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because she didn’t think the postcode was fashionable enough, so she persuaded Dad to take out another mortgage and buy her one somewhere else. Patricia insisted it was to allow Ruby, Mia and me to remain living at home but the truth was Patricia felt she deserved to live in a posh flat with thick carpets, expensive floral wallpaper and an SW7 postcode. She was the wife of an ambassador, after all, even if she spent most of her time in London. She visited Buenos Aires every couple of months and Dad flew back for the odd meeting, but they spent such long stretches of time apart I used to wonder how their relationship was a success. Over the years, I’d realized it thrived precisely because of the long periods away. If they lived together full-time, one of them would have murdered the other. Patricia was the highly strung neurotic who made everyone take their shoes off when visiting her flat; Dad was the stable rudder. She wanted a husband who could afford her weekly haircuts and dinners in expensive restaurants; he needed a woman willing to be the diplomatic wife when she did visit. Patricia never minded cutting the ribbon at the opening of a new textile factory or chatting up the wife of the soybean magnate. The South Kensington flat was stuffed with official photographs taken at these events.

      Anyway, ever since Patricia moved out, boyfriends had arrived at our house more often than the postman. They were mostly Ruby’s but, before Hugo, Mia’s hit rate had also been high and I’d often come downstairs in the morning to find men called Rupert or Jeremy hunting for tea bags in the kitchen. The only man who made it into my room was ginger, had four legs and was called Marmalade – my 17-year-old cat.

      ‘But we do worry about you,’ breezed on Patricia, ‘so what I’ve decided is that you should go and see this woman I read about in the hairdresser in Posh! magazine – she’s got a funny name. Gwendolyn something. A love coach. Or guru. Can’t remember which. But apparently she’s brilliant.’

      I squinted across the table. ‘A love coach? What do you mean?’

      ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, darling. Think of her like a therapist but for relationships. You go along, talk to her about your situation and what you’re looking for, and she helps you work out all your funny little issues.’

      ‘What. Do. You. Mean?’ I repeated slowly, enunciating each word.

      ‘I just think it must be a bit lonely at your age, still being on your own when your sisters are getting married. Sort of… unnatural.’

      ‘Mum, hang on,’ interjected Ruby. ‘I’m not getting marr—’

      Patricia held a hand up in the air, signalling that she wasn’t finished. ‘Don’t you want to meet someone, darling?’ she said, leaning towards me. ‘Don’t you want to find a lovely chap like Hugo and settle down?’

      I looked at Hugo, who was repeatedly running his index finger across his plate to mop up his steak juice, then sticking it in his mouth.

      ‘Patricia,’ I started, ‘it’s the twenty-first century. Single women aren’t illegal. We can drive cars, we can vote. We can own property. We can play in premiership football teams and…’ I paused, trying to think of more, ‘we can do whatever we like with our own body hair. We can dress how we like. And we can have sex with ourselves, if we like, no man necessary—’

      ‘Goodness, Florence, let’s not descend to vulgarities,’ replied Patricia, puckering her lips as if she’d just sucked a battery.

      But I was building to a crescendo and enjoying myself: ‘—basically, we can do whatever the hell we like and we certainly don’t have to have a boyfriend just because other people say so.’

      I leant back in my chair and glared defiantly at her, but Patricia was like a whack-a-mole you couldn’t kill.

      ‘Darling,’ she replied, cocking her head to one side. ‘Always so resistant. What if this lady can help you?’

      ‘I don’t need help!’ I replied, although I sounded squeakier than intended, so I swallowed and started again. ‘What I mean is that I’m happy as things are and I don’t need to see a mad old bat with a pack of tarot cards.’

      ‘It all sounds very above board. She has an office on Harley Street.’

      ‘Oh, Harley Street! That settles it. She’s got to be legit if she’s on Harley Street.’

      ‘Florence, come on, you’re being very silly about this. All I was offering was a session with someone who might be able to help you think about things in a different way.’ Patricia paused and reached for her wine glass. ‘Your father thinks it’s a good idea. He does so worry about you.’

      I wasn’t sure what was more humiliating: being told to go and see a love coach or the thought of Dad discussing my relationship status with Patricia.

      I dropped my head and muttered into my chest.

      ‘What’s that?’ asked Patricia.

      ‘Nothing,’ I replied, snapping my head up. ‘Fine, if you and Dad think it’s a good idea then I will go along for a session. One session, so long as we never have to talk about my relationship status in this family ever again. Deal?’

      ‘That’s the spirit,’ said my stepmother, one of her claws reaching across the table to pat my hand. ‘I’ll fix up an appointment. My treat. It’ll make your father so happy.’

      ‘I think it’s a good idea,’ added Mia. ‘Come on, Flo, surely you don’t want to be on your own for ever?’

      ‘She might be helpful,’ echoed Ruby, looking at me sympathetically. It was the way you’d look at someone who’d just been told they had a terminal disease and three days to live.

      Hugo was still mopping steak juice with his finger.

      God, my family.

      ‘Fine,’ I repeated, picking up another chip and jabbing it in the air at them like a knife. ‘But if I go, you all have to remember what I said tonight – we’re never ever discussing my love life as a group activity again.’

      ‘All right, all right, Germaine Greer,’ said Mia, ‘keep your hair on. Now, can we chat dates for wedding dress shopping? Since you two are bridesmaids, I want you in the same thing. I was thinking coral?’

      So I was right about the bridesmaid dress being sick-coloured.

      It was bright the next morning, the sun already warming the attic, so I got out of bed and stood in front of my full-length mirror, naked apart from my pants, to gauge how fat I was feeling. I knew I wasn’t really fat. Not fat fat. But I examined my stomach in the mirror every morning anyway. Bloated? Not bloated? I poked my belly with a finger and slumped so it bulged out beneath my tummy button, then straightened again. I cast my eyes down over my thighs (I wished they were smaller), upwards towards my chest (I wished it was bigger) and then ran a hand through my hair which hung in no discernible style to just below my shoulders. I had to straighten it every time I washed it, otherwise it frizzed out, making me look like a spaniel.

      I showered and returned to my bedroom. From the hanging cupboard, I retrieved one of four pairs of identical navy trousers from Uniqlo. From my tops drawer, I took out and unfolded a navy T-shirt. I laid them on my bed and returned to my chest of drawers for a pair of ironed and folded black knickers, peeled from a neat row, plus a bra. I dressed, tied my hair up in its usual ponytail and made my bed.

      ‘Let’s go, pal,’ I said to Marmalade, scooping him up and counting the stairs in my head as we went down – two, four, six, eight, ten, two, four, six, eight, nine, ten, two, four, six, eight, ten.

      I put two slices of bread in the toaster for breakfast: toast with honey, one cup of coffee. After that, I’d make lunch. This, too, was always the same: a cheese and tomato sandwich with butter and pickle, which had always gone pleasantly soggy by 1 p.m., and a piece of flapjack from a batch I made every Sunday afternoon.

      I was bad with change. Didn’t like it. So

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