‘Now what can I get you to eat before you leave?’ Her mum sat forward, piling her biscuits in a little tower and resting them on the larger of the tile-topped nest of tables by the side of the sofa, placing her mug next to them, as if they could wait.

‘I’m just leaving now, actually.’ Bessie pointed at the front door. ‘Plus, I’m not hungry.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not hungry? You haven’t had any tea and it’s your birthday!’

Bessie exchanged a look with her dad, who pulled a face, indicating that he too had no idea why her birthday might be a relevant factor with regard to her hunger levels.

‘I’m just not. I can always get a sandwich when I get in,’ she insisted.

‘I suppose so.’ Her mum seemed to consider this. ‘Shall I make you one and leave it in the fridge? I’ll cling-film it for you?’

‘That’d be lovely. Thanks, Mum.’ Bessie had no intention of eating the sandwich, but this was the easiest and quickest way to get her mother to drop the subject.

Her mum visibly perked up. ‘So what do you fancy, chicken and mayonnaise? Tuna and sweetcorn? Corned beef and pickle?’

‘Urgh!’ Philip called from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Oh, that’s right, you’re a vegan now, aren’t you, mate?’ their dad chuckled. ‘He’ll have a lentil sandwich! Or another chocolate Club!’ He looked again at his son and his laughter fell away. ‘Are you wearing make-up, boy?’

‘A little bit,’ Philip said sheepishly.

Bessie admired her brother’s eyeliner, which was, she noted, rather artfully applied.

‘Well, I never thought I’d see the day!’ her dad sighed. ‘Socks without feet and now my son in make-up!’

‘Leave him alone, Eddie. It’s all the rage,’ her mum said, batting at him with her hand.

Bessie smiled at Philip, pleased that he was this confident in his skin.

‘Or cheese and tomato?’ her mum continued, as if the previous twenty seconds had never occurred.

‘Yes, cheese and tomato would be lovely.’ Bessie couldn’t care less about the sandwich but wanted her mum to stop with the sandwich choices – it felt like an added pressure all on its own.

‘Smashing.’ Her mum, clearly satisfied, popped a whole biscuit in her mouth before picking up her knitting and click-clacking the needles together with a small smile on her face, happy that she could prepare a sandwich for her daughter who might or might not be hungry later.

‘You look . . .’ Her dad now lowered his paper and stared suspiciously at her with narrowed eyes. ‘. . . a bit rosy-cheeked?’

‘Blusher,’ said Bessie, slurring a little and glad she was far enough away from him not to smell the Cinzano fumes she was sure wafted from her.

‘Have a lovely time, darling, and be careful,’ her mum said through her mouthful.