‘I’ll stay with you,’ says Gus, and I drag my duvet downstairs, and we sit side by side and watch daytime TV and eat all the food, even though I’d clearly be just as happy eating a notebook. When Gus is upstairs, I smash my plate against the wall and swallow a shard of it. It goes down fine and tastes exactly as good as the toast did. I eat the whole thing to avoid having to explain it to Gus.

Is this real? What is this version of Gus? The Gus in Ariel’s world wouldn’t remember today. Would he?

We talk about nothing in particular, and I hang on to the fact that this might work, because if I don’t believe that I’ll fall apart. I’m fifteen. This is not the last day of my life.

Gus rustles up some toasted sandwiches for lunch at two and I make an effort to eat the sandwich and not the plate. Channel Four are showing The Producers. It’s funny: if I see Ariel again I’ll ask if she’s ever watched it. Three o’clock comes. At three fifteen Gus says he’s going to the shop. Dad will be home at twenty past five and at that point I’ll have done it. The rest of my life will unfurl in front of me.

At ten to four there’s a knock at the door. I ignore it, but it carries on. In the end I go and look through the peephole.

It’s Troy.

I guess school ended twenty minutes ago. I have not given Troy a thought since early this morning, but now I can give him his trophy and cross that off my to-do list at last.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘So you’re sick? Not coming to France?’

I try to look really, really, really ill.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Better keep away from me. I’ve been throwing up all day. Seriously.’

He’s already in the living room. ‘This,’ he says, ‘is a lot of chocolate wrappers for someone who’s been sick all day.’

‘Gus stayed home,’ I say. ‘He ate all the snacks in the house so now he’s gone to the shops. He skipped his classes.’

I pick our wrappers and empties up and take them to the kitchen. Troy follows. With my back to him, I eat a Club biscuit wrapper. It’s almost nice. I pour him a glass of juice and get myself water, for authenticity.

‘I do feel a bit better now,’ I say, sipping the water and trying to look tragic and brave. It occurs to me that I could bite into the glass too, but that would give me a one-way ticket to Beachview, so I don’t. ‘But not enough to go on the trip. I mean, my dad’ll never let me, not when I’ve been throwing up.’