From side streets and driveways, students from her school began to emerge, clusters of friends, duos and lone travellers like herself, but all heading towards the rugby club, from where, even at this distance, the unmistakeable sound of Bronski Beat’s ‘Smalltown Boy’ drifted over the rooftops. The powerful blend of distant music and summer air thick with hormones, cheap scent, chewing gum and teenage sweat wrapped the party-goers in a hypnotic trance as they trundled along the grey-slabbed pavement to the social event that held such promise, sparkling in their finery and in anticipation of the magic that lay in wait.

Bessie hated the feeling that she and Michelle were not okay – an unwelcome shift in her world, impossible to fathom. She needed to speak with her first thing. After that, she would take Lawrence by the hand, and so what if people saw? What better way to shout to the world, I may have fluffed my exams, but look at my consolation prize! Her heart squeezed with excitement – this felt like a whole new beginning.

She could see the disco lights flashing through the steamed-up windows of the rugby club, as the gravelled car park crunched beneath the soles of her boat shoes. Scanning the crowd, her eyes searched the generous amount of neon on display, trying to locate a pink cropped sweatshirt like the one she was wearing, but without any luck. Standing still, she pulled the birthday lip gloss from her jeans pocket and applied another sticky coat, sliding her lips together and knowing how good it would look against her white teeth. She felt a little tipsy and with the first stirring of nausea in her gut, and put this down to nerves as she continued to look for Michelle in the crowd.

Monica and Verity, the pogoing drama queens, squealed past her quite suddenly like fireworks fizzing into the night sky as they ran to the main doors and disappeared inside.

A loud peal of laughter caught her attention. She turned in time to see Melanie Hall and her gaggle all bent double and laughing at some snarky comment, no doubt.

‘Oh my God! No waaaaaay!’ one of her gang shrieked in an earsplitting scream. ‘That’s disgusting!’

It surprised her how little she cared what they might be laughing at. Someone grabbed her arm and yanked her towards them. It was Tony Dunlop, who had, she noted, slicked his hair back in a poor imitation of the Fonz.

‘Bessie!’ He grinned at her and, despite being a little drunk herself, she recognised the slur of someone who had necked more than their fair share of booze.

‘Let go of my arm!’ She pulled away from him, not liking the way he handled her, and began to search the crowd in earnest. It was funny how that little moment of alertness had sent a shock of sobriety through her veins.