Thank you, Mum, for taking me to libraries when I was a kid. Thank you, Dad, for liking my first unedited poem about the cat being run over more than the edited one. Thank you, Brosie, and Brother John – not sure what for, because you never read my work, but I know you love me anyway. Sorry, I’m the favourite child now.

To Sara, Aunt Margaret and Maurice, who are not here but should be. I miss you every day. I wish so badly that you could read this book.

To my daughters, Grace, Daisy and Bliss. If I can do this, you can do anything.

Last, but never least, eternal gratitude to my husband, James, for your unwavering support. When I suggested giving up my marketing career for a full-time journalist course, not only did you demand I do so, but you bought me a smoky old jalopy to get me there and back. Thank you for making me sign up for the Faber course, for showing me where it was on a map, and for all the meetings you had to leave when I was lost and late and panicking in the middle of London. Thank you for the million cups of tea and bags of pick ’n’ mix and for listening to my middle-of-the-night plot problems. Twenty-one years ago, I wrote you an email. You replied and said, ‘I didn’t know you’d be so good at spelling.’ Who’d have thought it, huh? Two no-good kids from the wrong side of the tracks, proving everyone wrong.

THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

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