I turn around to look at my new housemates. Emma’s on her phone again, absent-mindedly twirling a lock of hair around her finger. I notice she has long, manicured red nails.

Alex looks up at me and grins. ‘D’you think you can cope with living with us lot?’ He starts stacking plates.

‘No,’ says Becky, firmly, tapping him on the hand. ‘I’ll do it in the morning. This is a get-to-know-each-other evening. When we’re all in and settled, we can sort out a kitchen rota and all that boring stuff, but tonight is margaritas. The night is young. Let’s play the name game.’

‘Oh my God.’ I roll my eyes at her. There’s a point in every evening when she insists we do this. Before anyone else realises what’s happening, she’s got a packet of Post-it Notes out and she’s handing them out. ‘Everyone has to write the name of someone famous and stick it on the forehead of the person to their left.’

‘And to think Rob’s missing this,’ says Alex, pressing the Post-it Note to my forehead. ‘D’you want another drink?’

I feel distinctly head-spinny already, but I nod. This is my new London life. I can drink tequila and have avocado on toast and be cool. Well, cool-ish. Cooler than I was living back home. Not that there’s anything wrong with back home, of course. I swallow a little gulp of sadness that sneaks up on me out of nowhere – just thinking about leaving Nanna Beth back there and me being all the way up here. She’s already lost Grandpa, and now I’m going, too.

‘Oh my God,’ says Becky, seeing the name written on my forehead. She snorts with laughter.

‘Am I a woman?’ I say, when it’s my turn.

‘You’re a phenomenon, I think you’d say,’ Alex replies, grinning at me.

Emma guesses hers almost straight away (I think she’s pleased she got to be Meghan Markle) and in no time there’s just me and Alex, trying desperately to work out who we are.

‘Do I have a unique blond hairstyle?’

We snort with laughter.

‘Am I a megalomaniac? Am I the best president ever in the history of presidents? Is this the biggest Post-it Note, bigger and better than any Post-it Notes that have ever been before?’

Alex has already guessed, but he’s making us laugh so hard with his terrible Donald Trump impressions that we’re all doubled over, and mine falls off my forehead and onto the ground where I can’t help sneaking a peek.

‘Am I . . . Kim Kardashian?’ I sit up, triumphant, waving the Post-it Note in the air.

‘Yes.’ Becky takes it from me. ‘You’re totally cheating, but you are definitely Kim Kardashian.’

‘And I am definitely going to bed.’ Emma pushes her chair away from the table and stands up, looking at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s almost eleven, and I’ve got a killer day tomorrow. Back-to-back meetings.’