Instead, she and the Mighty Zola battled it out. Her concentration was gone, however, for she hardly won a game. Cam’s name still appeared triumphantly above her own. Mighty Champion. She began to shake the machine, urging the game to go in her favour. ‘Hey! Hey, you!’ Suddenly Simmy’s son, Taft, was wobbling towards her. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘I’m playing the Mighty Zola!’ she snapped. ‘What does it look like?’ He stood his ground, hands on hips, glaring at her. She glanced at the cartoon picture of Zola on the screen, standing in exactly that way, bronze muscles rippling. Then she looked back at Taft. Eggs must have been on the menu for lunch, and some kind of baked beans. Shreds of them were encrusted, probably for ever, down the front of his T-shirt. Mighty Zola and Taft, his flabby imitation. Maxine began to giggle. ‘What’s so funny?’ Taft demanded. Maxine pointed at the machine. ‘Mighty Zola’ – then she turned her finger on Taft – ‘and tubby Taft!’ She laughed again.
