I slip the photo into the waistband of my wraparound as more people arrive. Some I know; others I don’t. Small groups of girls from school, mostly the popular ones, those on the sports teams and in drama club with Eloise, alongside groups of boys from Seahaven and the local comp in the next village over, friends of Brian’s, the news of the party having apparently reached them too. Before long, the pool house is busy with bodies, noise and music. The boys have momentarily halted the volleyball and got out of the pool. They are throwing crisps at each other, seeing who can catch the most in their open mouths. I lose sight of Tracey while I say hello to the various faces I recognise, but then I see her on a lounger on the other side of the pool, talking to a girl with French plaits in her hair and ridiculously large hoop earrings.

I go into the storeroom for another bottle of champagne and shove the photo in my bag. I open the bottle and wander around with it in my hand, having ditched the cup in favour of swigging straight from the neck of the bottle. Eloise’s camp now includes three loungers pulled together, on which Steph and Emily are reclining like they are in the south of France, while Eloise is making out with Brian. She breaks for air and smiles at me, thrilled that she has finally got her claws into him. I’m torn between wanting to find out what Tracey is talking about and knowing I should be paying El the appropriate amount of attention. If I talk to her now, maybe she’ll leave me alone later so that I can hang out with Tracey.

I sit down, perched on the end of El’s lounger, as though I’m worshipping at her perfectly pedicured feet. Steph and Emily are gabbling and giggling, swatting the air lamely as the boys splash them, twirling their hair between their fingers and fawning over everything Eloise says.

“You’re soooo funny, El.”

“Oh, I wish I had your beautiful skin, El. You are soooo radiant.”

How have I not noticed before now how insubstantial they are? How lacking in opinion or purpose? I turn away from them, survey the room, the people milling about, jumping in the pool, splashing water, necking booze and gobbling handfuls of Monster Munch. How many of these people do I actually know? And how many actually know me? A lot of them have been school friends for years, but when I think about it, they aren’t my friends. They don’t know me anymore. I feel like I’ve quietly been changing, evolving, morphing into a completely different person in the last few weeks, the final ingredient in my transformation being the knowledge that my parents never wanted me, that my father actively investigated getting rid of me.

My father wanted me dead.