I flung myself onto the bed, determined not to cry about such a pathetic little spat, but I was hurt and angry. Not only about Mum’s attitude to my career, but also how she’d belittled me in front of everyone, especially Henry.

This was another reason I’d stayed away for so long, despite the guilt. I knew that beneath the bluster, Mum meant well, and in this instance had only meant to compliment Henry. The problem was, I’d spent an entire childhood seeing my mother devote herself to building up other people, while enacting this twisted notion that, thanks to my privileged circumstances, I had no excuses not to attain her lofty standards as a matter of course. The only way I’d learnt to live with that was by limiting my exposure.

I groaned, collapsing on my bed and pressing both arms against the beginnings of a migraine throbbing behind my skull. Looking over, I saw my open suitcase, imagining how easy it would be to cram the contents back inside and escape back to my non-judgemental, memory-free flat.

There were two things stopping me. One: I wasn’t prepared to upset everybody’s Christmas, even if it ended up being a torturous time for me. Two: I had no car and no taxi driver would risk coming to fetch me in this weather. Despite what my mother might think, I knew full well that the snow was here to stay at least until Christmas Day, which meant that I was staying too. I popped open my medication and consoled myself that at least I wouldn’t have to go on the walk now.

I woke with a start to hear my phone ringing right beside my ear, where it must have fallen when I’d drifted off. Taking a moment to clear the sleep from my throat, I registered the unknown number and made a split-second decision to answer it anyway.

‘Bea Armstrong?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Melody Briggs, calling on behalf of Bigwood Media’

‘Hi.’ A prickle of something akin to excitement fluttered in the bottom of my belly. A month or so ago, in a moment of despondency about missing yet another meeting, I’d applied for a job with a major national news channel, BWM Today. I’d half-heartedly flung a showreel together and sent it off with a basic CV, so hadn’t been surprised when I’d not heard anything back. But if they were calling me now, surely that wasn’t to tell me I’d not got any further in the process?

‘I’m sorry to disturb your Saturday, but Baxter was so keen to take you further in the process he wanted to find out why you hadn’t replied to his email, with the hope he could persuade you to reconsider.’