‘I don’t have any old designer gear, Chelsea. I don’t have any designer gear.’

‘Oh.’ My sister looks slightly confused by this concept.

‘Perhaps you’ve got some lurking that you could donate to a good cause.’ Despite the cheque bouncing, I know that Chelsea will give me £100 towards my quest, but as Lauren pointed out, it’s hardly generous for her. Chelsea would think absolutely nothing of spending £100 on a T-shirt.

‘I’ll have a root through my things,’ she says, ‘but surely you have stuff in the house that you could sell at a car boot? Things that you want to get rid of?’

My sister is eyeing the white china hen that I keep my eggs in with something approaching loathing while I am thinking, Is there much of a market for secondhand unwanted husbands?

‘Bake cakes,’ Chelsea continues, ‘put them in a pretty basket and sell them at work. There’s all kinds of inventive things you can do to raise money.’

I realise that I have possibly been colluding with the wrong sister. Chelsea could give Bree Hodge from Desperate Housewives a run for her money. We chat about nothing in particular and then Chelsea says, ‘Do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. Anything at all.’

I want to say, ‘Write me a cheque for a grand rather than a hundred pounds and, this time, make it a pukka one.’ But I don’t. Instead, I say, ‘I’m fine, thanks. Nothing I need.’

My sister looks relieved. Perhaps, like Lauren, she’s better at reading my mind than I’d like her to be. ‘I have to go,’ she says, and stands up. ‘Things to do.’

Marvellous things, I have no doubt. As much as I love my sister, she does have a knack of raising my inadequacy quotient quite considerably.

But, as soon as she’s gone, Plan B will be put into action. I’ll be hauling myself into the loft to furtle out all manner of tat that is surplus to requirements and I’ll be getting out my cookbooks to see if I can remember how to bake.

Chapter 81

Chapter 81

It had been three days. Three days without answering the phone. Three days without replying to text messages. Three days without food. Unless you counted neat vodka.

Lauren’s stomach burned with acid. She knew that today she would have to go out and buy food. Real food. Not alcohol-based sustenance. But facing the world seemed to be such a difficult prospect. Being here for the rest of her life with the curtains closed was a much better option.