Although we’re neighbours, our houses are separated by a stretch of pavement, a hedge and a bank of trees. We’ve lived next door to each other since I was born, and I’ve never noticed the difference between us, but lately I’ve started to mind that their house is three times the size of mine, and our house is three times as shabby. I rub at a speck of dried mud on my coat and ring the bell.

Mrs Carter opens the door. She’s wearing a pale pink sweater and her nail polish matches, and she looks so pretty and put-together, I feel homesick for the woman my mother used to be.

‘Hello Brinley, how lovely to see you. How’s your mother, dear?’

‘She’s getting better,’ I say. ‘Is Shannon in?’

Mrs Carter’s face clouds over and she leans forward, conspiratorial. ‘She’s a bit upset, dear. An accident at the hairdressers. Perhaps you can cheer her up.’

She takes my coat and I leave my trainers by the front door. As I climb the stairs, Mrs Carter lines them up until they’re perfectly straight. In my house, no one cares if you’re wearing shoes or not. That’s probably why the floors are so dirty.

Sara’s bedroom door is open so I know they’re not in there. I knock hard twice on Shannon’s door, then tap twice and then repeat the whole thing. I’m supposed to do it three times, but it takes too long. We’re a bit old for secret codes, but Sara likes it, and we indulge her.

Sara opens the door. From the look on her face, I can tell something is terribly wrong. When I glimpse Shannon, I know exactly what it is.

But I’m careful. I’ve learned not to react, even though no hairdresser would have left my friend in this state. I don’t ask questions because Shannon never asks questions about my mother and father, and that’s the way I like it. Instead, I ask for a pair of scissors.

Sara runs to the bathroom to get them while I persuade Shannon to sit on her dressing table stool.

‘What are you doing?’ she says, her eyes, fearful, meeting mine in the mirror.

I raise my eyebrows in what is supposed to be a comical fashion, trying to make her smile, anything to rid her face of its dead expression. ‘Remember what Mum did before she got ill?’

‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ she says.

‘I’m your best friend, aren’t I? Trust me.’