‘No, you don’t,’ Bess said, holding her ground. She didn’t want to argue with her mum, not today of all days, but the volcano was bubbling inside her with lava-frothed images of Sushmita and all her birthday messages; the orchid she detested, withering on the draining board at home; and even Natalie, who had interrupted and denied her a cigarette. She pictured Michelle and the lovely life she led, and looked down at the tabletop, smeared with what looked to be the remnants of last night’s gravy. She pictured Daniel, jetting off with his little case dragging behind him, heading off to work in the skies in a job she could only dream of, and she pictured Mario, who felt so far away from her even when they were close, and thought the best birthday card to buy her was one with a bloody duck on the front!

‘I’m irritating you right now, I can tell.’ Her mum took a sip of her wine.

‘God, okay – yes! You win, Mum – you drive me absolutely batshit crazy!’ Bess said, more loudly than she’d intended, and with a mouthful of olive. ‘But don’t worry, you’re not the only one, and sometimes I wish I could run away! Mario’s furious at me for calling him away from work, Natalie judges me for secretly smoking and my house is covered in bloody confetti!’ Again, she imagined the glamour of the Glade Hotel: Room 626 . . . Bubbles and a view of the park . . . and she thought about running there right now, away from the stress of lunch with her parents. Her birthday treat.

She noticed that the couple on the other table had stopped eating and were staring at them, and she smiled at them apologetically. Bess was silent for a beat while her mum sat forward in her chair and stared at her, but in a way that was kindly, concerned, and it caused a lump of emotion to gather in her throat.

‘What is wrong with you, Bessie?’

‘God, isn’t that the million-dollar question? We’d all like to know the answer to that one!’ she scoffed, breathing hard to control the tears that threatened.

Her mum laced her fingers together on her chest for a moment and then rested her hands on the table, like she did when she was waiting for an answer.

‘You’re not yourself, love, and you haven’t been for a while. You seem . . .’

‘I seem what?’ Tell me, Mum! Tell me what you see – open the floodgate and let me pour out my heart. Let me try and explain my unhappiness, my state of anxiety about what it’s like to live with a gut shredded through with the constant churning of the knives of inadequacy and guilt . . .