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they were young. At art college or something. He must be at least forty. How old is Francesca?’
    â€˜â€™Bout the same, I suppose.’ My back’s too hot. I wriggle forward and stuff a pink cushion between me and the radiator.
    The truth is, I never think about Francesca being any age. It’s hard enough to think of her being real at all. Like, a normal person, living her life somewhere.
    Rachel’s staring down at me from the bed, a funny expression on her face. ‘Well, if she’s some famous photographer we can just look her up, can’t we?’
    â€˜She’s not. Not famous,’ I say quickly. I’m wishing I’d never mentioned it all now. Stupid.
    â€˜How do you know?’ Rachel’s already typing Francesca’s name.
    â€˜I’ve already looked,’ I say.
    â€˜Ah. So you are just the tiniest bit curious about her, after all.’
    â€˜There’s no point, though,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t want anything to do with me and Kat. She never has. It was fourteen years ago, Rach. She’s never once contacted us. What does that tell you?’
    â€˜Well . . . there might be millions of reasons why she’s not been in touch. For a start, you’re always moving house. It’s not that easy to keep track of you. Have you ever thought about that? You don’t even have a proper address, now. The caravan, a field. How’s she supposed to find you there?’
    I don’t answer. There is a box for mail, at the caravan site. There’s always ways and means of finding someone, I could say. But I don’t.
    Rachel’s in full flood. ‘She was probably ill. That’s why she left. We’ve done it in Psychology. Post-natal depression; that makes people do weird, awful things. My mum knew this woman with a six-week-old baby who jumped in front of a train –’
    â€˜That’s too awful,’ I say. ‘But I wasn’t a baby. I was two, when she left. And she was in love with someone else. Kat knows about it. Kat can actually remember her.’
    â€˜Supper’s ready!’ Amanda calls up from the kitchen.
    It’s a relief to go downstairs. I don’t want to talk about my mother any more. I’ve always thought I was fine about it all, and now I find I’m not. Mr Ives’ stupid remark is playing tricks with my head, stirring up stuff I hardly knew was there.
    We eat the most delicious vegetarian lasagne in the whole world, and home-made chocolate mousse for pudding: Amanda is the best cook ever. She’s about as different from Cassy as you could imagine. She loves cooking, and clothes, and she works in a video and DVD shop. She split up with Rachel’s dad about three years ago. He’s the only thing we are not allowed to talk about.
    â€˜I’ve got out Two Days in Paris ,’ Amanda says when we’ve washed up. ‘Want to watch it with me? It’ll be more fun for me with you two there.’
    The dialogue is really funny. There’s loads of sex in the film too. It’s not embarrassing, watching it with Amanda the way it would be with Cassy and Dad. She’s pretty relaxed about stuff.
    â€˜Perhaps we should all go to Paris for a weekend,’ Amanda says. ‘The three of us, in the spring. Start saving up!’
    â€˜I need a job,’ I say. ‘I want to get driving lessons too.’
    â€˜I’ll ask in the shop for you, if you like,’ Amanda says.
    Rachel looks indignant. ‘What about me? I need a job more than Em. Em never spends money on anything.’
    â€˜That’s why I need a job, silly. I don’t have any money, that’s why I don’t spend any.’
    â€˜It’s never stopped me!’ Amanda laughs. ‘Still, I’ll ask around for both of you. Polly sometimes needs someone in the run-up to Christmas, in her shop. And there’s the market stall too. If you two can earn enough for spending money,