Marcus took a few deep breaths then looked at me and shook his head. He said, ‘What the fu-fu-fuck is going on?’

I’d heard him stammer plenty of times, but it was the first time I’d ever heard him swear.

Now, L-Plate comes running up to me outside the dining room like the world is coming to an end. She looks like she’s been crying, though to be fair, she looks like that more often than looking like she hasn’t been.

‘What’s the matter, L?’

‘This meeting.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Yeah, it’s bound to be a bit upsetting, but I think that’s what it’s for, so—’

‘No, not that—’

‘So people can let their feelings out a bit—’

‘I don’t know what to wear.’

‘What?’ I watch her shaking her head, clutching at the material of a glittery Dolce & Gabbana sweatshirt like it’s some old rag she’s pulled on, and I quite fancy punching her in the tits. Instead, I ask, ‘Who gives a toss what you wear?’

‘I do,’ she says.

‘Are you on the pull?’ I see a hint of a smile. ‘You think Ilias is even going to bother changing his pants? You think Donna won’t have the same sweaty tracksuit on she has every bloody day?’ Her smile widens. ‘Look, I know what’s happened is freaking us all out a bit, but this meeting isn’t anything to worry about, I swear. It’s certainly not something you need to get tarted up for.’

‘You promise?’ she asks.

I nod, and find myself trying to remember the last time I’d got tarted up for anything.

Mists of bloody time.

It was some stupid office thing I went to with Andy. One of those where they dole out crap awards, and I remember I’d borrowed a dress off Sophie because I didn’t have anything nice with long sleeves. All night I was letting Andy know, a bit too loudly, that his HR manager was looking at me funny, like he knew something or was trying to send me a bad message. Andy told me to keep it down because I was showing him up, so I just smoked a couple of spliffs in the car park, drank a gallon of prosecco and was sick on the way home.

I never even had Sophie’s dress cleaned before I gave it her back.

Now, L-Plate nods and says, ‘Sorry, Al . . . having a bad day.’ She looks about seven years old, standing there chewing her fat bottom lip like she’s trying to be brave, and I feel bad for wanting to punch her.

‘No need to be sorry,’ I say.

George and Mia wander out of the dining room. They’ve been setting the chairs up for the meeting. I say, ‘All set?’ but they just carry on walking towards the nurses’ station. They both still look a bit shell-shocked.