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to the UK out of my meagre bank account. Flight prices in December were obscene. I had a better chance of someone lending me a private jet. Actually, Erin’s husband had a private jet. Maybe if I got really drunk, I could forget I was English and ask for a quick borrow.

      ‘You don’t need to come back for this – I’ll see you when I see you,’ he replied. ‘Really, I had something I shouldn’t have and, like your mum said, I had a funny turn. I’m fine.’

      ‘You’re allergic to something? Might I be allergic to something?’ Obviously, I was very concerned for his well-being. And a little bit about mine. ‘What was it?’

      ‘I don’t think you need to worry, really. You’re fine, love. Now, when are you coming to see us? Your mother is still insisting on buying the world’s biggest bloody turkey in case you decide to grace us with your presence for Christmas dinner.’

      Hmm. Was it me or was he being weird?

      ‘Dad?’

      ‘Angela?’

      ‘What did you eat at Auntie Sheila’s that put you in hospital?’

      ‘We were just having a nice night in with Sheila and George and your Uncle John and Aunt Maureen came over,’ he explained slowly. ‘And, well, your Aunt Maureen had made some special cakes. For a laugh.’

      ‘Special cakes?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘For a laugh?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Dad …’ It took a very long time for me to understand what he was saying. And then just as long again for me to accept it. ‘Were you and Mum doing space cakes?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Oh dear God.’

      The desire to go home and nurse my poor old dad to health transformed into a desire to go home and slap my stupid old dad around the head whilst tutting at my mother and shaking my head in disappointment.

      When I was seventeen, my mum marched into Gareth Altman’s eighteenth birthday party, saw me standing next to Briony Jones, who was holding an unlit hand-rolled cigarette, and shrieked, ‘Angela Clark, I will not have a drug user in my house!’, then dragged me out by my borrowed Radiohead T-shirt. Which was subsequently thrown out because they were a ‘druggy band’. Explaining this to my then boyfriend was a bit tricky, but we were seventeen and the promise of a hand-job cured all. If only life was still so simple: I’d have a green card by now.

      ‘So let me get this straight. You’re in hospital because you ate too many space cakes and overdosed on marijuana?’ I just wanted to be clear.

      ‘I know, I know,’ he giggled. Brilliant. He was still high. ‘You’d think it was the Seventies.’

      ‘Dad, you know we don’t discuss anything that happened before I was born,’ I reminded him. As far as I was concerned, my parents came into existence in the early Eighties, my mother already pregnant with me and my father just a lovely, middle-aged Ken doll. They didn’t have sex and they certainly didn’t do drugs. He was really killing my champagne buzz. I was not beyond seeing the irony in that. ‘Just get lots of rest and I’ll call you tomorrow. When we will discuss the concept of “Just Say No”.’

      ‘Your mother wants to say goodnight,’ he said, giving me a huge yawn and ignoring my sanctimonious tone. It was a shame, really, because if I was being honest, I was quite enjoying it. ‘Call tomorrow, love.’

      Even though my mum couldn’t see me, I took a moment to put on my best ‘Would you like to explain yourself to me, young lady’ face.

      ‘So, I’ve got to let your Auntie Sheila know if you’re going to be back for Boxing Day dinner at hers, because she’s buying the beef next week and needs to know.’

      I was actually quite impressed at her attempt to get on with business as usual.

      ‘And obviously she’ll want to know how much weed to score,’ I added. ‘For dessert.’

      ‘Oh, very funny, Angela.’

      ‘Or will we be going straight on to the crack, what with it being Christmas?’

      ‘Angela, are you coming home or not? I’m sick of asking.’

      ‘I can’t.’ I tried to say it without whining, but it was difficult. ‘The flights are so expensive. Next year, I promise.’

      I didn’t feel like explaining that next year I could be back for good. She didn’t deserve a shot of Schadenfreude: she would just love to hear all about my general failure as a human. I hadn’t been entirely honest with my parents about my professional status for the last few months, and by ‘not entirely honest’, I mean I’d been flat-out lying.

      ‘Oh, Angela Clark, you worry me sick,’ she moaned. ‘All the way out there, no money, spending Christmas on your own.’

      ‘I’m not on my own,’ I replied. ‘And I’m not broke.’ Only half of that was a lie. Pretty good going for a conversation with my mother.

      ‘Of course, this boyfriend of yours. When are we going to be meeting him? Is he back from gallivanting around the world without you?’

      ‘He was on tour, and you’ll meet him when you meet him,’ I said. The sound of Jenny shrieking in the other room reminded me I wasn’t in the middle of a very odd Nineties anti-drug after-school special but actually at a party. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m at Jenny’s – we’re having a Christmas party. Without any drugs.’

      There was no way I could know that statement was true.

      ‘Fine, you go off and have your party and I’ll sit in the hospital with your father. Don’t worry about us.’

      I paused and counted to ten before I spoke. ‘He’s not dying, Mother, he’s as high as a kite.’

      ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Love to Jenny.’

      And she hung up.

      I looked out at the busy Manhattan street below me. How was it that my father was in hospital after having an adverse reaction to a vast quantity of an illegal substance of which my mother had also partaken, and yet I was the one being made to feel like the irresponsible teenager? I watched someone come out of Scottie’s diner across the street and my stomach rumbled. Brilliant. I had sympathy munchies.

      Only ten minutes in real time had passed since I’d left the room, but that equated to about three hours in party time. There were at least another dozen people squished into the front room, perching on windowsills and poking their heads into the fridge, and no one was where I had left them. Instead of finding my lovely friend, my wonderful boyfriend and his regrettable band mate on the sofa, it was populated by some very drunk male models and the man who swept the lobby every other morning. He seemed to be enjoying the male models. Who knew? The apartment wasn’t big enough for me to lose anyone, so if they weren’t in the front room and they weren’t in the kitchen, that left the bathroom or my old bedroom. Sure enough, while the rest of the flat was overrun with beautiful strangers, my old bedroom was populated with all of my friends. Erin and her husband, Thomas, Vanessa, Sigge, Alex and Jenny were all draped across the bed, laughing like loons. It was a fairly wonderful sight.

      ‘What did I miss?’ I asked, forcing my way into the throng. Everyone shuffled up and rolled around until we all had our own bit of bed. ‘Why are we in here?’

      ‘Because I just remembered I hate everyone I invited,’ Jenny said with delight in her eyes. ‘So we’re hiding.’

      ‘In that case, I propose we go over the road and get some chips – I’m starving,’ I said, resting my head against Alex’s chest and trying not to purr as he ran his hand through my hair. ‘I just talked to my mum and dad. Booze won’t be enough – it’s time to bring out the big guns.’

      ‘Ooh, I want a chilli

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