At first, Joel’s teammates would show up, trying to talk him into a night on the town, but he’s said no every time, and they’ve stopped asking. So all he has to break up his week are visits from Ant and me, hospital appointments, and visits from the private physio helping him get his fitness back.

I worry about his rages. Once, he got so mad I thought it might set his ICD off, but it abated as soon as it started, leaving him as sleepy as a toddler who’d overdone it. As I walked home, the guilt came again, and the fear he might be in better shape if only I’d stepped in thirty seconds faster, or done CPR more firmly . . .

There’s no way of knowing. But he’s no longer Joel Greenaway, Local Hero. He looks the same, but he seems a lot less confident and laid back, more snappy and stressed. I’ve researched it, and behaviour change can affect people who’ve been resuscitated after several minutes ‘down’. It might get better but there are no guarantees.

The doorbell rings.

Dad calls up the stairs, ‘Your carriage awaits, Kerry!’

‘I’d better go.’

Marilyn unplugs the tongs and gives my head a quick blast of hairspray. ‘Don’t want to keep Prince Charmless waiting, I suppose.’

I smile. ‘He’s gone to a lot of trouble.’

My sister surveys me. ‘You scrub up well. You could pull anyone, the way you look tonight.’

I think of Joel and blush.

Marilyn winks at me.

Has she read my mind?

I hurry down the stairs. My dad does a comedy wolf-whistle, and Mum is grinning. ‘Look at my baby girl!’

As I get into the cab, Mrs Palmer waves at me excitedly from her window across the road. She must know where the taxi is taking me.

The driver pulls away and I look out the back, as our house – and Tim’s bungalow – get smaller and smaller. It feels like I’m finally leaving shy schoolgirl Kerry behind.

Long live the new me.

As the taxi pulls up outside Ant’s parents’ cafe, the fizzy feeling of excitement grows. The idea of the party being here had crossed my mind, though I tried not to get my hopes up. All the best parties have happened after hours at the Girasol – a.k.a. the Arsehole – over the years. I’ve just never been cool enough to be invited to one before.

The string lights between the lamp posts sway and creak in the dusk light. Ahead, the Palace Pier sign seems to be flashing just for me. My night.

‘Have the best birthday, beautiful girl,’ the driver calls after me as I get out.

Beautiful? No. But perhaps the stuff that’s changed inside is beginning to show through.