Every time the doorbell rings it makes me jump.

What was the point of finally fixing it just as Mira and Krish are moving out?

Thinking about it . . . who’s going to ring the bell or clank that letter box for me?

‘That’ll be Jidé,’ Mira says, trying to make out that she’s not that fussed.

Then the letter box clanks. Only one person still clanks!

‘Or . . . Millie!’

Mira laughs as she run downstairs.

I creep out to the landing sofa – since the beginning of the summer holidays I’ve been sitting here a lot. In fact I’m here so much that Mum calls it my ‘perch’.

Mum’s beaten Mira to the door and now she’s chatting away to Jidé and Millie.

‘Quite a journey you’re going on now, Jidé. Where are you actually staying?’

‘In a volunteers’ camp they’ve set up for us.’

‘And what exactly are you doing out there?’ Mum can never just ask one question.

‘I think we’ll be learning from the doctors there and generally helping out. There’s a plan to build a well, and put the roof on a school building . . . that sort of thing!’

‘Sounds like hard work. How long are you away for?’

‘I’ll be back for Christmas.’

‘Well good for you, Jidé. Take care of yourself, won’t you. And you, Millie . . .’ Mum starts.

Now Mira’s waving at Jidé and Millie while she tries to edge past Mum.

‘Still enjoying the writing . . . ? In your second year already . . .’

‘Can I get by, Mum?’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to your goodbyes. I was just on my way upstairs with this lot.’ Mum scoops up a pile of washing she’s parked on the side, walks up the stairs and finds me on my perch.

‘Everybody’s on the move, Laila.’ She sighs, easing herself down beside me, and starts to fold the washing. ‘Give me a hand, will you?’

Everybody except me, I think as I hunt through to find a matching sock of mine.

‘Glad I got this upholstered,’ Mum says, smoothing her hands over the sofa cover. ‘We’ll have to look after it now. Such a pretty little sofa . . . worth restoring. They did a good job, I think. I like this faded gold paint. Your Nana Josie would have approved. Rattan’s hard to get hold of these days.’ Mum touches the flaky painted sides. ‘It’s a dying skill this lattice-work. I can still picture where it was in your Nana Josie’s flat . . .’

I look around the walls at Nana Josie’s paintings of Krish and Mira as toddlers, sitting on this sofa’s faded cushions. There are no paintings of me on it, even though in reality I’m probably the one who’s spent the longest sitting here. I’ve decided I think this is actually my favourite place in our house. I love to tuck my legs up and disappear into the jewel-coloured velvety sofa cushions. The little ruby-red one with the zip in the back is the most comfortable. Sometimes I can be snuggled up on here and people walk straight past and don’t even notice me. Even though I’ve taken up Mum’s name for it, it’s actually not just somewhere for me to ‘perch’. It’s getting to be more like my nest. Apparently Nana Josie was about the same size as I am now. I fit here.

There’s just one tiny painting of me on the landing. In fact it’s the only painting Nana Josie ever did of me. I’m in Mum’s arms when I was a baby. Mum says it’s special because it’s the last painting Nana Josie did before she died. Most of the people in the landing photos and paintings I don’t remember, not like Mira and Krish do . . . some of them, like Grandad Kit, died before I was even born.

The photos on the staircase I love the most are of Mira and Krish holding me in their arms, as if they’re afraid that they’ll drop me. I really like the way the pictures of everyone are all mixed up together . . . There’s one of Mum and Dad when they were young and actually quite good-looking. Mum looks just like Mira – or I suppose Mira looks just like Mum! If you look carefully you can sort of see all of us in these faces, especially me in Nana Josie. I feel like I belong to all the people on this staircase, and they belong to each other, but only a few of them belong to me . . .

Mum’s finished folding the washing pile. I give up trying to find pairs and lay three single odd socks on top.

‘One of the great mysteries of life!’ Mum shakes her head. ‘Where do they go?’

She leans back on the sofa and wraps an arm around my shoulders. She smiles up at her favourite photograph of her dad, Grandad Bimal, the one where he’s clapping and laughing his head off. He looks so friendly. I wish I could remember him properly.

‘Sometimes when I pass that photo I imagine I can hear his laugh,’ I tell Mum.

‘Me too!’ Mum manages to splutter out before the tears start rolling down her face.

I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

So, while Mira is downstairs saying her goodbyes to Jidé and Millie, I’m here with Mum crying into her washing. This feels so sad. I wish I could ask Kez over right now. I wouldn’t mind going into my old room and closing the door on all of this. I wonder if me and Kez will stay friends the way Mira, Millie and Jidé have stuck together.

Krish comes tearing out of his room wearing jeans and no T-shirt. Showing off his six-pack again. He leans over the balcony.

‘All right, Millie! Fresh hair!’

‘The bottle called it Pink Punk!’

‘Looks good!’

‘What are you up to?’ Millie calls up to Krish.

‘Doing this apprenticeship thing in an outward-bounds centre up North – staying with Nana Kath.’

‘You’ll need to get dressed then . . .’ Millie says.

Krish looks down at himself as if he’s only just realized that he’s not wearing a T-shirt.

‘Yes, can you get dressed, Krish,’ Mum says. ‘Poor Millie doesn’t want to see your bare chest!’

‘I don’t think she minds!’ Krish jokes, not loud enough for Millie to hear.

‘You so fancy her!’ I whisper.

‘Shut up!’ Krish goes to cuff me.

‘Catch up with you later, Jidé!’ Millie calls, and then they all start their goodbye hugs. That lot take forever.

Krish slumps down in the middle of Mum and me, flinging an arm around Mum on one side and me on the other and making the washing pile topple on to the carpet.

‘We’ve just folded that!’ Mum groans.

‘Don’t worry, Mum! We’ll be gone soon and it’ll be dead peaceful and tidy with only Lai Lai—’

‘Laila,’ I correct.

Krish starts tickling me.

‘Get off, Krish!’ I squirm on the edge of the sofa. ‘Would you mind not talking about me as if I’m not here?’

‘OK, Lai Lai!’

‘How many times have I got to tell you not to call me—’

‘Did you hear something, Mum? An invisible force field?’

‘Oh, shut up, Krish!’ I belt him on the arm.

‘Ow! I thought you were a pacifist!’

‘I am, except when it comes to you!’

‘You won’t need to spy on us all from up here any more, Flappy Ears! Anyway, what are you complaining about? You’re getting the best room in the house.’ Krish jumps up, grabs me and attempts to turn me upside down.

‘Get off!’ I squeal, kicking my legs out.

‘Oh, don’t start that again, you two! The last thing I need now is someone getting hurt,’ Mum pleads as she carries on up the stairs to her room.

‘What do you mean, you two? He started it!’

‘Say mercy!’ Krish laughs. I swear he still thinks I’m in infants.

‘Mercy.’ I bash Krish on his shoulders so hard that his skin turns pink.

I’m upside down when I spot Mira and Jidé crushed against the side wall in the hall. For a second I think maybe it’s just a long goodbye hug because Jidé’s going to Rwanda where he was actually born, and I suppose that is a big deal so maybe that’s why the long good—But no . . . not the way they’re pressed together . . . tongues and everything! Gross!

‘Put me down!’ I pinch Krish even harder.

‘Foul!’ Krish laughs.

‘You’re foul!’ I shout.

Mira and Jidé peel themselves away from the wall and appear at the bottom of the stairs, making out nothing’s happened. Mira’s hair looks all scuffed up though . . . what she calls ‘distressed’. It’s how I feel.

‘All right, Jidé; thought you’d gone with Millie!’ Krish waves down.

‘Just off now. Say hello to Nana Kath for me,’ Jidé calls up, but his voice sounds all dried out. It hardly carries up the stairs.

When they’ve said their goodbyes Krish goes off to his room. Mira’s followed Jidé outside and they stand on the steps and talk.

After about half an hour Mira comes running up the stairs and heads straight for her room.

She’s crying. Proper puffy-eyed crying.

‘Are you OK, Mira?’ I ask as she runs past me. She turns to me, shakes her head as if to say don’t ask and closes her bedroom door. But I can hear her sobs.

I knock gently on her door.

‘Not now, Laila,’ she manages to splutter out.

So I go back to my perch and listen to her trying to catch her breath. I’ve never heard her cry like that before. I wish she would let me in. Even I know those tears can’t just be for a ‘just good friends’ kiss.