‘Of course, I’m on it,’ I say, smiling, doing a half-hearted impression of scatty old Imogen, forgetting to pay her rent and do her food shopping! ‘That girl would forget her head if it wasn’t screwed on,’ I’d heard Emma tell Gemma, with a little affection, and no imagination. That girl—me—would sell her own hair if the man at the shop hadn’t told her it was too dry and damaged. In fact, she’s broke enough and scared enough to have thought about stealing your hair while you’re sleeping and trying to sell that too.

Someone, somewhere must want to celebrate with me. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stare at my phone, and the space where a message from Jen ought to be. I try calling her—a bat signal of urgence, an act so audacious that it can only suggest wonderful or terrible news—but she does not pick up. Eventually, the little dots begin to flicker. Sorry, out with Mum, will call back when not busy. Gr8 news x

The single kiss and lack of exclamation mark make it very clear that she does not think the news is Gr8, at all. Be kind, I remind myself. This can’t be easy for her. Jen is always the first in line when I need someone to support me during a disaster. But for once, I’ve triumphed. I have something she really wants. If she’d got this job, I’m not sure how I’d handle it.

Sighing heavily, I realise there is one person I can call. I vowed I’d try to stop doing this, unless there was an emergency. I think this counts. I reply to Jen. Call me or I’m going to see Old Man Strong. Dot dot dot. Dot dot dot. Dot dot. The flickering fades, and she stops trying to think of a reply.