent boy, and I've forgiven him. He left me the most precious gift in the world.'

'Did he also leave a gla.s.s slipper?'

I screeched in frustration, but she wasn't moved.

'Some married man, I'll bet. MP? Doctor? Vicar? You've stolen my ident.i.ty to protect his.'

'Have you really seen a lawyer?' I asked, but she'd begun typing another text. These were her friends, these people who flashed upon her screen with their indolent spelling and acronyms.

'Have you seen who?' chirped Finn, from the back. 'Who, Sacha? Who, who, who?'

'Look at that sporty car with no woof,' cried Charlie. 'They're getting wet!'

Sacha twisted in her seat. 'One day, you two little loonies will have a sporty car with no woof. You'll share it. The boy with the hottest chick gets to use the wheels.'

'We'll take you for rides,' Finn promised kindly, while his brother made a variety of sporty car noises.

Sacha hadn't been to a lawyer. I knew she was winding me up, once I'd thought about it calmly. I turned in at our gate, thinking uneasy thoughts about Sacha's father. I wished he knew he had such a daughter. I wished she knew she had such a father. They both had much to gain, and much to lose.

I really didn't want to read the bit of paper that Rothman tart had given me.

In the good old days at primary school, Sacha's cla.s.s used to waste their Monday mornings, week after week, writing What I Did at the Weekend. It's an inane exercise. When I am dictator, it will be banned in all schools.

But I still kept those little exercise books. Sometimes, when clearing out the attic or packing to emigrate, I flicked through them. They recalled those halcyon days through a soft-focus lens. It was like living in a chocolate box.

At the weekend my Mum and me went to a caffay. I had hot choclat with white and pink mashmalos. We sat at a tabel by the fire. It raned outside but we were cosy. It was luvly.

At the weekend my Mum took me rideing. My pony was calld Wendy. Mum showed me how to feed Wendy appels. She sed Wendy likes me.

At the weekend I got stung by a be. My Mum cuddled me and put speshal creem on from her hambag. It made me beta.

At the weekend my Mum got marryd. I was the brides made. I had a yelow silk dress, white shoes and gorjus flowers in my hair. Mum lookd like Cinderella at the ball and everywon wanted to kiss her. She said she still loves me most in the wurld. I said I love her more.

Compare and contrast: You know what? My mother has no humility. She thinks she's perfect. People don't realise this simple fact about her.

When you're small, your mother's a G.o.ddess. But when you grow up you realise she's anything but. My friends reckon she is cool. Some of the guys even think she's hot, which is just plain sick. People think she's so HUMAN. She laughs about her legs and her double chin. Well, she's safe to go on about those things, isn't she? Because there's nothing wrong with her legs, or her chin. Nothing at all. What she doesn't giggle about are things that really are MORTAL SINS. Like sacrificing your daughter to the great G.o.d Emigration!!

She is ruining my life. Everyone says this about their parents, but in my case it is actually true. My mother IS ruining my life. My feelings don't seem to come into it any more. She's selling my happiness to buy a dream. I'm just a commodity.

She's always trying to hint that I'm jealous of Kit and the boys. But this isn't one of those wicked step-parent things. Yes, Kit's got his faults and he can be scary when he's drinking. But we get on brilliantly. It's great the way he says things that are really funny, really crack me up, but he doesn't laugh. And he stands up to Mum when she's being ridiculous. He doesn't let her perform. It was terrible when the agency went bust. It hit him really hard. It must have felt as though he was no use to anyone. He looked bent over, as though he'd been kicked in the guts. I never said this to anyone, but I was afraid I'd come home from school and find him swinging from the banisters.

And how could I be jealous of the twins? They're my little brothers! I'd kill anyone who hurt them. I truly would. I wish I was four years old too. You've no worries at that age. They think they can pop back for tea with Grandpa every Sunday, like they do now.

So NO, this isn't about Kit and the twins taking Mum away from me. This is about Mum putting them first, which is a completely different thing.

This is about me losing everything.