Bessie smiled into the mirror. Okay, her speech needed a bit of work, but it was almost there. She studied her face, looking at her smile from all angles, liking what she saw. As her mum said, pretty. After cleaning her teeth to wash away the nasty tang of Cinzano that lingered on her tongue, she rubbed strawberry-scented body lotion on her flat stomach, which was just visible if she reached up or bent over, liking the tan she had cultivated over the last few weeks. She and Michelle had spent hours lying in the park or on the small square of patio in her parents’ back garden, which caught the sun during what they had christened ‘the tanning hours’, between one thirty and three thirty in the afternoon, when they would slather their face, neck and shoulders with baby oil and stare at the bright, bright rays. They had burned fairly quickly, which was standard to achieve the best tan, and having gone through the burn and peel phase, were now blessed with stay-put, long-lasting tans that left them with skin the colour of burnished caramel. It also gave them the look of worldly-wise women who had travelled, possibly to Los Angeles, somewhere Bessie could not pinpoint on a map and yet was at the top of her list of places where she would like to live, should she ever decide to move out of St Albans. She gave her armpits a double slick of deodorant. The three grubby round plasters, she replaced with fresh ones that sat on top of the nasty red cuts on her shin. It was important that she looked perfect tonight. The Cinzano felt nice, warming her from the inside out and adding a hazy glow to her world.

With one final look in her narrow full-length mirror and having blown a kiss to Simon and the rest of the boys on the wall, she raced down the stairs, keen to get out of the house with minimal fuss and, more important, before her mum noticed her glassy eyes or the heady whiff of booze.

‘Let’s have a look at you then!’ her mum called out from the sofa, where she sat with her legs tucked beneath her. A mug of coffee and three ‘Shortie’ biscuits rested on her thigh, as canned laughter from Terry and June filled the room. Her dad was in his chair in his slippers, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Bessie walked in and gave a little twirl to show off her new sweatshirt.

‘You look gorgeous!’ her mum beamed. ‘Really lovely, Bessie – your make-up is so clever.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ She felt properly boosted by the words of compliment. Her dad nodded in agreement and went back to his programme.