Free Being Bee by Catherine Bateson Page A

darling.’
    I thought they were going to kiss then so I yawned loudly and went inside.
    Jazzi didn’t only clean for the big dinner. She spread cookbooks across the kitchen table and discussed different meals endlessly.
    â€˜Can’t we just get pizza?’ I was sick of hearing about food I’d never heard of before.
    â€˜You can’t go wrong with a roast,’ Dad said helpfully. ‘Everyone loves a roast.’
    â€˜Harley doesn’t. He won’t eat anything that bleeds.’
    â€˜Pizza doesn’t bleed,’ I said, ‘and you can get pineapple on the vegetarian if you ask.’
    â€˜I can’t decide between Italian – Harley could have cannelloni then, or something more Eastern fusion – a kind of soba noodle salad with ginger sauce and maybe some sushi.’
    â€˜Italian sounds more ... filling,’ Dad said.
    â€˜Pizza’s Italian,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t we have pizza? I miss pizza.’
    â€˜Bee, put pizza right out of your head, okay. There will be no pizza on Saturday night.’
    The good thing about Jazzi living with us was that she called me Bee more than she used to.
    I helped her set the table on Saturday afternoon. She found a silver candelabra at the back of one of our cupboards and put it in the centre of the crisp white tablecloth. She’d bought flowers – expensive daisies that had to be wired by the florist so their pale pink heads didn’t droop.
    Each place was set with one of Jazzi’s old plates, and she used her cutlery, which matched and was smarter than ours, although stranger too, with odd big-bladed knives, and forks that had only three prongs. Her champagne flutes were dark red with spiralling stems.
    â€˜It’s so beautiful,’ I said after we’d folded her thick napkins into crowns and put them at everyone’s place. ‘It’s just beautiful.’
    She smiled at me and put her arm around my shoulders. ‘We’ve done well,’ she said.
    â€˜Magnificent,’ Dad said coming up behind us and putting his arms around both of us. ‘I can’t remember the last time this table was extended. It must have been years ago, when your mother was alive, Bee, probably Christmas time. Lindy loved Christmas.’
    I wondered if Jazzi minded Dad mentioning Mum like that. It would be hard loving someone who had loved someone else before you. You’d know all the time that they’d loved the other person and missed them. You might feel second-best. Kind of the way I feel when Lucy plays with me and I know it’s only because Sally’s away sick.
    â€˜It’s Jazzi’s dinner,’ I said to him when I could get him alone for a minute. ‘I don’t think you should talk about Mum.’
    â€˜I didn’t talk about her, Bee.’
    â€˜You did, Dad, you mentioned her. I don’t think you should tonight.’
    â€˜I’m sure Jazzi didn’t mind, Bee. I doubt that she even noticed. I hardly noticed myself.’
    But Jazzi had noticed. I was certain of that. Sometimes Dad just didn’t pay quite enough attention.

The dinner

    Just before seven o’clock, Jazzi lit the candles. She wore a silky top with flowers on it almost the exact pink of the daisies, and she’d brushed her hair up to a knot on the top of her head, combed her eyebrows and put on dark red glittery earrings. She’d persuaded Dad to change out of his weekend work-around-the-house clothes into a soft, dark blue shirt I’d never seen before. I felt drab beside them, still in my jeans and a t-shirt that was almost too small for me.
    â€˜Come on, Bee,’ Jazzi said, looking me up and down. ‘Do you want me to do your hair?’
    â€˜Well, okay, if you don’t pull it.’ Dad always pulledat it when he tried to brush out the knots and it hurt worse than almost anything.
    â€˜I won’t. I’ll do it in little bunches and we’ll have