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ago.’

      ‘I’m not arguing with that,’ he said. ‘This bathroom is disgusting. You’re going to have to make a decision about something and soon. I’m not showering in here again.’

      Wrapped in my not-really-big-enough towel, I opened the bathroom door, trying to keep my vagina covered, and gave the rubber duck my best side eye.

      ‘Duly noted,’ I replied. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      ‘Hello?’

      Somewhere on Parsons Green high street, en route to meet Paige on a shoot, I found the courage to call my mother. But my mother didn’t answer. Even though their voices were almost identical, I knew at once it was my younger sister, the eternally put-upon middle child, Mel.

      ‘All right,’ I said with a cough. ‘It’s Tess.’

      ‘Well.’

      The ability to put that much weight behind that one word was a skill she had learned from our mother. I only got the boobs and the hair; Mel had inherited the whole passive-aggressive package.

      ‘Is Mum there?’ I was trying to keep my voice light in the hope that they had all forgotten me storming out of the house two weeks ago. Of course, it would have made more sense to hope I would bear witness to the second coming of Jesus but still, it was nice to be an optimist.

      ‘She is.’ She quickly switched to a yell that was entirely unnecessary given the size of my mother’s house. ‘Mum! It’s Tess!’

      ‘And what does Tess want?’ I heard Mum yell back.

      ‘She wants to know what you want,’ Mel relayed faithfully.

      ‘Can I just speak to her, please?’ I asked. My tolerance levels were dropping with every passing second. ‘It’ll be quicker.’

      ‘I’m very well, thanks for asking,’ she said. I had not caught my favourite sister in a good mood. ‘She says she wants to speak to you!’

      ‘Maybe I don’t want to speak to her,’ Mum replied, sounding very pleased with herself. ‘I haven’t forgotten what she said when she walked out of this house.’

      ‘She says—’

      ‘I heard what she bloody said.’ I cut Mel off before she could finish, wondering whether it wouldn’t be easier to just throw myself off the Westway and hope a passing bus was there to finish me off. ‘And I haven’t forgotten. I’m sorry for losing my temper and I shouldn’t have walked out without explaining what was going on but I was upset.’

      ‘She says she’s really sorry and she shouldn’t have walked out.’

      ‘That’s not exactly what I said, is it? Put her on the bloody phone, Mel.’

      ‘Don’t swear at your sister,’ my mum said, finally on the line without an interpreter. ‘You’re not in the position to be calling my house and being all high and mighty.’

      I closed my eyes and rubbed the spot in the middle of my forehead that felt a tiny bit like it might actually explode. Still, better an aneurysm than an apology – that was the Brookes motto. Or at least it should be.

      ‘I wasn’t swearing at my sister—’

      ‘Yes, you were. I’ve got ears, you know.’

      Breathe, Tess, breathe.

      ‘I didn’t mean to,’ I corrected myself. ‘How are you?’

      ‘As if you’re bothered,’ Mum huffed audibly down the phone. ‘After that scene you caused.’

      The scene she was referring to wasn’t so much ‘a scene I had caused’ as a scene caused by my sisters hanging me out to dry by telling my mother I had lost my job at Donovan & Dunning, at which point she had chucked a glass of red wine across the room and got into a screaming row with Amy. In the middle of a christening. Amy had of course diffused the situation by climbing onto a table and holding the baby aloft while singing The Circle of Life. Amy was wonderful.

      ‘And you’re the one who walked out and said you were never coming back.’

      It was good to know she’d run everything through her own filter and come up with her own version of events. History was written by the winner. The winners and their mums.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as calmly as possible. There was no point in getting into another row; the only thing that would work here was blanket apologies. ‘I didn’t mean it. I was being stupid.’

      ‘Yes, you were.’ Clearly not enough apologies yet. ‘You sounded like you were off your head. Charlie says you’re not doing the heroin, though.’

      And if Charlie said so, it must be true. The only person who had had a bigger crush on Charlie for the last decade was my mum. Mostly, it only manifested itself in overly maternal smothering when he went with me to visit, but I always felt a bit bad for my stepdad whenever she started pawing my best friend. Poor, lovely Brian. Patience of a saint, that man has.

      ‘I’m not doing heroin, I was just made redundant,’ I explained, the words still sticking in my throat. Me. Redundant. Bleurgh. ‘And it wasn’t only me, the whole company went under, so it wasn’t anything I did.’

      ‘There’s no need to be defensive,’ Mum sniffed. ‘No one said it was your fault.’

      Another historical revision: that was exactly what she had said. Loudly, while throwing wine glasses around at a christening.

      ‘Hang on, if the company has gone under, what is Charlie doing?’

      Deep, cleansing breaths.

      ‘Charlie is fine, Mum,’ I said. She was practically hyperventilating on the end of the line. ‘He’s setting up his own agency. We’re actually talking about doing it together.’

      ‘Oh, Tess!’ And just like that, her tone of voice altered completely. ‘Your own business? With Charlie? Well, that sounds like a very good idea. Would he be your boss, then?’

      ‘No, Mum, we’d be partners,’ I said as calmly as possible. Why had I called her again? Was I worried that my inevitable stroke wasn’t coming on quick enough? ‘He would run the client side and I would do the creative.’

      ‘I’m sure Charlie knows what he’s doing,’ she said, entirely turned around. ‘Mel, have you heard this? Charlie is starting his own advertising agency and giving Tess a job. She’s going to be the head of his creative.’

      I heard some approving, disinterested noises in the background and decided it was time to wrap things up while I was, relatively speaking, ahead.

      ‘OK, that’s really all I called for,’ I started. ‘To say sorry and—’

      ‘You should both come for Sunday dinner,’ Mum declared, cutting me off mid-escape. ‘You should drive up and tell me all about it.’

      ‘I can’t Sunday.’ Oh, there was that throbbing in the forehead again. I stopped short on the edge of the pavement to let the number 85 bus go by.

      ‘And why not?’ she asked.

      ‘I won’t be here,’ I said, wondering whether or not throwing myself under the number 85 bus might not have been a bit easier than having this conversation.

      ‘Not here? What does that mean?’

      Don’t tell her about Milan, don’t tell her about Milan, don’t tell her about Milan …

      ‘I’m going to Milan.’

      Oh, fuck me.

      ‘What are you going to Milan for?’ Mum shrieked so loudly that even the nice old lady coming out of Costa could hear her. ‘You haven’t got time to be gallivanting around on holiday when Charlie’s trying to start a business.’

      ‘I’m actually going for work,’

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