‘Next up, Meagan! Where are you, Meagan?’ said the keyboard player.

‘Here!’ she yelled draining her beer.

She nudged her way through, still getting used to the soft, flat padding of her new trainers. Only at the age of thirty was she discovering that flat shoes were actually comfortable. Out of sight of everyone she knew, she’d decided to wear them as an experiment and they were brilliant. What a trap she had created for herself, the designer cage of a sassy, hard-arse business woman. It was understandable though. Coming from nothing, the look meant everything, be it her postcode or the shoes on her feet. Well if it was a cage of her own making, tonight she would bust out of jail. As she bounced onto the stage, she looked down at her T-shirt, loose and creased and her ripped skinny jeans. These clothes were soooo comfy! Microphone in hand she saluted the audience, playing up to the applause and wolf whistles.

‘Right, Meagan is gonna sing ‘You Need Me, I Don’t Need You’!’ boomed the keyboard player.

‘Yeah!’ screeched Meagan as the speakers whistled discordant feedback.

The keyboard player went back behind her electric piano and gave a nod to the band. ‘Okay! One, two. One, two, three, four!’

Luckily for tone-deaf Meagan the half-rapped track was in her range but even if it weren’t, she didn’t care. All she wanted to do was dance herself free. She wanted to feel happy, alone and alive – to throw off her pain like a sportswoman running off an injury. She twisted, bopped, leapt and turned, taken by the music. She didn’t need the words. The sentiment was etched into her heart from the life she’d already lived. From leaning on a man who would never give her what she wanted, from watching girlfriends rely on unreliable guys, from the painful betrayal of Simi and Jemima, from realising even her parents couldn’t support her. She punched the air and jumped up onto a speaker. This was what life was about – rocking and rolling on her own terms, she affirmed as she launched into a flying kick across the stage. The crowd roared in appreciation as she landed. She was crushing this performance.

It was the pain she was aware of first. A cold, shooting bolt from her ankle. She crumpled to the floor in what felt like slow motion, the crowd still revelling in her daredevil manoeuvres. Meagan was sure – something was broken. A leg, an ankle, her pride? But whatever had happened, she was going to finish this song. She had to, she grimaced, pushing through the final bars on her back. The band crescendoed to a close as the crowd roared.

Meagan waved from the floor, high-fiving any hand within reach.

‘Thank you. Cheers, guys,’ she boomed into the mic before beckoning the keyboard player over. She grabbed her charity-pin laden lapel, and pulled her close. ‘Babe, call an ambulance and call my… friend, the one who texted me last. Tell them to meet me at the hospital.’