'That's what you're aiming for, Emma!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'
'I … don't know. Er … Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach in my bag and get out a cheque for £300.
'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two feet!'
'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind me, Emma — what career is it this week?'
When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer. Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single bloody—
OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.
'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'
'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'
There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they groan again.
'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just …'
As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.
I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go through the side gate, knock on the annexe door and push it cautiously.
'Grandpa?'
Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he has his own annexe of two rooms, and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house. He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.
'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.
'Emma!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter than it was last time I saw him.
'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.
'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Emma.'
'Where should I put them?'
We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.
'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, trying not to tread on anything.
'Now, Emma, I read a very worrying newspaper article the other day,' says Grandpa as I sit down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'
'Erm … hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I absolutely have to …'
'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flick-knives roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's eyes out …'
'It's not that bad—'
'Emma, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'
I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London, he'd say five shillings.
'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'
Sometimes. About once a year.
'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.
'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what to keep.'
'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're throwing away?'
'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.
'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'
There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.
'Grandpa! You have to throw some of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'
'Jim's yo-yo.' Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. 'Good old Jim.'
'Who was Jim?' I say, puzzled. I've never even heard of a Jim before. 'Was he a good friend of yours?'
'We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine.' Grandpa is turning the yo-yo over and over in his fingers.
'Did you become friends?'
'Never saw him again.' He shakes his head mistily. 'I've never forgotten it.'
The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.
'Well, what about some of these cards?' I pull out a bundle of old Christmas cards.