‘Don’t get too excited.’ Her mum did this – put the lid on any potential joy, as if it were better to quash any shoots of happiness before they took root.

‘I won’t,’ Bessie reassured her. She picked up a square package and pulled the wrapping off to reveal the traditional Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

‘Your favourite!’

‘It is. Thanks, Mum.’

‘Can I have some?’ Her brother reached out his hand.

‘Sure.’ She pushed it towards him and he smiled.

‘I’m only kidding. I wouldn’t eat your birthday chocolate.’

‘Well, of course you wouldn’t – it’s made of milk . . .’ Bessie grinned at him and tore the paper from a tube of lip gloss, the one she had wanted. ‘Thanks!’ she said, unscrewing the top and inhaling the peach-scented goo that she intended to slather over her lips later before hopefully transferring it on to Lawrence Paulson’s face and neck. The thought sent a shiver of want right through her.

Next she opened a pair of fluffy ankle socks and then a box of Maltesers, and finally a book token from Nanny Pat and Grandad Norm, and an Our Price token from Auntie Nerys, enough for her to buy the new Spandau Ballet album she’d been hoping for.

‘So how do you get your exam results?’ her dad asked. ‘Are they coming in the post? Can’t remember how we got Philip’s!’

‘They put them up in the school hall today.’

She felt the first flicker of nerves at the thought, which had overshadowed all others in the last few weeks. The exams had gone okayish and she knew that with a clutch of decent grades she could complete the sixth form and then head to college to become anything she wanted!

‘You’ll have done fine, sweetie – you take after your dad. Brains.’ He tapped his forehead.

‘It’s quite a day for you, missy. We’ll have your cake with tea later, half of it to celebrate your birthday and the other half to toast your success.’ Her mum had made a Victoria sponge, of course.

Philip stood and loped over to the bread bin and reached behind it to retrieve his own gift to her, neatly wrapped in white tissue paper.

‘Ah, Pippin, you little sweetie!’ her mum announced, in the same tone with which she noted all of his achievements: Pippin is out of nappies, the little sweetie, joined Cubs, the little sweetie, got his yellow belt in judo, passed his cycling proficiency exam and now managed to buy his sister a birthday present all by himself . . . Her tone and nickname embarrassed her eighteen-year-old son, and in response he threw the gift on to the table in front of Bessie, who knew enough not to make the same level of fuss as her mother as she ripped at the tissue.

‘Leg warmers!’ she yelled. They were fabulous, hot pink with lime green stripes.