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right.’
    â€˜She didn’t even order in those pizzas,’ I say.
    â€˜What? No, she didn’t! Well, we’ll go and get our own pizzas, OK?’
    We stop at a pizza place. Jack says I can orderany combination of toppings, as many as I want, but I can’t remember what I like any more.
    â€˜It’s OK, I’ll choose for you,’ says Jack, though
he
doesn’t know what I like. He doesn’t even seem sure of what he wants himself.
    When we get home, it’s so silent and empty that it seems all wrong to take our pizzas into the still living room. It’s as if we’re eating our pizzas in a church. Jack sits on the sofa. There’s a space next to him where Mum should be. My pizza sticks in my mouth. It tastes like its own cardboard box.
    Jack puts on the television, the sound turned up extra loud. We both stare at the screen. At least it means we don’t have to talk. I leave most of my pizza. Jack only manages half of his. He snaps open a can of beer, and then another. I sniff, because I know Mum doesn’t like him drinking too much.
    â€˜Can I get you a drink, Ella?’ Jack asks. ‘I think we’ve got some Coke in the fridge. Or juice. What about juice? That’s healthier. Or there’s always milk.’
    I shake my head at all his suggestions. I tuck my feet up in my armchair, wrapping my arms round myself.
    â€˜I think it’s getting on for bed time,’ Jack says after a while.
    â€˜Bed time?’ he says.
    I hunch up, still ignoring him.
    â€˜Ella?’ says Jack. ‘Come on, you’ve had a very long, exhausting day.’
    I get out of my chair and march out of the room without looking at him.
    â€˜Night-night,’ he calls. ‘I’ll come up when you’re in bed.’
    â€˜You don’t need to,’ I say quickly. ‘Goodnight.’
    Mum
always comes and tucks me up. She keeps me company when I’m cleaning my teeth and washing my face. When I’m in my pyjamas, I hop into bed and she sits beside me. Sometimes she reads to me, all these old-fashioned girly books she liked when she was young:
Ballet Shoes
,
A Little Princess
and
Little Women
. Sometimes she’ll make up a story specially for me. She used to tell me a story about a superhero girl called Ella-Bella who can fly. I’m too old for little Ella-Bella stories now, but sometimes if I’ve got a bad cold or I’m feeling fed up, Mum will make up a brand-new Ella-Bella story for me. I would give anything to have her tell me an Ella-Bella story now.
    I go to the bathroom, then get undressed and crawl into bed. I arrange my soft toys around me. I hug Harriet the Hippo to my chest, putting my hand inside her plush jaws. Baby Teddy cuddles upon the other side, his head flopping on my shoulder. They don’t feel
right
. Mum always tucks them in beside me.
    I’m fidgeting about, rearranging them for the fourth time, when Jack knocks and puts his head round the door. ‘Shall I tuck you up?’ he says.
    â€˜No! I
said
, you don’t need to.’
    â€˜Ella—’
    â€˜I want to go to sleep. I’m tired,’ I say.
    â€˜All right, sweetheart. Night-night then,’ says Jack. ‘If you wake up in the night, you can always come and knock on my door, OK? Try – try not to worry too much.’
    I don’t get to sleep until long after I hear Jack go to bed himself. Then I wake up about four o’clock, my heart thumping, so hot my pyjamas are sticking to me. I’ve had the most terrible nightmare. Mum’s had the baby, and then she’s got desperately ill, and now she’s lying in a coma in hospital. I’m still so scared even though it’s just a dream, so I sit up and open my mouth to call for Mum . . .
    No, wait. It isn’t a dream at all. It’s really happened. Mum isn’t here. There’s just Jack. I can hear muffled sounds coming from his bedroom. He’s