‘The New York Dolls?’ Michael asked. ‘You like them, do you?’

I nodded and nodded. ‘I love them. I love punk music.’

‘A little American punk princess.’ Michael pushed his sunglasses into his hair and took my face in his hands. When his eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been hit with something. He had unwavering, kaleidoscope eyes that saw everything – hopes and dreams, pain and fear. They were the most amazing eyes I’d ever seen and they were looking right at me.

Then Michael put one square, flat palm high on my chest, right over my beating heart. He held his hand there for a moment, then spoke to me again in his gravelly voice.

‘Do you know what?’ Then he sang. ‘I fee-eel a soul connection.’

The girls beside me swooned on my behalf.

‘You’d better come with me.’ Michael grabbed my hand, and I felt his calloused guitar-player fingers against my palm.

‘Where?’

‘To the tour bus.’ Michael pulled me across the car park and I stumbled behind him, grinning like an idiot.

‘Wait,’ I said, looking back at my new-found friends. ‘Just me?’

Michael held my hand tighter. ‘Just you, Cinderella. I’m taking you to the ball.’

Together, we walked over freezing tarmac to the tour bus.

The ground seemed to lay down under Michael’s bare feet. To glow with every step he took.

I kept glancing at Michael and giggling like an idiot. Yes, he was definitely the most handsome man I’d ever seen. A little bit careworn up close. Smaller than he looked on stage. And a lot older than me. But so, so handsome. I was in the company of music royalty. Music royalty was holding my hand.

Lorna

Darcy frowns at her dinner plate. She sits on a yellow booster seat in a cute yellow sundress, yellow sandals dangling. But little-girl embellishments aside, Darcy is the most grown-up, serious four-year-old you could ever meet. Her idea of playtime is numbering all the toys in the room and then doing it again – fifty times.

‘It’s okay, Darcy,’ says Liberty. ‘You’ve had all this food before, right? Except that one. It’s called a mushroom. Remember what to do if you’re not sure? Just count the pieces.’

Darcy’s black hair is tied in a messy ponytail. Liberty did it this morning, and hasn’t done a bad job considering Darcy will only tolerate hairstyling for around ten seconds.

She won’t let Nick or me touch her head at all in the morning – only her ‘big sister Bibbity’. Hair washing must happen after 6 p.m. and only if we’re quick. Sometimes, we cut her hair while she’s sleeping.