“So you were a mum at eleven, eh? That’s the only age that won’t make me feel ancient.”

We all laughed. Ben’s arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me into him. Having him there, with Jessica, with my parents, this merging of my past and present felt so...right, so long overdue. Thank God I’d taken this second chance with her.

“Do you want to see a picture of Bridget?” Jessica reached into her clutch bag, and brought out the latest model of iPhone, only been out two weeks. “Or will that send you over the edge?”

Dad laughed. “Oh go on then.”

Both my parents peered at the screen, Dad applying his glasses, as they took in a snap of Jessica’s extraordinary daughter.

“Oh my,” my dad said, awkwardly. “She’s umm...very striking looking.”

Jessica caught my eye and I rolled mine back, getting it.

“She’s ridiculous,” Jessica said. “We came up to London to the Natural History Museum during half term, and I got approached by three model scouts.”

“She’s a looker, that’s for sure,” Mum said. “But then, that’s no surprise. You were quite the knockout as a young girl, I remember. Fern was always so jealous.”

“Mum!”

“What? It was years ago.”

My arms crossed into my teenage hunch, but Ben laughed, smoothing everything over. “You should’ve seen my acne when I was a teenager,” he said. “I was jealous of my little sister, even though she was only seven.” He pulled me further into him, while Jessica attempted to hide a small smile, one I tried not to let annoy me.

I felt someone tapping my shoulder, and jumped around, stunned to see a group of earnest young millennials staring at me.

“Excuse me, Fern?” one at the front said, wearing a giant pair of hipster owl glasses.

“Umm, yes?”

“Yeah. Sorry to bother you, but can you...sign this piece of paper for me?”

My mouth fell open and I twisted back to my guests, asking their permission, and they all beamed and fluttered me away with their hands. Jessica showed my parents more photos while I shepherded my crowd over to a table clogged with empty plastic wineglasses. The air buzzed with postshow positive feedback, a collective sense of belonging and being seen, as groomed women around us queued for glasses of white wine and their chance to meet Dr. Petra.

“OK, wow. I wasn’t expecting to do a signing,” I told the owl glasses girl, still taken aback. “Umm, do you have a pen?”

She plucked one out of her bag. “Thanks so much. Tonight was great.”

“Well, I was just the chair,” I said. “What’s your name, by the way?” I balanced her scrap of paper on my knee.

“Jessica.”