The door flew open and her parents burst in at the exact moment Bessie recognised the smell as burning hair. At the sight of the orange flash in the mirror, she began to panic, screaming again, as she patted her head. Her dad yelled, adding to the melee, and threw his pint of orange squash over her head, thus dousing the flames and meaning that only half of her very hairsprayed ‘do’ was burnt to a crisp. Levering open her bedroom window, her dad flapped at the air before gripping the windowsill, as if overwhelmed by this latest development in his daughter’s day. Bessie more than understood, as she wiped the squash from her eyes and sat very still in the chair, unsure with so much that had gone wrong of exactly what she was crying for right this minute. Philip called from the landing as her mum ran from the room and Bessie heard the taps in the bathroom running at full force. The next thing she felt was a wet towel being placed over her head. She wasn’t sure why, as there were no flames left to smother. The soggy, cold weight pushing down on her somehow felt apt and Bessie was glad of it. Hidden beneath the sodden cotton, she cried great, gulping sobs for the day that could not possibly get any worse.

‘Thank God!’ she heard her mum sigh and then the sound of her dad kissing his wife.

‘No damage, love. Just a bit of burnt hair and a scorch on her dressing table.’ He let out a long breath. ‘My heart is going boom! What were you thinking, Bessie? Lighting a fire in your bedroom?’

‘I didn’t mean to!’ came her muffled reply. Or maybe she did mean to . . . Maybe burning down the whole fucking house might actually be preferable than the life looming large in her mind – a life with no school, no Lawrence, no sex and, worst of all, no Michelle.

Her mum tutted. ‘We’ll talk about this tomorrow, young lady!’

Bessie came out from under the wet towel to find her parents staring at her as their breathing calmed. They looked sorrowful and concerned and it ate at her – she was the cause of this, of all of it. Confident the drama was over, her mum and dad left her room, pausing only to stroke her face and kiss her damp head. She stared at her rather bedraggled reflection. The right side of her hair was frazzled, melted and a good four inches shorter than the left. Her face, hair and new hot-pink cropped sweatshirt were sopping with orange squash and sticky to the touch. The sight only caused more tears to spring. She now looked more Phil Oakey than Madonna, and that had never been the plan. Her fingers stroked the blackened edges of the abandoned notelet: a charred, damp and unsatisfactory farewell to her love.