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saying something.’ There’s a muffled, scratchy pause, as if Dad has the phone pressed into his jumper. I stop rummaging. I can just about hear Nancy’s voice in the background – she’s saying something about ‘understanding’ and ‘best do it now’.

       Do what now?

      But before I can work it out, Dad is back on the line.

      ‘Just let me know when suits you, sweetheart. I know how busy you are.’

      ‘Dad?’ I ask, and then hesitate.

      ‘What is it, Georgie?’

      ‘Err, it’s … oh no, don’t worry, it’s nothing.’ I bite my lip.

      ‘OK. But you know you can talk to me. I’m always here for you.’

      ‘I know Dad.’ My voice softens. It’s lovely having him back in my life. ‘Well, there was something – I was just wondering if we could visit Mum’s grave some time.’

      ‘Of course, sweetheart. That would be wonderful. We can make a day of it. Go for lunch or a stroll along the promenade, if the weather isn’t too chilly, that is, just like we used to when you were a little girl. Do you remember? Mum used to make banana sandwiches and we’d eat them on the benches next to the pier, and drink cans of ginger beer before devouring those massive Mr Whippy ice creams with chocolate flakes on from the van. And you never see those ice-cream vans any more.’

      ‘Yes. I remember. Mum used to say that when the music was playing it meant the man had run out of lollies, and then spoil it all by laughing, so I always knew she was joking.’

      ‘But you still fell for it every time, if only for a couple of seconds,’ he says, sounding animated and light. And for some reason, tears sting in my eyes. I wonder what Mum would have thought of me being on the telly. Proud, I reckon, and it’s such a shame she’s missing out. Mum was always a little in awe of anyone out of the ordinary. It was my thirteenth birthday not long before she died, and the nurses in the hospital organised a little party; they even invited someone from the local football team to turn up and give me a teddy bear – Mum went all fan-girl. I chew the inside of my cheek as a horrible, immature thought pops into my head. I hope Dad doesn’t invite Nancy along on our day out. I quickly shove the thought away – I like Nancy and it’s nice that Dad has met her.

      We say our goodbyes and the bus reaches my stop.

      After closing the door to my flat, I unzip the boots (the wardrobe woman said I could keep them, which I’m thrilled about) and stow them carefully on my shoe rack. They’re beautiful, extra-soft purple suede with little tassels down the side, and most likely cost a fortune. I place the Carrington’s bag from Princess Ameerah on the hall table; inside is a divine Louis wallet in a beautiful seasonal berry colour with cream detailing. I thought I might give it to Sam as a Christmas present. I could get her initials put onto it. I’m just hanging my coat up, when my mobile rings again. This time it’s Sam.

      ‘Georgie! I’m sorry,’ she says, sounding worried.

      ‘What for?’ I ask, making my way into the kitchen. I’m starving.

      ‘For not saying I’d be there this morning, or warn you that Dan Kilby had been roped in. I only found out very late last night – Kelly called me herself and made me promise to keep it a secret; she wanted you to be surprised. Something about it being more authentic, you know, when they filmed your face on seeing that Dan was your surprise date.’

      ‘Oh don’t worry about it. It was pretty exciting and a fantastic distraction from thinking about you know who,’ I laugh.

      ‘And what about Mary Berry?’ Sam is practically hyperventilating, she’s that excited. ‘She’s like my idol. In fact, scrap that, I actually want to be her – she’s that amazing. Kelly arranged for her to come and film a Christmas cupcake masterclass in the café, I think they’re showing it in the next episode. She was just so lovely and shared some baking secrets with me – we even had a chuckle about the best ways to avoid the dreaded ‘soggy bottom’ when baking pastry. And there’s even talk of me being involved in a special celebrity series of the Great British Bake Off.’

      ‘Wow! As a judge?’

      ‘I don’t know. Or maybe a contestant – nothing has been agreed … ’

      ‘That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you,’ I say, knowing one of Sam’s dreams just came true. Right there.

      ‘Thanks, hun. Anyway, I tried calling as soon as Kelly hung up last night, there was no way I was keeping it from you.’ She pauses for breath. ‘I left a voicemail, but could tell from your face you hadn’t got it when you turned up at the café.’

      ‘Oh, you know what the signal is like in my flat. It’ll probably arrive next week or something,’ I say, feeling relieved. I had thought it a bit odd that Sam hadn’t said she’d be there, let alone keep Mary Berry and Dan Kilby a secret, but it’s not the end of the world. Besides, I’m hardly in a position to take offence: we usually tell each other everything, but that didn’t stop me from keeping my passionate night with Tom a secret. A sudden rush of longing engulfs me. After balancing the phone in the crook of my neck, I pull open a Terry’s chocolate orange (buy one get two free – I have fifteen) and stuff two segments into my mouth.

      ‘As long as you’re OK. Where did you rush off to after?’ Sam asks.

      ‘Oooh, hang on a sec,’ I reply, in between chewing and swallowing. ‘Sorry about that.’ I lick melted chocolate off my fingers. ‘Kelly rushed me back to the shop floor to do a couple of publicity shots behind my counter – to send out to all the magazines and newspapers. Apparently, she’s had enquiries from tabloids wanting to interview me and FHM have even asked about a bikini photoshoot.’

      ‘Wow, how exciting. Are you going to do it?’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘Why the hesitation?’

      ‘Everything’s changing so quickly. I’m already in some online magazine linked with Dan. What if they airbrush my clothes off and flog naked pictures of me to a dodgy men’s mag, for the curvy girls’ page,’ I sniff, letting my inner drama queen run riot with my imagination. I’ve read about stuff that happens to celebrities – leaked sex tapes, kiss-and-tell stories. Even fake pictures. And it’s not just celebrities: Kate and Will can’t even sunbathe in private!

      ‘I bet you’d look glorious,’ she immediately replies, not missing a beat.

      ‘Aw, thanks for the cheerleading, but I’d rather not appear naked in a magazine with a Carrington’s carrier bag or whatever covering my Aunty Mary.’ I shudder at the thought, and Sam giggles.

      ‘Totes agree,’ she says, before pausing and then adding, ‘They wouldn’t really do that, would they?’

      ‘No, probably not – just my feeble attempt at a joke. Besides, I definitely didn’t see a clause about getting naked in my employment contract, but hey … you never know; anything seems to go these days.’

      ‘Sounds to me like you might need a manager, someone to look after that side of things.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Absolutely. I know Kelly seems to be passing some amazing opportunities your way, but she also has her own interests to look after.’

      ‘I guess so, don’t suppose you managed to get a number for Claire?’ I laugh. Talk about mad – I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation with my best friend. It’s as if I’ve stepped onto a massive rollercoaster and now can’t decide if I want to ride on it or not. I love the goody bags, the freebies (shoes, clothes, makeovers, etc.), the magazine column, which I’ve written and emailed to Hannah (after sampling every single item in the goody bag, all of which were divine, the Asos stash too). But the online article that Dad saw before I had a chance to, has really unnerved me. Makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. And maybe I shouldn’t

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