My cheeks burned as if I’d been branded. An uncomfortable lump formed in my throat and I blinked rapidly to keep tears of hurt and humiliation at bay. As I fought to control myself I began to feel angry. Angry she’d allowed me to think I was good enough to be a guest at her party. Angry that my mother was right. Angry that Eleanor was smiling, laughing in mock exasperation at her useless daughter who hadn’t passed the message on to the poor confused cleaner’s daughter who thought she was actually invited. There wasn’t even a hint of remorse or apology or any indication she knew she might as well have cut my heart out. Edie was right. She was a bitch. Why hadn’t I listened to her? It was all I could hear over and over in my head. You bitch. You bitch.

Bitch.

She smiled, showing her white straight teeth, and I briefly imagined smashing them into the worktop.

I cleared my throat. ‘She said something about canapés.’

The make-up on my face felt thick and clown-like. The shirt she’d leant me, white and starched like my school uniform, was constricting and rubbed against my skin. I crossed my arms, held them tightly around my body and looked down, my hair hanging in curtains either side of my face, providing a shield of sorts. The itch of my tattoo had turned to a persistent ache. I wanted to leave. Tear the shirt off and throw it at her. But if I left I’d have to face Mum and her inevitable I told you so and risk seeing Gareth. And what would I do? Sit on the sofa staring at some shit on the television wishing I were back at The Cliff House. My anger began to dull. I realised some of the fault lay at my own feet. I’d jumped to conclusions and assumed I was invited. I should have checked. Listened to Mum. I had a flash of her then, sitting in the kitchen counting the pennies on the tabletop.

‘And you’re paying me?’ I said, raising my head and looking Eleanor directly in the eye.