The two sat in silence for what felt like an eternity. Bessie was glad of her mum’s company, but really didn’t want to talk about what had happened, not without incriminating herself or exposing her shameful behaviour. Ridiculously, she was grateful for her terrible exam results as a foil for all her sadness.

‘I always find that, in a situation where I’m upset, eating something makes me feel a whole lot better,’ her mum said at last.

Are you for real? Bessie didn’t have the answers to the terrible mess in which she found herself, but one thing she knew for certain – food was the very last thing on her mind.

‘I could get you that sandwich?’

‘I don’t think I could eat, Mum. It’s a bit late.’ She looked at the clock on top of the cooker. It was nearly half past eleven. She then remembered the stain of sick down the front of the house and wondered if it might rain heavily between now and the morning, when her parents would surely notice it. Please, please, God, make it rain!

‘It’s all made and ready in the fridge in case you change your mind. Cheese and tomato . . .’

‘Yes, Mum, okay! Go and get the sandwich!’ If she didn’t take the bloody sandwich, her mum would go on and on about it until she did.

Her mum jumped up eagerly and bustled to the fridge, where she peeled the cling film from a small hexagonal side plate edged in her favoured eternal bow pattern, which Bessie disliked. She stared at the flat slices of greyish-white bread in front of her. From the biscuit tin, her mum grabbed three Garibaldi biscuits and crammed the first into her mouth.

‘Tomorrow is another day, lovey.’ Her mum sat back down. ‘You could write your thank-you notelets to everyone to say how much you like your gifts to help take your mind off things. You know it’s the highlight of Nanny Pat’s life when she gets something from you in the post – she’s still got all your paintings from playschool on the kitchen wall!’ She chuckled at the truth.

‘Okay. I’ll write my thank-you notelets tomorrow,’ Bessie said. More words designed to placate, and shut her mother up.

‘Good girl,’ her mum beamed, satisfied.

‘I should probably write one to Mrs Hicks as well,’ Bessie added, thinking out loud.

‘Mrs Hicks next door? Our Mrs Hicks? Why, did she get you a birthday present?’ her mum asked in a tone that suggested she was slightly miffed to be out of the loop.

‘No, she didn’t. It’s more of an apology card.’ Bessie’s jaw was tense, hating what she was going to have to confess and hating even more that she had done it at all.

‘Why would you need to say sorry to Mrs Hicks?’ Her mum looked confused.

‘I might just have told her to fuck off.’