“I ran into him in the supermarket,” Mum explains. “He seemed lonely and asked how you were doing.”

I can feel their love for me: my parents, friends, people who have known me my entire life. It is palpable all around, in every lovingly thought-out detail. Normally a comfort, tonight it feels suffocating. It is too much pressure. I have let them all down.

“Drink?”

My best friend, Kate, is standing beside me holding two glasses of bubbly wine. I nod to her gratefully and take one of the glasses, draining it quickly. Passing it back, I take the other. Her eyes widen.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” she says.

“What’s not?”

For a moment I am worried she knows I am hiding something.

She gestures around the room with the empty glass. “This party.”

“Oh. No, the party’s great.”

“So why have you gone all white? Are you feeling OK?” She has her concerned-doctor face on. Kate is a GP at the local community clinic and finds it hard to shut off when she leaves the office. Especially when it comes to her own family and friends.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit overwhelmed.”

“I thought you knew about the party?”

“I did.”

“You confuse me sometimes, Ava.”

“Easily done,” I tease, to show I am my usual self.

“Hey.” She swats at my arm.

“Another drink for the birthday girl?” I ask hopefully, holding up the empty glass.

“Only because it’s your birthday.” I watch as she weaves through partygoers to where the drinks are arranged on the bench. She turns, holding up a bottle of Malibu and pulling a face.

“Oh my God, do you remember that night we drank all your parents’ Malibu?” she asks when she is back at my side again.

I wince, remembering the night she is talking about.

“I’ve never been so sick,” she goes on, poking out her tongue in a mock vomit and shuddering. “I still owe your parents for not telling mine.”

“What are we talking about?”

Amanda, the third corner of our friendship triangle, interrupts. She is holding a paper plate and shoveling butter chicken into her mouth, her expression rapturous.

I squeal at the sight of her and throw my arms around her neck, nearly knocking her plate out of her hands.

“Whoa,” she says. “Careful.”

“When did you get here?”

She shrugs. “Last night.”

“For how long?”

She spoons more food into her mouth and makes an extended Mm noise. “Not sure. We’re in between tours. Supposed to be heading into the studio soon but I don’t have a concrete date.”

I feel ridiculously happy to see her. For as long as we’ve been friends I’ve known she would one day be a star. She’s been singing since she first learned to talk, if you believe her mother, and it’s as natural to her as breathing. She has the most beautiful timbre to her voice, slightly husky but still angelic. She’s not an international star yet, but she’s on the cusp.