I don’t know what to write to you. I don’t even know what to say to you. My mind is racing and I feel so sick. I trusted you! We had an agreement and you lied – you broke your promise and you told Tony we’d had sex and he will tell everyone, EVERYONE! And my life is ruined. My life is fucking ruined because of you! And now you like Michelle? The one person I could rely on, my person! She was the one I could tell anything to, but now? I’ve got no one and you said the same shit to her that you said to me and I fell for it. I don’t need rubbish exam results to tell me I’m stupid – you’ve already proved that because I fell for it all. I hate you and I love you. That’s the truth – I hate you and I love you . . .

She stopped writing and put her head in her hands. Her tears continued to fall. Her thoughts were conflicting and confused. The ache of distress sat deep in her gut. How was it possible for her to feel such dislike for the boy who only hours ago she had contemplated a future with? But it was the truth – she hated him and she loved him, yet neither mattered now because he was with Michelle. Bessie was sobering fast and one quick read through of her letter made her realise two things: first, she would never have the confidence to send it to Lawrence, and second, it was proof of her deeds that needed to be destroyed. She cringed to think of accidentally mailing this to Nanny Pat. Fumbling in the drawer of her dressing table, she dug out the lighter hidden at the back, which she and Michelle had used to light the cigarettes Michelle stole from her dad’s packet when he was napping. The memory of their shared adventures was enough to summon another bout of snotty tears. Rolling the flint until the flame leapt, she held the notelet at an angle, carefully positioning it so the fire licked the paper, picturing a soft flutter of fire that would destroy her words. Dramatic, but necessary.

Bessie gave a loud scream as an almighty whoosh was followed by a flash of bright light.

Far from the gentle and symbolic smouldering of her words that she had envisaged, worthy of a Roxy Music video, the coating on the cheap notelets her mother had bought set it flaming, scorching her fingers. She dropped it on to her dressing table amid a sickening acrid smell.