“I will,” he says, getting up. “I don’t know why I bothered coming round.”

He slams the door on his way out and Ellie wakes up with a grumpy wail.

I grit my teeth. I hate him. I hate both of them, Jack and bloody Sean.

New Year’s Eve and we’re over at Dean House with the rest of the village. Bella’s wearing a black slinky dress and is laughing with Max and Lena, putting her hand on Max’s arm as she leans in to talk to him. I’ve refused to wear anything but jeans and I’m sitting in a corner playing with Ellie.

“Come on, buttercup, it’s time you were in bed,” Julia says, coming over and scooping Ellie up. “Let’s leave Tess to play with people her own age, shall we?”

Ellie wails as Julia carries her away and part of me wants to wail right along with her, left alone in a corner with a half-finished Disney princess jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes it’s so much easier to play with Ellie, the pair of us invisible in a corner.

This house is weird. They’ve lit candles and strung fairy lights around the room, filled every surface with bottles and glasses, but under all the party stuff, it looks like they haven’t bothered doing anything. The paper’s peeling on the walls and the floorboards are bare. It’s cold and creepy and damp and I don’t know how they can stand living here. It’s like they did all the essential stuff—sorting the roof and windows—and then got bored and gave up, so the inside still has the creepy haunted-house vibe it always had.

No one else seems to see it. Probably because everyone is drunk except me. Even Dad’s necking back the wine, standing over by the fire with Greg Lewis.

Now Bella is dragging Max off to dance and I get up to leave. I’m halfway to the door when I see Sean coming in, so I about-turn and duck out the back door instead, taking refuge in the garden.

I take a deep breath as I walk around. There are so many weeds. Half the roses I spent months nurturing are being choked by them. My hands itch to get stuck in, pull away the tangled brambles, give the flowers a chance to breathe and grow. But a flare of light at the far end of the walled garden tells me I’m not alone. Someone’s out here smoking a cigarette. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see it’s Greg Lewis. He raises a hand and beckons me over.

“Hello, Tess. Are you having a good time?”

I shrug and fiddle with an ivy leaf clinging to the wall.

“I know what you mean. It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”