Cat lifted and dropped the sheet over her legs.

So.

So.

So.

So, she wasn’t having a baby.

So, it seemed there was a very real possibility that her husband was having an affair with a gorgeous brunette with very large br**sts.

So the gorgeous brunette had a brother who just happened to be dating Cat’s sister.

And Cat’s divorced parents were having sex, instead of politely despising each other, like nice, normal divorced parents.

And sick leave didn’t last forever.

And as far as she knew Rob Spencer was still alive and breathing clichés and spite.

And there was no point in any of it. No point at all.

Cat got out of bed and walked with wobbly legs to the dressing table mirror.

Ugly. So ugly.

She bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile and spoke out loud.

“Well, Happy New Year, Cat. Happy f**king New Year.”

“Why don’t you just say sorry to Daddy?” For days after Frank moved out, six-year-old Cat followed her mother relentlessly around the house, questioning and nagging, her fists clenched with frustration. It was like pushing and pushing against a gigantic rock that wouldn’t budge—and you really, really needed it to budge so you could open the door to where everything was good again.

She didn’t care what Mum and Dad said when they had their little talk in the living room. All that stuff about how they still loved them and it wasn’t anybody’s fault and these things happened and everything would be just the same except that Mum and Dad would live in separate houses. Cat knew there was no question about what had really happened. It was her mother’s fault.

Dad was the one always laughing and making really funny jokes and coming up with really fun ideas. Mum was the one always cross and cranky, ruining everything. “No, Frank, they haven’t got sunscreen on yet!” “No, Frank, they can’t have ice cream five minutes before dinner!” “No, Frank, we can’t take them to a movie on a school night!”

“Oh school, schmool! Relax, Max, babe. Why can’t you just relax for a minute?”

“Yeah, relax, Mum! Relax!” chanted her daughters.

That’s why Daddy had moved out. He couldn’t stand it any longer. It was no fun living in this house. If Cat was a grown-up, she might have moved out herself.

All Mum had to do was say sorry for being such a misery-head.

Cat followed her mother as she lugged a basketful of laundry into the living room and upended it on the sofa.

“You always tell us,” Cat said shrewdly, “to say sorry when we’re fighting.” Her mother began sorting the clean clothes into neat piles across the top of the sofa, one for Lyn, Cat, Gemma, Mum—and none for Dad.

“Your father and I are not fighting.” Mum lifted up a T-shirt of Gemma’s and frowned. “How in the world does she get these marks on her clothes? What does she do?”

“Dunno,” said Cat, bored by this topic. “I just think you should say sorry. Even if you’re not really.”

“We’re not fighting, Cat.”

Cat groaned with frustration and slapped both her hands to her head. “Muuuum! You’re driving me crazy!”

“I know just how you feel,” answered her mother and when Cat tried to change tactics and be nice by saying, “Mum, I think you should just relax a bit,” it was like she’d pushed a button. A button right in the middle of her mother’s forehead that turned her into wild, crazy, lunatic Mum.

“Catriona Kettle!” Her mother threw down a clump of clothing forcefully and her face went a familiar bright red, causing Cat to immediately begin strategic escape maneuvers. “If you don’t leave the room this instant, I’m going to get my wooden spoon and smack you so hard that, that…you won’t know what’s hit you!”

Cat didn’t bother to point out what an amazingly stupid thing this was to say because she was already running. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” she muttered under her breath. “Hate, hate, hate!”

A few days later their father took them to see his new flat in the city.

It was on the twenty-third floor of a very tall building. Through his windows you could see the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House and little ferries chugging frothy white trails across the flat blue water.

“So what do you think, girls?” Dad asked, spreading his arms wide and turning around and around in circles.

“It’s very, very pretty, Daddy,” said Gemma, running happily through each room and stopping to caress different things. “I like it a lot!”

“I’d like a house with a window like this.” Lyn pressed her nose thoughtfully against the glass. “That’s what I’m going to have when I grow up. How much does this cost, Dad? Quite a lot?”

They were both so stupid. Didn’t they see? Everything in Dad’s new house gave Cat a bad feeling in her stomach. Everything he had—his own fridge, his own TV, his own sofa—proved that he didn’t want their TV or fridge or sofa. And that meant he wasn’t coming back and this was what it would be like forever and ever.

“I think it’s a really dumb place to live.” Cat sat down on the very edge of her father’s new sofa and crossed her arms tight. “It’s all small and squashy and stupid.”

“Small and squashy and stupid!?” Frank opened his eyes very wide and let his mouth drop in shock. “Now would a house be small and squashy if you had a room to swing a cat? But where could I find a cat to test it out? Hmmmm. Let me think.”

Cat kept her arms folded tight and compressed her lips, but when Dad was being funny it was like the very tip of a feather dancing ticklishly across your cheeks.

She was already laughing when her father grabbed her under the arms. “Wait a minute! Here’s a cat. A really big grumpy one!” and swung her wildly around the room.

There was no point being mad with Dad. It was all Mum’s fault. She would just stay mad with her, until Daddy came back home.

“You’re up.” Dan was at the door, car keys in his hand.

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes.”

Cat stood in her dressing gown with her hair wet from the shower and her limbs heavy and doughy. She imagined her arms falling straight to the floor like stretched-out plasticine.