Even a girl called Gwen, the editor of my old student paper, has texted to congratulate me—I have no idea where she got my number. The only person who is strangely silent is Jen—not only is she supposed to be my best friend, she’s the one person I know who would have been at home watching daytime TV. Even Leanne must have heard about it somewhere, she’s plastered it all over Facebook, but nothing from the one person I really want to hear from. I want to ring her, but…I don’t understand how we got here. I don’t understand why I keep staring at her name on a screen and sliding my thumb away from the call button.

Eventually I find myself typing, Back for the weekend. Will I see you? Early birthday drinks? X Pressing send. And then, before I give myself any time at all to think it through, I’m ringing Mum.

‘I thought I might come home and see you. If that’s OK? If you’re not busy?’ Please be busy.

‘Oh, love! That would be nice, just before your birthday, too! We’d really, really like that. I’ll make your bed up.’

‘Um, Mum, I didn’t mention it before in case…I wasn’t sure…anyway, I was on the telly. Just a little thing, in the morning. For work. It really wasn’t a big deal, I just thought I’d say, I wasn’t sure if you’d seen…’

‘That’s wonderful! Why didn’t you say? We could have taped it!’

‘It was all a bit last minute, I was…covering for someone else?’ I have no idea where that lie came from.

‘Fancy! My little girl, a famous celebrity.’

‘No, Mum, that’s not…anyway, I’ll see you on Friday. Love you.’

Jen doesn’t reply until after I’ve booked my train ticket. Sorry, away, got family stuff. Another time? No kiss.

Chapter Twenty-Three

You can be nice until bedtime

Imogen

Yooooooh-hooooooooh!

I don’t know when the hinges of the gate were last oiled. No matter how gently I try to open it, it screeches, loudly, camply and cheerfully, like RuPaul welcoming contestants to the stage. I like to think I have a secret imaginary friend cheering me up the path. Go on girl, you got this! It’s the happiest sound I’m going to hear for the next forty-eight hours.

Another thing I don’t know is whether the carpet was originally brown with grey swirls, or grey with brown swirls. One colour has always been mutating into the other, and back again. ‘At least it doesn’t show the dirt,’ is one of Mum’s catchphrases. One day I’m going to snap and say ‘Mum, it only shows the dirt.’