I nod. I nod again and inhale. Exhale.

‘So, Ruth?’

I inhale again and for a few moments relish the authority to say yes or no, as the Lolitas grow restless at my ankles. I exhale. ‘Fine.’

What do I care? It’s obvious that I’m going to say yes to the least ludicrous, most affordable entertainment plan they come up with. I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist: cold, wet. I know I’ve come too far to turn back. I hereby accept that this will be terrible whatever route we choose. I yield to it. ‘Your pick, girls, and I’ll see what we can do money-wise.’ Great job, Ruth Beadle, you’re the great mediator, the great judge, the expert nurse.

We’re settling for a manicure plus mug-painting plus barman lesson. I keep looking at my screen, waiting for my breathing to settle, for them to finally leave me alone.

‘Barwoman,’ screech the Lolitas.

‘Barman, OK,’ I say. ‘Same thing.’

‘No, that’s what it’s called; it’s the name of the course, “Man, I Feel Like a Barwoman”. Get it?’

‘Oh, OK, sure,’ I say. I don’t. ‘Barwoman,’ I say. They copy the activity code down on a post-it note.

I try to raise what seems like a fair point about the planned order for the day. Surely manicure before mug-painting is going to prove a hassle? What about leaving enough time in between to let the nail polish dry? I’m trying to remember what it was that Alanna said about manicures when we were washing the pans. What was it that was good? Gel or shellac? I should’ve listened. I voice another concern to the Lolitas. Surely both mug-painting and manicure would suffice for an exciting day out. There’s no need to pick a third activity. Shall we just have drinks afterwards? I could duck out early, I’m thinking. I am just desperate to give enough input so that I feel like I’ve done my part.

‘Do you know what? Mugs are lame, maybe,’ a Lolita pipes up.

‘Yeah, scrap that, we’ll do mani and cocktails,’ says the other.

‘We can do champers pre-drinks in the salon!’

They high five.

They wheel me on my chair to their shared laptop. These girls are so well practised in collective tasks, in pushing friends in shopping trolleys in empty car parks. These girls know how to keep themselves entertained. They don’t need a laptop for work, but one of them brings one in from home anyway, this thing they’ve covered in chubby Japanese stickers: yellow bears, white-and-pink cats, a sad-looking anthropomorphic egg. They watch videos on it, their pretty heads close together in the glow from the screen.