‘It’s a journal I keep under my bed, and every day at the end of the day, I write down all the compliments I get. Then first thing in the morning, I wake up and read it.’

‘The sad thing is it could be true. You would do something like that. Because of the aforementioned big ego.’

‘Ah but you also admit that you think I’m charming and handsome enough to get the level of compliments required to keep a compliments journal.’

‘I admit nothing.’

‘Okay.’ He’s laughing.

‘I’m pressing play and I don’t want you to say a single thing when the crow appears, or the mysterious fog,’ I say, leaning towards the laptop.

‘Oh my god.’

‘Shhhhh.’ I hold up my hand.

‘There’s a crow and fog?’

‘You are on very thin ice.’

‘Okay, okay. I promise. I won’t say anything.’

‘No more chances.’

‘I don’t need any more chances.’

We smile at each other. I am trying not to smile, actually, but I can’t help it.

We keep watching, and Jesse blessedly says nothing, sipping his tea, and after a while, I push a corner of my blanket over to him, in case his feet are cold.

15

15

Harper is trying to cook a recipe from my Ottolenghi cookbook, and she’s near tears. Penny is coming over, and Harper made a big fuss about how she was going to cook a fancy meal for her.

‘There are so many ingredients, Brooke, and I have no idea what I’m doing!’ she wails down the hallway.

I am happy to be pulled away from my short story. Every time I write a sentence, I want to delete it two minutes later, because the thought of giving that sentence to other people in the class to read is too paralysing. My story needs to be smart in a secret way, without looking like I’m trying to be smart. It needs to be funny without resorting to overt, embarrassing comedy. It needs to be sad without the cliches of death or abuse or anything obviously sad. It needs to be pithy and succinct but also filled with beautiful descriptions and layers of subtle meaning.