‘Okay, enough!’ she said, staring at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Just get over it, Bessie! It’s not going to happen. Mum and Dad are right – you have to make a new plan, find a new way. Are you going to let a lack of grades keep you on the ground, stuck here? Of course you’re not! You are going to ignore the fact that the world thinks you’re stupider than Nicola Pie or Sean Thornton or even Ronnie Booker!’ The thought of any of them studying their dire results and sighing with relief, thinking, Well, it could be worse! I could be Bessie Worrall! was as embarrassing as it was unthinkable. ‘And you’re going to go for it!’ She smiled, admiring her fabulous teeth.

‘Knock knock!’ Her dad walked in slowly, and she smiled. ‘Well, don’t you look like a proper bobby-dazzler!’

‘Thanks, Dad, I think.’ She had no idea who or what a bobby-dazzler was, but figured it was something good.

‘I just wanted to say, don’t worry about anything, my love. Put your results out of your head and have a nice time tonight. This is the kind of evening you’ll remember – the one where everyone lets their hair down.’

‘I’m a bit embarrassed, Dad, but I will have a nice time. I’m going to dance and laugh, and tomorrow is a brand-new day where anything can happen, right?’

‘That’s the spirit! And being embarrassed isn’t going to change anything, but it just might hold you back, and that would be a damn shame.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the harmonica. ‘Would you like me to play you a little something before you go out?’

‘Oh God, please no!’ Bessie jumped up and pressed play on her tape recorder. ‘I really wouldn’t.’

She heard him chuckling as he left the room. Before the door closed, Philip appeared, keeping his distance, as if the girly vibe within the four walls might be contagious.

‘This music is shit!’ he sneered. She ignored him. He said this no matter what she listened to, trying to prove he was cooler than her with his Joy Division cassette on a constant loop.

‘I found these – cherry brandy!’ He held out a flat box of chocolate liqueurs that she vaguely remembered arriving one Christmas, a gift from their tarty Auntie Nerys.

‘They look disgusting! Dark chocolate, yuk!’ she said, wrinkling her nose.

‘Yes, but they’re still booze. They were at the back of the sideboard. I think Mum and Dad have forgotten they’re there – look,’ he said, flipping the box over to read the back. ‘It says not to be sold to anyone under eighteen! They’re out of date.’

‘By how much?’

‘A year or two, but alcohol’s a preservative, right?’