‘Matilda,’ he said. ‘If I’d been told you were coming round I’d have worn something more fashionable.’ My dad loved Matty because she talked to him like they were both adults. Everyone else our age was monosyllabic and shy with parents, and I was no exception, but Matty was always Matty – no one rattled her. ‘Fashion fades, Bob. Style never does,’ Matty said. I knew that I would never be old enough to talk like Matty. ‘It takes someone with style to know that,’ Dad said. ‘Are you here to steal my broadband?’ ‘I am here,’ Matty said haughtily, ‘to do coursework with Tessa.’ ‘Course you are,’ Dad said. ‘Let us know if you need coffee, tea, food, hard liquor . . . ’ ‘The forty Bensons I’ve got in my bag should keep us going, thanks,’ Matty said. ‘Good,’ Dad said. Til leave you to it.’ ‘Has he e-mailed yet?’ Matty said, when the door to the den was closed. ‘He e-mailed as soon as he got in yesterday, but I only saw it today when I got in.’ ‘Show me?’ I found the e-mail.
