‘I’ve got to look right. For Bristol.’ I stop myself saying for my dad, but she knows that’s what I mean.

She sighs and starts the engine again. ‘What about one of your scarves?’

I didn’t even know headscarves were a thing till I got sick. But the tumour vloggers swear by them, so Mum and me went on eBay to find ones printed with meerkats and dachshunds and cacti. After my surgery I learned ‘seven cool ways to tie a scarf’. My favourite is no. 4, with a ‘rosette twist’.

But I can’t wear a scarf for an entire month, not when they’re forecasting the hottest July since records began.

I take my wig out of its special bag and tug it on, zhuzhing up the hair that once belonged to a stranger, trying to make it less flat. I check my reflection. Better. Except already my scalp is itching around my scars.

‘Do I look ugly?’

Mum turns towards me. ‘No. Never. You’re gorgeous. I love you.’

The car’s little engine revs as she reverses out of the space and drives, faster than usual, towards the slip road. We flash past a sign reading: BRISTOL 18 MILES.

Bristol, where my father is waiting for me.

My scalp tingles, but in a good way.

I’d rather not have a brain tumour. But if it means I get to meet my actual dad at long last, then this was meant to happen.

Mum’s frown gets deeper as she drives the last couple of miles. The only thing she hates more than motorways is city centres.

‘Yeah, you can piss off too,’ she shouts, giving the finger to the driver behind us who tooted when the lights changed. ‘Why are people so aggressive?’

I try to ignore her temper as I take in Bristol for the first time. I already know I’m going to love it. I’ve lived in the same village my entire life, but here no one knows me. I can be anything I want.

The satnav takes us down a narrow lane and the car bounces on the cobbles. ‘I hope this is right,’ Mum says. ‘It’s changed a lot since I was here.’

‘Since two weeks ago?’

‘No. Before that.’

‘You’ve been to Bristol before?’ She’s never told me that.

‘I’d forgotten. We, um, passed through, came shopping for wellies, on our way . . . on our way to Glastonbury.’

Mum can’t have forgotten. She remembers every detail of that weekend, because if she’d never gone, her life would have been totally different. There’d have been a law degree and a well-paid job and a big house and a husband.

There would definitely not be a me.

Suddenly the alley ends and—

Wow! The harbour! There are boats and cafes and cinemas and restaurants and people – so many people – and music pouring out of every window, so many voices and rhythms, and I want to jump out of the car and join in.

‘Does my dad live near this?’