‘Looking for half a dog,’ she said.
He frowned. ‘Don’t be putting her to work, Connie. Get the girl a drink and let’s get a Chinese in, hey?’
He sat down in his worn brown cord armchair. The chair made a slow wheezing sound as though it had been winded. He reached for the remote control on the side table.
‘Notice anything different in here, Minnie Moo?’ he asked. Minnie stood up and straightened the blue woollen jumper she was wearing. She looked around for a new clock.
‘Up there,’ she said, pointing above the bookcase to the left of the TV. There was a small wooden Vienna regulator wall clock, with a pendulum as large as its face.
‘Finally found that missing piece, didn’t I. Bloke in Hamburg sold it to me for a pretty penny, I’ve been haggling with him for months.’
‘Very impressive, Dad – looks good as new.’
Her father grinned, his broad ruddy cheeks balled to the size of apples. To look at him you wouldn’t imagine Bill Cooper had the sleight of hand or the patience to repair minute pieces of machinery. He had arms like tree trunks and shoulders like an ox, perfect for hauling heavy loads. Yet his real strength lay in the fine-motor coordination of his fingertips and an unlikely interest in antique clockwork.
‘Anyway,Bake Offtime. Have you been watching, Minnie Moo?’
‘What series is this?’
‘It’s a repeat – never gets old. I reckon you’d get a handshake off Paul Hollywood for your pies.’ He raised his voice. ‘Con, it’s pastry week!’ Then he turned back to Minnie. ‘Grab me a beer, love, would you?’
Minnie stopped searching for the dog and went back through to the kitchen. The sound of the television accompanied by a cacophony of ticking, coupled with her instant reappointment as resident barmaid, made Minnie feel as though she’d never left; life felt exactly as it had nine years ago. Technically, she’d only moved out three years ago – she’d had to move home briefly when they were setting up the business. Then there were those few months back in 2011 when she’d suddenly found herself unemployed. Minnie felt queasy thinking about that period of her life. Was this the pattern she was condemned to: move out, tryand make a go of a new job, fail, move home and start all over again? The Brent Cross house toying with her as if she were a yo-yo, spitting her out into the real world only to reel her back in again as soon as she overstretched herself.
Now, here she was about to ask her parents if she could move back in again. Minnie’s palms felt cold and clammy at the thought of living here again. She’d considered looking for a flat share, but with all the scratch marks Lucky had made in her current flat, she wasn’t holding out much hope of getting her deposit back. She didn’t have the funds to put down another one, and most people weren’t keen on living with an extra four-legged furry flatmate anyway. She opened the fridge door to get two beers, one for herself and one for her dad.
‘So, what happened to you on your birthday?’ asked her mum, hand on hip. ‘There’s usually a tale to tell.’
Minnie didn’t want to lend fuel to her mother’s narrative about her birthday bad luck. She shrugged.
‘Not much – went to Alan’s for dinner, then on to a party.’ Minnie nipped through to give her father his beer, then came back to the kitchen and opened her own. ‘Oh, but guess who I met, Mum?’ Her mother had started chopping onions. ‘Well? Who do you think I ran into?’ Minnie asked again.
‘If it’s a celebrity, I won’t have heard of them. Unless it’s Paul Hollywood because his is the only voice I hear around here,’ she said loudly. ‘Your father is obsessed with that show. You know he watches them all on repeat?’
Minnie didn’t know which it was better to reveal first – her meeting with Tara and Quinn, or the news about herbusiness failing and needing to move home. Part of her would relish seeing the look on her mum’s face when she mentioned Tara’s name; no part of her would relish admitting that No Hard Fillings was broke. She decided to go with the more relishing option.
‘Have you spoken to Will recently?’ asked her mother, veering off on to a new topic.
‘No.’ Minnie rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Says he’s put an offer in on a house out there, somewhere in Bondi. So impressive at his age – we didn’t manage to buy till we were past forty.’
‘Well, it’s probably cheaper out there,’ Minnie said, feeling her jaw tense.
‘I don’t know how you’re ever going to get on the property ladder, Minnie. We were saving for eighteen years to get our deposit together.’
‘Well, I don’t think my generation are going to be able to buy, are we,’ said Minnie, pulling the metal tab from her beer can and squeezing it into her palm.
‘You’re brother’s buying.’
‘Quinn Hamilton!I met Quinn Hamilton,’ said Minnie loudly.
Connie dropped the knife on the chopping board and Minnie savoured the moment – finally her mother was listening.
‘And I met his mother, Tara. She lives in a mansion in Primrose Hill. She’s ever so elegant, she looks like a film star,’ Minnie pinched her lips together.
‘Tara Hamilton? You went to Tara Hamilton’s house?’ her mother asked, her voice lacking any of its usual resonance.
‘Yup,’ said Minnie, taking another swig of beer and leaning back against the fridge, one foot up against its door.