Scrolling through her phone – and deliberately not looking at any of her group-chat notifications – she saw George’s name in her list of contacts from the time when he’d picked her up from babysitting, and her finger hesitated on the screen. Should she ring him? God, no, she thought with a shudder in the next moment. He probably wouldn’t even answer anyway. Still, she could send him a message, she supposed. Tell him the whole thing was her fault, not Mum’s, and ask him to give Mum another chance.

She grimaced, imagining her mum’s face if she discovered Izzie had gone behind her back like that, trying to patch things up. And who was she, anyway, to go poking about in other people’s relationships, when she’d never even managed to get as far as a second date herself? It was the equivalent of a child with a junior doctor’s kit attempting to perform open-heart surgery. Broken-heart surgery, more like. Still, there was no harm in saying sorry, was there? Maybe that was a good place to start.

She rolled onto her front, propped herself up on her elbows and began to type. Hello. Sorry things have gone wrong. If you want someone to blame, blame me, not Mum.

Oh God, she was cringing already. Even she could see that this sounded so dramatically teenage, so pathetic. Would it be better if she sneaked Mum’s phone from her room and pretended to be Em? Hey, Em here. My daughter is insane, but don’t let that put you off!

Even worse. Just imagine Mum’s livid expression when she rumbled what Izzie had done – the screeches that would rip through the house. You did WHAT? For crying out loud! Haven’t you caused enough trouble? What the hell were you THINKING?

Maybe not, on second thoughts. She valued her life too much to risk it.

Her eye fell upon her sketchbook just then and she remembered with a pang the conversations she’d enjoyed with George about drawing, about art. There would be no more of those now. No one in her corner saying yes, of course she should go for A-level Art, she should absolutely study the things that made her happy. She remembered how George had stood up to Mum on her behalf, arguing her case, and how validated he had made her feel, as if her view counted for something after all. Let’s face it, her own dad wouldn’t do the same. ‘Art? How’s that going to lead to a decent job?’ Dom would snort, without even listening to how she felt on the matter.