She pouted. No one loved Meghan Markle as much as Lucy loved Meghan Markle.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I assured her. ‘If they kick up a fuss, we tell Sumi about the condescending doctor and have her write a threatening letter. Honestly, it’s like you forget you’ve got a lawyer for a best friend on purpose.’

‘You should get shagged more often, you know,’ she said as she forced her swollen feet back into her flip-flops. ‘I like this Ros.’

I smiled and held my arm out to my friend.

‘Thanks,’ I said, escorting her out the room. ‘I like her too.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Three sharp knocks on my shed door woke me up at seven a.m. on Tuesday morning. I blinked at my Bart Simpson alarm clock, quite prepared to have a cow. Between reliving every moment of my weekend and stressing about work, I had barely slept a wink.

‘Morning, Sleeping Beauty,’ my mother opened the door and poked her head inside. ‘Are you still in bed?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, pulling a pillow over my face. ‘Because it is the crack of dawn. Please go away now.’

What was the point in being banished to the bottom of the garden like a common Womble if my parents could still let themselves in my room whenever they wanted? Surely that kind of intrusion warranted full-time washing machine rights?

‘I thought you’d want these,’ she said, throwing the door open wide and carrying in the most enormous bouquet of flowers in sunset colours. ‘They came yesterday but you got home so late and the lights were out by the time I looked in on you.’

‘They’re for me?’ I asked, bouncing out of bed. Flowers! I had flowers! But that didn’t mean the flowers were from Patrick, they could be from Lucy for kicking that awful doctor’s metaphorical backside or from that man on the 521 bus who put his hand a little bit too deep into his trouser pocket every morning when I got on. Not even a very meaningful glance at my #TimesUp badge had put him off.

‘They’re for you,’ Mum confirmed, setting them on the collapsible dining table and handing me the little white envelope that only ever came with flowers.

There was no name on the card, just a quote.

Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’ Let us go and make our visit.

A line from his favourite T.S. Eliot poem. No doubt about it, they were from Patrick.

‘All right then, what does it say?’ Mum asked, the same smile on my face spreading across hers.

‘It’s just a bit from a book,’ I replied, keeping the card safely in my hand. ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’

‘Gorgeous,’ she affirmed. ‘Whoever he is, I already like him better than the last one.’

I fluffed out one of the sunburnt orange blooms and said nothing.