I imagine us at the party, the centre of attention, her in the bright red swimming costume, her dark legs long and lean, everyone laughing at her jokes and wanting to be near her, then I find myself getting annoyed at the idea, not wanting to share her with people who would not appreciate her – people like Steph, Emily and Eloise.

As if reading my mind, Martha calls up to me that there is a phone call for me. I trudge back to my bedroom and pick up the phone extension on my bedside table, hear the click as Martha puts down the receiver in the kitchen.

“Hello?”

“Hels, it’s me. I’m sooooo bored! What are you doing? Let’s make some plans for the party. You have no idea how excited I am. I’m thinking it should have a theme, like Club Tropicana or something. Of course, we could go with the haunted house theme since we’re having it at your house. Ha!” El has never liked my house, is convinced it’s haunted. That suits me fine as it means she rarely wants to sleep over. We usually go to her house, which is clean, modern and predominantly painted magnolia. I don’t like having people over in general. I can never tell what kind of mood my mother will be in, if she will be sweetness and light or scathing and scratching at me like a feral cat. Eloise doesn’t know the full extent of what my mother is capable of. No one does.

Last night was safe because my mother was in entertaining mode.

“Hey, El, um, maybe we should just let people come as they are instead of a theme?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She pauses. “You do want this party, don’t you? You don’t sound very excited.” I can hear her pout down the phone line.

“Yes, I do. Sorry, I’m just in the middle of revision and it’s doing my head in a bit.”

“Which is exactly why we need this to distract us! Now, let’s talk booze…”

We talk for over an hour – or rather, El talks at me and I nod, grunt, mumble in agreement, but I stop concentrating when she suggests that the four of us wear co-ordinated bikinis.

The silences start to stretch between her monologues and my replies, so I tell her Martha is calling me for lunch and end the call.

I feel weary. Not just from the hangover, but with the whole process of being me, of juggling the different sides of myself, without fully understanding which one should take top billing, which face will be liked the most, which face I would like the most.