‘I’ve got to go, Michelle; my nan and grandad are here. Look, I’ll meet you there, if I decide to go, I’ll meet you outside.’ And then I can tell you all the reasons why you can’t start seeing Lawrence and all the reasons I think you might be mistaken about his feelings for you, all nine of them.

‘Okay, see you later then, Bessie. Love you!’

‘Love you.’

Replacing the phone in its holder on the small telephone table by the front door, Bessie stood still to receive the inevitable hugs from her grandparents, which always went on a fraction longer than she was comfortable with.

‘What a day for our girl!’ said her nan, who, at a little under five foot, grinned up at her. ‘These flowers are for you.’ She presented her with the pretty pink bouquet. ‘A proper bunch of flowers from the florist on the high street, none of that rubbish from your grandad’s garden, tied with a bit of old string.’ She gave her husband a withering look, suggesting the topic had been under discussion, and Bessie noticed for the first time how her nan treated Grandad Norm in exactly the same way her own mum spoke to her dad.

‘They’re to say congratulations, darling, on your results.’ Her grandad reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘And this,’ he said, handing over the large, flat, wrapped box, ‘is an extra birthday present. What a day!’

Bessie stared at the gift in one hand and the flowers in the other. Her sweet, loving grandparents had showered her in kindness, as they always had, and it was almost more than she could stand. The looks of adoration they fixed her with were certainly more than she deserved. This and the echo of Michelle’s words swirled in her head as hot tears of wretchedness trickled down her face, dripping from her chin and falling in fat droplets on to her birthday present.

‘Oh lovey! Whatever is the matter?’ Her nan gripped her arm and stared up at her.

‘She’s had a bit of a day, Mum,’ her own mum said, pulling a face and putting a finger to her lips, trying to covertly ask her mother to be quiet, jerking with her head towards the kitchen, where no doubt she would give her the full low-down.

‘Did you not get your grades?’ Her grandad was clearly not paying attention.

Bessie shook her head. ‘I didn’t get any grades. They were all absolute rubbish.’

‘Well, you can’t trust them people who do the marking! I think you need to get them re-marked. What do teachers know? They’re rubbish, all of them! You’re the cleverest girl I know.’

His blind support, blinkered by his love for her, only made her tears fall harder.

‘Now, now,’ her nan said, pulling her into her arms, ‘don’t cry, baby girl – you’ll make your Monopoly board all soggy.’