Page 18 of The Whole Package

I screwed up my face, thinking of my own home with five pristine toilets, knowing I’d now have to share one with two other people.

‘Aye, I think you might be right, hen!’ His steps scurried off, and then I was subject to the blasts from the bathroom, with an ongoing commentary on how good it felt to ‘get that big bastard out’.

Great. I lay there staring at the paper-thin walls, listening to my dad emotionally bond with his shit.

So, this is what rock bottom feels like.

I tossed and turned most of the night, listening to every snore from my parents’ bedroom and every drunkard singing his way home from the pub. At some point, exhaustion won.

*

I was woken the next morning by a light knock on my bedroom door.

‘Oh, you’re up!’ Mum said, immediately pushing it open and sweeping across the room as if I’d rung for her.

I managed a small smile, despite knowing full well I was only upright because she’d woken me.

‘Did you sleep OK?’ she asked, already straightening the bed, opening the curtains and inspecting my face for signs of permanent damage.

‘I did,’ I lied.

‘Ooh! I’m just so happy you’re home, Harri. So is your dad.’

‘Mum, I prefer to be called Harriette now, remember?’ I interrupted.

She burst out laughing, ‘Harriette! Harriette! Away you go! Your name is Harri. I think I’d remember. I pushed you out, sweetheart, all eight pounds of you!’

I sighed. I’d always hated the name. Every time someone said ‘Harri’ when I was at school, they automatically assumed I was a boy, or that my name had been shortened, but the reality that I was named after my dodgy dad in the clink was even worse.

‘So me ’n’ your dad were talking about it last night – it feels like Christmas has come early.’

I nodded, feeling my throat tighten.

‘Yeah . . . It’s nice to see you . . . both,’ I added. It felt strange saying it. And I wasn’t sure if I even meant it. I didn’t have a real relationship with my dad – prison tends to put a dampener on father–daughter bonding – but seeing him last night, older and somehow softer, I’d realised he was just an old man now. A loud one. But still, it did feel good to see him.

Mum perched on the edge of the bed.

‘So,’ she said casually, which immediately put me on edge. ‘How long are you staying?’

My stomach dropped.

‘Not that I want you to leave,’ she rushed on. ‘But so I can plan meals. And days out and things. I want to show you off.’

‘Mum,’ I said quickly. ‘No one can know I’m here. I’m hiding out.’

She blinked at me. ‘Hiding out?’ she said slowly, ‘Harri, you’re no Bin Laden.’

‘I—’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong. It should be that slimy, sleekit bastard you’re married to that’s hiding.’

I sighed. She wasn’t wrong. I just didn’t want reporters, fans or anyone with a phone knowing where I was. Or where my life began – in a council house in the Gorbals.

‘I get that, Mum. I just need time. A few days in bed. To rot.’

My mum wrapped her arms around me. ‘Harri, I love you, hen. But naw.’

‘Naw?’ I repeated, noticing my Scottish twang was already creeping back. I cleared my throat and tried again, ‘What do you mean, “no”?’