“You must be Ava,” she says to me, tilting her head to the left and adopting the same sympathetic expression most people who know my plight wear.

“What gave it away? The deathly pallor?” I joke, but she thinks I’m serious and freezes like a possum caught in a spotlight.

“Er, well…”

“Relax, I’m joking.”

She throws back her head and laughs too loud and for too long.

“I’m Nadia,” she says when she recovers, a hand pressed against her chest. “And these are Sophie and Kelly. They’re here to do your makeup and hair and wardrobe for the photos. Don’t worry, they’re very good at what they do. When they’ve finished working their magic no one would even guess that you’re…”

“Dying?” I supply helpfully. “I think that’s kind of the point of the story, isn’t it?”

“Coffee, anyone?” Kate interrupts to break the awkward silence that follows. “Or tea? I have herbal.”

“Are they…here…yet? Am I too…late?” Mum’s voice arrives first, then her body follows. She bustles inside and collapses against the back of the couch, out of breath. When she sees Nadia she flushes. “I know you,” she says, straightening up and pointing. “I’ve seen your picture in the magazine.”

Nadia smiles regally.

“You’re my favorite journalist,” Mum gushes. “I read all your human-interest stories, every week. First page I flick to. Well, after the gossip pages, of course. That Dominique Taylor sure can sniff out a good story. Is he still with that guy off the telly? That dancing show?”

“Mum.”

“What?”

Nadia steps forward and holds out a hand so covered in heavy rings I’m surprised she can manage to lift it. “Nadia Hepburn. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Green. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

“Oh, I’m not going through it. Ava is.”

“Well, I know that, I just meant…” Nadia looks at me helplessly. I smile back. She’s on her own.

I almost say no to Sophie and Kelly and their magical, talented fingers, but when they finish their work and I look in the mirror I am so glad I didn’t. I don’t look like me. Well, I do, but a better, much nicer version.

My blond hair, curly and untameable since it grew back after the chemo, has been gently coaxed and styled, pinned back on one side with a pretty diamanté clip. It flows sweetly over the top of my head and down the other side in sleek finger waves, a nod to the hairstyles of eras gone by. My makeup is subtle but effective, and Nadia was right: if you didn’t know I was sick you would probably never guess. I have smoky eyes and plump, outlined lips. They have elected not to camouflage the tiny freckles that scatter across the tops of my cheeks, and I’m glad. Fairy footsteps, my mother called them when I was growing up. Back when they were the biggest thing I had to complain about.

Although she has produced a small rack from her van with an assortment of outfits, Sophie cups her chin in her hand and looks me up and down shrewdly for a good two minutes before declaring she has “just the thing.”