“Okay,” I say. “This is apple tart, or rather tarte tatin. It was invented by two sisters, Stéphanie and Caroline Tatin, who lived near Orléans, where Joan of Arc comes from. It’s my first ever attempt at baking, so don’t get your hopes up too high. But I did find some French sea-salt butter, even though the apples are from Sussex. Should I cut the tart?”

Maddie doesn’t answer so I make a suggestion: “Maybe we should watch a film and then taste the tart? I’ve got everything we need.”

I dig out the iPad I nicked from my mother’s bedside table, followed by a set of peach-colored pajamas—also my mother’s—and a pair of slippers with pictures of Batman’s face on them that Malcolm was desperate to own. I hurriedly don my outfit.

“Ta-da!” I exclaim, giving her a little whirl. My heart is pounding in my ears. I feel like a complete dork, but who cares. I would do anything to make her smile or roll her eyes.

“You’re already in your nightie, so I’d say this is going to be one hell of a birthday pajama party! Do you want to dance or play karaoke first? Or open your present?” I pull the small parcel from my trouser pocket. “No? Okay, I’ll just put it down here on your bedside table. What’s that you say? We should make ourselves pretty? Luckily, I’ve brought something along.”

I pull out the makeup kit I bought at the pharmacy. “Can you give me a hand?” I ask her. “You can? Great, then hold this mirror for me.” I lean the mirror against her pillow and try my best to apply the crumbly blue stuff to my eyelids. I miss and it stings like hell; I really don’t understand why women put themselves through this. You end up like the scary clown in Stephen King’s horror story. Also, strawberry-flavored lip gloss really does taste like litmus paper.

I seek Maddie’s opinion. “How do I look? As gorgeous as Kate Winslet, right?”

I listen out and I’m pretty sure that I hear her giggle. Somewhere, perhaps. Inside my head, Scott is most definitely chortling.

“Want some too? No? Not your color? What? Lip gloss? It doesn’t taste anything like strawberry, I swear.”

She wants some anyway.

“Did you know they make strawberry aroma from sawdust? Well, they do!”

With the utmost care I use the little stick to apply some gloss to her lips. She holds still so I can trace the curve of her mouth, then I hold up the mirror so that she can admire my work.