‘That’s exactly what I said. I mean, you’ve got your mother living with you. You couldn’t be more spoilt. But Kelly said your mother and her were in cahoots about it. That they were working together to get you offline.’

‘What?’

‘And then she said,’ Mia looks at Vivienne, whose mouth is a volcano, ‘and we are still reeling from this – she said: Female stories are not a genre. Feminism is not a lifestyle choice. And that is not “a story”; it’s a fucking jumpsuit.’

I burst out laughing.

‘The arrogance,’ says Vivienne. ‘The ignorance.’ She adjusts the top of her jumpsuit. ‘If I was bi I would definitely ask her out.’

I go back to my desk, sit and try and imagine Kelly coming in and sitting opposite Mia and Vivienne, giving them pure hell. I wonder if she wore her white suit (her only suit)? I don’t like being discussed. Even more unlikely: Kelly and my mother sitting in my lounge, planning an intervention. But there’s something about it all that makes me feel fizzy down low, like the first plunge of a rollercoaster. I’m feeling a subterranean buzz.

I text my mother:

What are you and Kelly plotting?

Did she tell you?

No my boss did. So that was a hoot

We are worried about you. Kelly came round to see me while you were out. She thinks you need us to step in as no one else will stand up to you.

What else did she say?

That Art never truly challenged you and that was why he wasn’t right for you. But as a friend the greatest act of love is to challenge you. You are not okay. She said that.

I put down my phone. I have never felt so happy putting the phone down after an interaction with my mother.

After work I go to Kelly’s flat with the portable speakers from my desk and a microphone from Gemma’s product cupboard. I set up on the pavement, next to a sapling ringed with metal. I hop about keeping warm while I dock my phone. I press play. The backing track to ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ starts up. I crank the volume to max. When the verse kicks in I start to sing. I see the blind go up in Sonny’s room. His head appears, silhouetted – I’d know his ears anywhere. I continue singing. By the chorus, Kelly is there – her smooth hair giving her the outline of a Russian doll.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ someone shouts from across the street. I ignore them and carry on. A few people have stopped. Someone takes a picture. Kelly disappears from the window and then appears at the front door.

Sonny stays at his window, holding his phone up and occasionally shaking his head.

When I’ve finished, I give Kelly a perfunctory nod and dismantle my equipment.