I sit at the wood-panelled breakfast bar and watch as you take the white sliced loaf out of the wooden bread bin and put two slices into the toaster. It’s a white toaster with orange flowers on the side. Rather old-fashioned for 1996 but it had belonged to Gran and you kept it because it has sentimental value. You never throw things away, do you, Mum? Dad says you’re a hoarder but I think you just like holding on to things that have a story to tell. You wink at me as you go to the fridge and take out a carton of orange juice – the one with bits – and a jar of strawberry jam. Toast with jam and a glass of juice. I’ve been having that for breakfast since I was a toddler.

‘ Ooh, listen to this,’ you say, putting the plate of toast down in front of me. ‘He’s interviewing a children’s author.’

I take a bite of toast. You lean across the breakfast bar and turn the radio up then we sit and listen to a man with a soft West Country accent describing the latest book he’s written.

‘ These stories,’ he says, his voice soothing and hypnotic, ‘were written for any child who has ever felt out of place. Who has ever stood on the edge of the fairground, looked at the dazzling lights and felt themselves unworthy of it all. For any child who has ever worried about not fitting in, my stories are a reminder that there are other worlds, other lives, other dimensions, beyond this one. And it is there, in those magical spaces, that you will find wonders beyond your imagination; that you will find yourself.’

‘Well, that sounds right up your street,’ you say, smiling. ‘And what a lovely voice he’s got too. Listen.’

I do listen. It is impossible not to. It’s as though this man has reached inside my head, taken all fears and insecurities, and thrown them aside: ‘There are other worlds, other lives.’

‘ Catch his name, Nessa,’ you say, scrambling for a pen and paper. ‘I’ll pop into town later and get you that book.’

8. Then

November 2017

‘The number you have called has not been recognized.’

So it’s official, I think to myself as I end the call and stare out of the window at the Number 22 bus crawling along the King’s Road, Lottie and me are finished.

I think back to the last time I saw her, the hurt in her eyes when I told her I was moving out. Hurt that quickly turned to anger. We’d had arguments before, lots of them, but we’d always made up eventually. The fact that Lottie has gone as far as changing her number means that this time is different.