‘She’s in the lounge,’ he says, with a sharp flick of his neat, ginger hair.

I float through their hallway, not really present, yet somehow here. I pass by the brass-framed art deco mirror, the stylish coat rack, the three canvas prints of their wedding day. My worn-out Converse barely make a sound on the monochrome tiled floor. I linger by the wooden dining bench at the end of the knocked-through lounge-diner, carefully placing my second-hand leather satchel onto the table. It might as well be a used paper bag from a greasy bakery in these surroundings. Everything in Beth and Fergus Douglas’s house is shiny and expensive, and although the house itself is small, it’s got three bedrooms so worth a fortune in this neck of the woods.

As always beyond seven o’clock, Beth’s in her pyjamas; she starts stripping off her corporate daywear before she gets her key in the door. Tonight, she’s wearing little chequered shorts and a matching t-shirt. Her smooth, tanned legs are crossed over; she’s slouching into the soft white leather sofa, surrounded by various metallic cushions, scrolling through her phone. Her caramel hair extensions are wound into a high bun sitting on the top of her head, her makeup still immaculate from the morning, a pedicure gleaming from her restless little toes.

‘Hiya,’ I say.

Beth performs a double take, then screams. ‘Bloody hell, Chlo! What are you doing here?’

I shrug.

‘I mean, is everything alright, babes?’ Beth’s hand grasps her chest. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming … Or did you? Am I going mad? Did you message me? Did I tell you to come over?’

Beth scoops her phone off the sofa and taps the screen.

‘No, I just decided to come,’ I say.

‘Y’what?!’

In my haste, I happened to forget how much of a modern-day sin it’s become to show up at a friend’s house unannounced. I even forgot to dry my hair and apply makeup, although the latter isn’t much of a problem since I wear the bare minimum – a bright-red lip on a good day is my only major essential – but Beth doesn’t hesitate to point out my state.

‘Babes. You look. Like shit.’

‘Cheers, pal.’

‘And your roots need doing. Badly.’

Fergus returns from outside empty-handed, not acknowledging either me or Beth, and goes into the kitchen. He shouts, ‘Brew?’

Beth rolls her eyes and falls back into the sofa, ignoring his question.

‘Please,’ I shout back.