And the other reason we’re going is because the woman we’re buying the house from, she’s going to be there.

I know what you’re thinking, peeps, and hear me out, I’m not some kind of crazy stalker! But it’s really, really hard to get into a good school where we’re moving. And with these things, it’s always about who you know, isn’t it?

I don’t want to sound shallow, but people judge you by your friends, don’t they?

And you don’t have to like someone to be friends with them.

I’ll be honest, I thought this woman was a bit of a bitch when I met her. But then our estate agent told me she’s a surgeon, which makes sense. They’re always a bit spectrum-y, aren’t they? If we’re allowed to say that. No offence to all the spectrum people. But you know what I mean.

Oh, God, I know it sounds totally stalker-y, but we really need to make the right sort of friends if we’re going to fit in properly, so please don’t judge me!

Anyway, it’s just a party! What’s the worst that can happen?

chapter 11

millie

Peter sits cross-legged on the floor, watching me put on my make-up. He isn’t annoying me exactly, but the boy’s ten. He should be playing Fortnite on his phone, not hanging around watching his mother apply her lipstick.

His sister appears in the doorway. ‘Mummy’s boy,’ she says. ‘You’re so freaking lame. What are you, gay?’

‘I’m not gay!’

‘Don’t be a bitch,’ I tell my daughter.

My son is already running from the room. In the wild, certain shark embryos cannibalise their littermates in the womb, with the largest embryo eating its siblings. It’s Darwinian out there.

‘Dad told me to tell you Hatley’s here,’ Meddie says.

‘Mrs Hatley,’ I correct.

‘Why do we need a babysitter, anyway? I’m thirteen. I don’t need someone to look after me.’

‘Peter does.’

We both know why.

Meddie lounges against the doorjamb, watching me with Tom’s eyes. ‘You look very beautiful,’ she says.

I spritz Chanel No. 5 on the inside of my wrists. ‘Thank you, Meddie. Please don’t give Mrs Hatley any trouble,’ I add, standing up and putting my phone in my jewelled clutch.

Stacey Porter must be watching out for us: Tom and I have barely checked our coats before she finds us.

‘I love your dress!’ she exclaims, holding me at arm’s length as she surveys me from head to toe. ‘Is it vintage? And your hair! Very Veronica Lake.’