The single had been everywhere right at the time when Ruth was starting to be aware of music, and seeing Clio being so young and red-coloured and brilliantly disobedient on Top of the Pops – something Ruth hadn’t even realized it was possible to disobey until then – had really cemented it. She wrote it on the insides of jotters – PEOPLE GOTTA RISE UP! – daubed it on her schoolbag in Tippex where other girls were drawing the Bros logo. In amongst the stuff her mum had handed over when they’d moved out of the old house was a box containing every magazine interview Clio had ever done, from Smash Hits to Q, meticulously clipped with the kitchen scissors, hidden under her bed and layers of dust for at least a decade. Each one had seemed so shockingly familiar, the design, the placement of the pictures on the page sparking off little pulses in Ruth’s brain. She realized she still knew some of them off by heart; she’d copied Clio’s quotes about wanting to be an astronaut out into a little notebook she found at the bottom of the box, remembered pacing about her bedroom with her T-shirt knotted up over her belly button reciting it, a hand moving expansively through the air as she tried to imagine how Clio Campbell would have looked when she’d said it.

Ruth had wondered, going into that first meeting with Ben and Linda, how she’d feel. Would meeting the person who had been her first crush, who she’d gravitated to before she’d even realized that she liked girls, unlock something in her, as that box of magazine cuttings had done for a while? Would she get the shakes, or blush, or be unable to stop the attraction coming back? She felt dizzy with the anticipation as she paused at the door of the meeting room, knowing who was in there, but it was just a woman. A woman with a very familiar face, but just a woman. As with every other artist she dealt with, she often found herself talking maternally, calmly, down the phone, and the thrill of that voice being on the other end, saying ‘Ruth! Ruth, it’s Clio. There’s been a bit of a fuck-up …’ had faded by the third or fourth time it had happened.