‘Bill,’ Mum pleaded.

‘Okay, Dad, I’ll look it up, don’t worry.’ I took my phone from my bag. ‘Here we go, there’s a website that lists all the UK number ones since the 1950s.’

‘Oh, look up ours when you’re done!’ Gloria unhelpfully chirped.

I scrolled down to the 1980s to find 3rd August 1986.

‘Mum, he’s right.’

‘Thank you!’ he said triumphantly.

‘No, he can’t be.’

‘He is. From the second of August to the twenty-third of August in 1986, the UK number one was “Lady in Red”.’

‘I’ve never seen you lookin’ so lovely as you did tonight,’ Brian crooned, closing his eyes and swaying in his seat. ‘I’ve never seen you shine so bright, mmm hmmm mmm.’ I suddenly realized that for all my life, I had always hated Brian.

‘When was “The Edge of Heaven” number one? The week before you were born?’ Mum asked.

‘No, miles out. It was number one from the twenty-eighth of June to the twelfth of July.’

‘That’s not miles out, that’s the same summer.’

‘But why have you always told me that it was number one the day I was born?’

‘I don’t know, I must have remembered it wrong.’

‘Why didn’t you name me after Chris de Burgh?’

‘“Lady in Red” is a terrible, terrible song. You would have hated for that to be the song you were named after. I love George Michael, I love Wham! and I love “The Edge of Heaven”.’

‘You should have seen Mandy dance to it on our wedding day,’ Brian said. ‘She nearly took my brother-in-law’s eye out with her high-kick!’

‘Who is Mandy?’ Dad asked.

‘I am,’ Mum said.

‘She is not Mandy, Dad, she is Nancy.’

‘This again,’ she said, looking at Gloria for support.

‘You can’t change the course of history because it suits your own story,’ I said.

‘Course of history!’ she said through a hoot of a laugh. ‘Listen to yourself, Nina, how over the top.’

‘Do you know what “The Edge of Heaven” is about, Mum? Have you ever actually listened to the lyrics?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘I don’t think you have because if you had you would realize it’s a completely inappropriate song to name your baby daughter after.’

‘No it isn’t! It’s a great, upbeat, dancey song.’ Mum started clearing the plates in an attempt to finish the conversation.

‘I would lock you up but I could not bear to hear you screaming to be set free, I would chain you up if I’d thought you’d swear the only one that mattered was me.’

‘Are those the words?’ Gloria said. ‘I always heard it as I would have laughed you up. But now that I think about it, what would that mean?’

‘I would strap you up,’ I continued. ‘But don’t worry baby, you know I wouldn’t hurt you ’less you wanted me to.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘It’s about BDSM, Mum. It’s totally fucking weird that we listen to it all together as a family every morning of my birthday.’

‘The driving school?’ Gloria asked, her nose twitching.

‘No, not the driving school. Sadomasochism.’

‘Don’t speak like that in front of your father.’

‘I’m enjoying it!’ Dad said.

‘Bill – be quiet.’

‘Don’t tell him to be quiet, he’s the only one talking any sense.’

‘Gloria, Brian, am I going mad? I just don’t understand what the problem is here.’

‘Gloria, Brian, with all due respect, this has nothing to do with you.’

‘You’re being incredibly rude, Nina.’

‘You have lied to me for thirty-two years about who I am.’

‘It’s not who you are, it’s who you’re named after.’

‘Those are the same things.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been filling in too many of those dating app profiles.’

‘I’m not on dating apps any more.’

‘Fine, MyFace. All of those websites that make you obsess over “who you are” and how to explain it to everyone. You don’t need to explain it to everyone all the time! In our day, “who you are” was just the thing that happened when you got out of bed and got on with the day.’

Gloria gave a sage nod of agreement.

‘I’m going for a walk,’ I said, standing up from my chair. ‘I’ll help you clear up when I’m back.’

‘Okay, darling!’ she said lightly. ‘Come back in time for cake.’

I returned within half an hour – enough time to walk to the corner shop, buy a packet of cigarettes and chewing gum, smoke two fags and chew through half the packet of gum to disguise the smell. When I returned, calmer and determined for Dad to have an enjoyable, relaxing birthday, I found him alone, reading in his armchair.

‘You okay?’ I said. ‘Where are the others?’

‘They’re outside, er –’ he said, putting his book down and taking off his reading glasses. ‘Um.’ He screwed his eyelids together tightly. ‘Forgive me, what is your name again?’

‘Nina, Dad,’ I said, nausea grabbing me by the throat.

‘And we’ve met?’

‘Ninabean. I’m your daughter.’

‘Of course you are!’ he said. ‘Of course. How are you?’

‘Generally?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine. Got a lot of work on at the moment, but I’m enjoying it.’

‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,’ he said. ‘You’re so good up there in your room, revising and revising. It will all pay off on results day, promise.’

‘Not my GCSEs. My job. I have a job now. I worked as an English teacher like you and now I’m a journalist and a writer. I write about food.’ Dad stared at me with a frown. I didn’t know what else to say. The rhythmic ticks from the mantelpiece clock seemed to be so loud they echoed. Dad put his reading glasses on and turned his attention back to the book.

‘The others are outside,’ he finally said.

I went into the garden, where Mum and Gloria were discussing the merits of reserving used Christmas gift tags to repurpose for the following year’s homemade cards.

‘Why is Dad in there on his own?’

‘He just wanted a bit of time to read, he’s finding it harder and harder to concentrate on a whole book these days,’ Mum said. ‘We mustn’t baby him, Nina, he really hates that.’

‘You’re right, sorry,’ I said, sitting down at the table. ‘He’s very agitated today. What do you think has caused it?’

‘There’s going to be days when he’s fine and days when he’s not fine, just like Gwen said.’

‘The memory-jogging-through-food thing didn’t work, did it?’

‘No, but his appetite just seems to be changing, I wouldn’t worry about it. It happens with age.’

‘What’s the memory-jogging-through-food thing?’ Gloria asked.

‘I’m writing about food and memory. My next book is all about how taste aligns with nostalgia.’

‘Oh, that’s a nice idea,’ Gloria said. ‘You know, whenever I eat a Tunnock’s Tea Cake, I think of the Girl Guides.’

‘Did you eat them when you were a Girl Guide?’

‘No, I was never a Girl Guide,’ Gloria said. ‘I just think of them for some reason.’

We heard a noise from inside the house – sudden, sharp, high-pitched. We all got up from the table and rushed into the house.

Dad stood over the kitchen sink with blood dripping from his hand. He looked up at us with a confused expression that made him look disturbingly childlike.

‘What happened?’ Mum said, running over to him.

‘I was trying to open a tin of beans,’ he said, wincing as Mum touched his hand. I glanced at the kitchen counter – there was the tin with a small slit pierced through, a chopping knife next to it and large splashes of blood leading to the sink.

‘Why were you trying to open it with a knife?!’

‘I have always opened tins with a blade,’ he said.

‘You use a tin opener, Dad, it’s right here.’

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Mum said. ‘I can’t see how deep it is.’

‘Let me have a look at it.’ Gloria leant down to examine him. ‘I’m First Aid-trained,’ she boasted.

‘Should we go to a hospital?’ I asked.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘It really hurts!’ Dad yelped earnestly, like a little boy persuading his mummy that he’s worthy of a cuddle. He was suddenly seven years old. Cowering into himself. Clinging on to Mum. My dad, so curious and confident, my father the headmaster – I had never seen him this tiny.

‘I think it just needs to be cleaned up and some dissolvable stitches,’ Gloria said. ‘I’ll pop home to get them and come back. Until then, just apply pressure with a tea towel.’