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with Derek beside him, eyeing up the young bronzed chicks coming back from their holidays.
    Earlier, Dad had told Derek that I was moving home because Fiona was sick and asked him to come to the airport because he was afraid he might have a heart-attack in the car. He didn’t want to die on the way to the airport, and have me arrive with nobody to collect me. Derek pointed out that if he did have a heart-attack while he was driving the car, the chances were that Derek would die in the crash, too, or end up paralysed, so maybe they should get a taxi. But Dad said he needed to drive: it would keep his mind occupied and stop him panicking about Fiona.
    ‘So what exactly is wrong with her?’ asked Derek, clutching the dashboard as Dad skidded out of the driveway on two wheels.
    ‘She’s found a lump and they think it cancer.’
    ‘Bummer,’ said Derek, exhaling deeply.
    ‘I’ve just told you your sister might have cancer and all you can say is “bummer”. That’s all you can come up with after I spent thirty thousand shagging pounds on a private education for you?’
    ‘Chill, Dad, she’ll be fine.’
    ‘And tell me, Einstein, how do you know that?’
    ‘Cos,’ said Derek, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, ‘Fiona is this family.’
    ‘How right you are,’ said Dad, marvelling at the fact that, once in a while, when you least expected it, Derek would come out with something that made sense.
    He looked at his son, who was dressed, as usual, in baggy black T-shirt and jeans with the backside hanging down to his knees. His shaggy black hair stuck out in tufts from underneath a woolly hat. He spoke like one of those American rappers and half the time Dad didn’t understand what he was saying. All Derek wanted in life was to make it in the music business, and if he had one prevalent characteristic it was his eternal optimism. He firmly believed that he was destined to be a famous rap star and no amount of criticism was going to sway him.
    On his twenty-sixth birthday Dad had sat him down and told him that he had one more year to make it and after that he had to get a real job. He said he was sick of all this messing about. Derek would have to face reality at some stage and this time next year, if he wasn’t on M-bloody-TV morning, noon and night, he was going to work for Dad full-time. Not part-time as he did at the moment, to earn money to pay for studio bookings: he was going to learn the ropes and take over as manager of the cinemas. Derek had nodded and smiled and told Dad not to sweat it: he was on the cusp of fame.
    Now Dad rushed over to hug me. I snuggled into his jumper and we tried not to cry. Derek was staring lustfully at a young blonde in a very short denim mini.
    ‘Hi, Derek,’ I said. ‘Sorry for being a cow on the phone. I was a bit stressed out.’
    ‘No worries. Dad told me Fiona’s got the big C. He’s totally freaking out, he nearly crashed, like, fifty times driving out here,’ he said.
    ‘Don’t mind him, I’m fine. Come on, let’s get you home. Derek, grab Kate’s suitcase there, will you?’ said Dad, trying not to look at my swollen red eyes.
    When we got to the car, Derek tried several times to lift my suitcase into the boot and eventually had to ask Dad for help.
    ‘I can’t with my back,’ said Dad.
    ‘Dad! It weighs more than I do. I need some help.’
    Dad bent down and tried to pick it up. ‘Jesus wept! What in God’s name is in here, Kate?’
    ‘I didn’t know what I’d need, or how long I’d be staying, so I brought pretty much everything.’
    ‘Oh, God, oh, no – I think I’ve slipped a disc.’ Dad staggered around in a circle, gripping his back. Derek and I glanced at each other and tried not to laugh. Dad was obsessed with his back. He had slipped a disc fifteen years ago, and although it had mended itself perfectly, we had been hearing about it ever since. Everywhere you sat in the house you were attacked by some form of orthopaedic