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the two smaller downstairs rooms. Mum suggested an extra guest room. Dad suggested a cinema room with a projector. I quite liked thatidea. Then he suggested a room in which to display his music-industry memorabilia. So, basically, a room full of his useless junk. That idea, I was less keen on.
    After a while, Mum piped up. “The neighbours seem very nice. Decent people.”
    Dad mmm-ed through his pasta.
    “What do they all do, Mum?” I said.
    “Mr Gifford was a solicitor, he said. I think Mrs Gifford said she did something at a shop? Anyway, they’re both retired, obviously. The Daltons are very swish – he’s an interior designer and she does websites.”
    I wrinkled up my nose. “Don’t they all strike you as a bit … dopey?”
    “What? No, of course they don’t. Why do you have to think the worst of people?”
    “They seem a bit odd, that’s all,” I said. “They don’t stop smiling.”
    “What’s wrong with being cheerful? Honestly, Sam.”
    “They creep me out a bit,” I muttered.
    Mum started clattering plates and clearing up. That was normally her wordless signal that I’dannoyed her. “They’re our neighbours now, and they probably will be for years, and you can make sure you get on with them whether you like it or not,” she said. She thought for a moment. “What’s this Emma like, then? She sounds like a lovely girl.”
    “She’s OK,” I said.
    “You want to keep in with her,” said Mum. “It’d be good to get an invite to that Halloween party the Daltons mentioned.”
    You could almost see pound signs in her eyes. Her approval of someone generally rose in direct proportion to their income. I’d been dragged to her work’s Christmas thing the previous year, where she’d spent the evening laughing at nothing and telling me to ask the manager’s daughter to dance.
    “I fancy a good party,” said Dad, in between swigs of beer. “Bloody hell, I live in the same street as that Doctor Caroline. Phhwooar.”
    I winced. Dad let out a long, low belch.
    Mum frowned at him and tutted. “Richard!”
    I suppose most people wonder what the hell their parents ever saw in each other. I’d often wondered why Mum put up with Dad’s spendthrift habits, and his so-called collecting, especially when shecould be such a cheapskate herself. I always got the impression that she was far from blind to his faults. Maybe, deep down, she was almost as much of a dreamer as he was. Maybe, years ago, she saw him as full of potential.
    And then, all those years without progress, without success. I think she was disappointed with how things had turned out, but she kept on being supportive of him so she wouldn’t be disappointed with him, too. She held on to the idea that he was one of those great undiscovered talents who’d never quite got a break. She nagged at him, sometimes relentlessly, but she never stopped believing in him. Of course, neither of them ever said anything of the sort to me. But, I guess, as you start to grow up, you start to see your parents as they really are. It’s very unsettling.
    Since the arrival of the massive song royalties, their relationship had definitely moved on. She wouldn’t be moaning at him to get off his fat arse any more. Now they were too busy flashing each other loved-up glances. It was enough to make you heave.
    To change the subject, I told them about my article. They seemed genuinely impressed, and it boosted my confidence that Jo’s dad might actuallyget it in the paper.
    I went to bed early. I settled down on the mattress, the glow from my lamp at my shoulder, listening to the soft rush of the central heating system. I tried reading for a while, but other thoughts kept demanding attention. Everything was churning around in my head. I remember thinking how bright the future seemed.
    I didn’t feel particularly tired, but I must have drifted off to sleep with the book flopped on my chest and the lamp still throwing grey mountain shadows on to the opposite