Very late. I lie in bed and cuddle my toy pig, frowning at the clock on my bedside table. It’s nearly eleven o’clock and he hasn’t called. It’s not like him to be so late. Every time a car drives past our house, which isn’t often, I get up and look to see if it’s him. I don’t know why I care. Every two weeks, he comes, and every two weeks it’s exactly the same. He drives from Bristol on Friday night and comes to the house to say hello to me. He waits outside in his car, because Mum won’t let him come in. He spends that night and the Saturday night in a Travelodge, and on the Saturday we go out together and do something that’s supposed to be fun, like a walk in the country, or a trip to a stately home or safari park – something boring, something I would never choose to do if it wasn’t for Dad. He shows me pictures of the flat in Bristol, of the room that he says is for me, and the cupboard I can fill with clothes. I’ve never been there. Mum won’t let me go. So Dad comes every two weeks instead, with this look on his face like a pleading dog, like he knows it’s not enough but he hopes I don’t mind.
