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CHAPTER SEVEN

… normal.

Obviously, now I am. Aren’t I? But I was not a normal child. I had a sort of … dark side. I wasn’t born with it. One day the darkness descended and before I knew it, that’s who I was: someone who preferred to hide away in the shadows. Nowhere was this more noticeable than in the framed photographs that decorated the corridor of my family’s home. On the wall, you could see my football-fanatic brother scoring goals, celebrating with team mates and waving his club scarf at away games. My teen-model sister was pictured (professionally) frolicking in paddling pools or through sprinklers for leading homestore retailers or leaping off a diving board for travel brochures. There is no photographic record of me after I hit double figures. I avoided cameras.

Obviously, my parents were not oblivious to my downward spiral but they dealt with it in different ways. My father said nothing. My mother asked Jesus to help me. (As in the Son of God – our local GP was not an immigrant Mexican.) She encouraged me to pray as well … up at the jagged crack in the ceiling of my bedroom, which according to her had been created by God with a thunder bolt to create a clear pathway of communication to Heaven. Clearly, all the crap that was stored in the loft kept getting in the way of my prayers, because my mood did not improve. So then – on advice from her church group – my mother screwed a full-length mirror to the wall, on the opposite side to the other one that was already there. They thought it may help if I could look at myself from a different perspective. But it only gave me a new angle from which to question myself. … And now I could see exactly why Kate Summers thought she had all the answers.

After the second mirror was installed, no matter where I stood in my bedroom I was reflected, so being horizontal was key. I would get under the duvet on my bed and place my hands straight down my sides, in an attempt to make myself as invisible as possible. I used to lie there for hours and hours and hours; day and night, in exactly the same position. But one day – not long after finishing school for good – I woke up to find my hands placed across my chest, not down by my sides as they usually would be. It was as if I was about to be buried. My bed had become a coffin, my bedroom was a morgue. I could see myself lying there. I still can. I was dead. Yeah, I know, I know … I told you … dark side! Anyway, I left home that day. Ironically, the next time I saw any of my family again was actually at a funeral.

I hear voices coming from the corridor.

‘You know as well as I do we’ve had worse freakin’ bull to deal with than this,’ says Barb. ‘It won’t take too much to get him back on top. Maxy isn’t just a ripped torso with a twinkle in his eye … he’s got talent.’

‘He’s also bloody temperamental and testing my patience.’ A flat male voice that I don’t recognise interjects. ‘Look, Silver, like I’ve always said: I certainly don’t give a singular monkey’s bollock whether Fry is respected. To misquote that bell-end in Jerry Maguire, “Show me the sodding money!” All I am asking you to do is make him popular and bankable again and fast. It’s getting ridiculous. Your face has had more work than Fry has over the last year. I don’t care if they spit his name at the Royal Shakespeare Company as long as every sad female singleton wants to screw him, every moronic alpha male wants to be him and he delivers the wonga. Now, where’s this waitress?’

Barb appears at the kitchen door with a sharply dressed man in a grey suit with a silk striped shirt and matching tie. His thick blond hair is swept back to show off an angular although not entirely unattractive face. He marches over to me.

‘Nicholas Van Smythe,’ he says, flashing a set of brilliant white veneered teeth. ‘Fry’s agent, visionary, evil overlord … depending on which rag you read.’ He kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Pleasure, darling.’

‘Hi,’ I stand up. ‘I’m Viv—’

He interrupts me. ‘Not to worry, darling, there’s only one thing I’m worse at than remembering names and that’s small talk, so I won’t bother with that either. Silver and I have got a proposal for you.’

Barb motions at me to sit back down at the kitchen table. ‘We thought we’d have some fun, kiddo. The Great British Youth Awards, sponsored by News Today, take place at lunchtime on Saturday. Usual drill: a bunch of adolescents who have fought against the odds get to go up on stage in a top London hotel to receive a trophy from a celebrity and the editor of News Today. The ceremony raises money for a children’s charity, is broadcast live and the paper always does a huge pull-out in the Sunday News. It’s a good marketing tool … it makes the celebrities look more sympathetic to their fans and the editor more sympathetic to his readers. Everyone’s a freakin’ winner.’

‘Except the courageous youngsters, of course,’ laughs Nicholas. ‘Who get to experience the charmed life of the rich and famous for just a few precious hours, before being herded on the early-evening train back to their insignificant lives in some depressing backwater of the UK.’

‘Really? There was me thinking everyone stayed in touch after those sort of events,’ I say sarcastically.

Nicholas smirks at me. ‘I think we all know that the whole point of celebrity charity work is to get recognised for it, not to do it on the quiet so you don’t get anything out of it for yourself. There’s a reason why Madonna takes a full sodding camera crew to Malawi; free children and additional downloads. I jest! I love that old crone. She’s an icon.’ He taps the table. ‘Let’s get to the point, Silver.’

‘So, kiddo,’ she continues, ‘we’ve decided to throw an olive branch to News Today after all the recent hoo-ha in Clint’s Big Column, by getting Maxy to present an award at their ceremony. It’ll be a good coup for them, what with it being Maxy’s first public appearance since rehab, and of course, if you came too we could show everyone that …’

‘… despite what happened,’ I continue for her, ‘Maximilian and I are great mates. Maybe even inspire Clint to write a little piece on what great mates we now are. Do you really think people are that gullible?’

‘The readers of News Today and the Sunday News are,’ confirms Barb, her voice thickening. ‘But, kiddo, this isn’t all about Maxy. It would be a nice little bit of exposure for you and that acting work you were telling me about. I don’t know what kind of performer you are – you could be shit or you could be shit hot, but either way no one is going to find out unless you get some roles. You’re not getting them at the moment because no one has a freakin’ clue who you are. In this day and age there is no such thing as a lucky break, everything is engineered by a relentless PR machine. Hype is everything. Silver’s Golden Rule Number Forty-three: There’s no such thing as a squirrel … he’s just a rat with a better tail and a good publicist.’

‘She’s right,’ adds Nicholas, twisting the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘No offence, darling, but at your age you need all the help you can get. As far as the industry is concerned, as a woman in her mid-thirties—’

‘I’m only thirty-four.’

He smirks again. ‘As I said, mid-thirties … your career is pretty much finito. This is a good offer. We’re not asking you to snog some reality TV chump at a suburban nightclub, we’re asking you to attend a top-flight awards show at a five-star hotel with the Maximilian Fry …’ Clearly, this is how they all refer to him.

With perfect timing, Maximilian walks into the kitchen pulling a grey hooded sweatshirt over his head. I can tell that the top is fashionably distressed, i.e. it’s brand new but looks as if it has been damaged whilst the owner was engaging in some kind of heavy-going manual labour. (Not like Luke’s one that looks that way because he has been doing precisely that.) Maximilian gets another water bottle out of the fridge and swigs it back without looking directly at me. The expression on his face is exactly as it was when I arrived.

‘Come on, kiddo. It’ll be fun …’ pushes Barb.

‘Not for me,’ I tell her. ‘Rubbing shoulders with celebrities is not everyone’s idea of a perfect day out.’ She looks confused, as I expected. ‘Anyone who works in show business always finds this hard to believe. I mean, most of you assume any normal member of the public would sell a kidney to catch a glimpse of Kristen Stewart buying acne wash in Sephora, but it really isn’t the case. Besides, I see enough famous faces at work so when—’

Nicholas butts in and stands up. ‘Look, I don’t want to hear the labour pains, darling, I just want to see the baby. If you’re not up for it, fine. Obviously, this is the pro-active go-get-’ em attitude that has resulted in you clearing dirty dishes off restaurant tables at thirty-four years old.’

I look across at Maximilian and wonder whether he will apologise on his agent’s behalf, but he is concentrating on peeling off the label from his water bottle. Arsehole. Suddenly, I find myself thinking about the scene at the very end of The Simple Truth where Jack Chase leaves the exquisite Arabian princess (who is also a spy and a professor of metaphysical engineering) he has been shagging. By this point, the two characters have escaped from the desert and are back at the ornate Persian palace owned by the now-dead leader of the rebels who was also the princess’s husband. After a steamy session in her four-poster bed with the silk curtains billowing in the breeze as per movie-set-in-a-dust-bowl standard, Jack Chase waits until the princess is asleep, slips out the window and shins down the side of the building, onto his next adventure. When the princess wakes up at dawn, she touches the pillow next to her, realises Jack has gone for good and then smiles. She smiles. This is a woman who has betrayed her own people, committed adultery, got her husband killed, lost her job – and at one point nearly her right leg – all for some bloke. Who has now deserted her. But is she pissed off? Does she immediately get on the phone to a girlfriend and have a good moan about the chaos-causing non-committal tosspot? No, she walks over to the window and stares into the horizon all gooey-eyed … because he is Jack Chase. Well, I’m not such a sap.

I stand up too. ‘Actually, for your information, I don’t remove any plates. That is the waitress’s job. I’m a hostess, so technically my role is to look after the cust—’

But suddenly, I stop. My hands become clammy and my heart races. This can happen in the aftermath of a minor flashback. What Maximilian said pings back into my head. Until you know your truth … who you really are, you can’t pretend to be someone else. I look up, and consider attempting to continue what I was saying … but I don’t bother. I know when I’ve lost an audience. Even I don’t want to hear what I have to say.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Losing an audience is also a familiar feeling for every one of the thirty-something females hovering around at the East London studio, waiting to be seen by the casting director and producers for the Surf Shack audition. I recognise nearly all of them. For over a decade we have been competing against each other for the same parts. In chronological order these have ranged from sassy graduate to sexy love interest to wise-cracking singleton to office gossip and now (gulp!) trendy mum. Much further along the line, woman of the people (with some sort of all-consuming job in the federal civil service) will be up for grabs, then plucky divorcee rebuilding life. The thought of getting to the stage where we are vying for the role of crime-solving gardening enthusiast makes me shudder.

The atmosphere is exactly the same as it always is on these days, with everyone being pleasant and encouraging to each other. Good-luck hugs and supportive smiles are dished out without being meant in the slightest. I try to bypass the main throng without getting caught up in any chit-chat but am stopped in the hallway by Harriet Morgan. She was at drama school with me and Adele.

‘Vivian … hi!’

‘Oh, hi … how come you’re here?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were still shooting Nurses?’

Harriet plays ‘Angela’, the sensitive doctor with a crush on ‘Danny’ the married night porter. I’ve been in that show before. I was the first victim of a three-way suicide pact. It was a rubbish part – I got the least camera time out of the three corpses because at that point my demise didn’t appear to be part of a bigger plan, merely unfortunate.

Harriet sniffs acridly. ‘I’m being written out. Apparently, Angela can’t handle the pressures of hospital life. She’s going to deal with a horrific RTA at Christmas – drunk driver, natch – then lose confidence and leave to open a beautician’s. Bastards.’

‘That’s such shitty luck.’

I grimace, but I am not feeling too sorry for her. I auditioned for ‘Angela’ too. The casting director asked if I would put on a few pounds for the role. The character needed to appear more ‘comforting’, supposedly. I was extremely annoyed. Why can’t a thin person be seen as sympathetic on the screen? Surely, when you don’t revolve your day around mealtimes, you’re more flexible with the time you can give others? But that’s British TV for you. You wouldn’t get that in the States. Over there, if an actress has a strong stench of a disordered approach to eating and/or exercise about her she’s more likely to smell success.

‘Yeah, really shitty …’ agrees Harriet.

‘Maybe you should go on one of those soap chat-rooms to moan,’ I tell her. ‘Surely, there was far more to come from the Angela/Danny/Danny’s wife plot-line? I for one would adore to see the love triangle reignited after Danny nips into Angie’s Spa for a seaweed wrap.’

She shoots me a withered look. ‘Piss off, Vivian. I don’t think I’m quite ready to laugh about it yet. Nice shiner, by the way.’ She points at the bruise under my eye. ‘I read about your little incident on Perez. Did Fry apologise?’

‘Kind of.’

‘He did it through his agent, you mean. Bastard. Don’t give a fuck, do they?’ (They being our alias for anyone enjoying exceptional standing within the world of entertainment.) She eyes the packet of Marlboro Lights in my bag. ‘God, I’d kill for a fag.’

‘Help yourself.’

‘Nah, I’m crapping myself about wrinkles. Do you think I look older than when you last saw me?’

I pretend to examine her face. ‘Well, you’re hardly Yoda … but I think we both know you haven’t got a portrait up in the attic.’

‘Piss off,’ she says again, laughing. ‘Anyway, I never knew you smoked.’

‘I like to have some on me, just in case …’

‘Of what?’

I shrug. ‘You know, stress.’

‘Yeah, I do know. Agh, I WANT ONE! But it’s a sad fact that no one can get away with puffing cigs at our age. Even Sienna Miller will struggle.’

‘That’s true,’ agrees one of the girls further down the queue who has been ear-wigging our conversation. ‘She’s already got sallow looking.’

‘Mmmm, sort of pasty and “lived in”,’ says another.

‘Oh, stop!’ grins another.

But they carry on, because this is how they kill time before any audition: gunning down Sienna Miller. It’s been like this on the circuit for a long time, and there is no sign of a ceasefire. It may sound a negative thing to do, but actually it has a positive effect on morale for the regulars to have at least one actress they hate more than each other.

I sneak off to the loo, my place of comfort. I’ve always liked toilets. A locked cubicle is a good place to escape the potential uneasiness of any communal area. Once inside, I read through my script one more time. On the last page, I find a message from Luke. He must have written it while I was making his breakfast.

Since I’m not allowed to say anything encouraging about your acting I thought you should know that there are many other areas you excel in. I won’t list these areas in case you stop excelling in them on purpose to wind me up but rest assured, on a scale of one to ten … one being someone with a single niche party talent (e.g., swallowing whole fist or very low limbo-ing) and ten being bonzer across the board, I’d say you’re a nine*. Good luck.

*You lose a point for not being able to swim.

Luke has started to leave me more and more messages like this. He uses them to say the stuff he has realised I am uncomfortable with him saying to my face, i.e. Aussie-isms and slushy stuff. The messages are never texted or emailed; they’re always handwritten on random bits of paper. Given that all other males born at the nineties end of the eighties have fully rejected the concept of communicating through either the medium of handwriting or speaking in favour of tapping a screen … well, it’s quite nice, really.

Prior to Luke, the only ‘secret notes’ I’d ever been written were at school. They would be slipped into my pencil tin, often with an added gift of spit globules, bogeys or pubes. I knew who the perpetrators were and who they were led by. Their leader never ran out of names to call me but never had the guts to sign hers.

I don’t audition for Surf Shack. Twenty minutes after arriving I am on my way back to the Underground; hands clamming up again, heart racing faster. As I walk, I realise Maximilian Fry was wrong about me lacking commitment. I don’t. I am wholly committed to playing one role: ‘me’. The thing is that sometimes leaves me too exhausted to play anyone else.

CHAPTER NINE

Adele is home. I would know this even if her backpack wasn’t sitting in the corridor because I can smell something spicy wafting from the kitchen. She brings back some kind of pungent brew from each trip abroad and can’t wait to tell me the ludicrous myth behind its production, like it was originally ground from the bark of a hallowed oak tree and rubbed on the bleeding feet of Taoist monks during long pilgrimages. But no matter what the mystical back story to the leaves, the finished drink always tastes like piss with a hint of cinnamon.

I drop my keys in the goldfish bowl and creep into my bedroom to get undressed and hide the things I nabbed from Adele’s wardrobe this morning.

‘Vivian, is that you?’ she calls from the bathroom, in her resolutely middle-class Home Counties accent.

‘No, I’m a masked robber with a spare set of keys to the flat,’ I shout, clicking back into ‘me’ mode with ease. (Years of practice.) ‘I’m going to fleece the spare room first, then the lounge. Is that okay?’

‘Fine. Do your worst … as long as you don’t call it the lounge!’

I strip out of the Stella McCartney vest, chuck it under my duvet, kick off the sandals under the bed and manage to pull on Luke’s sweatshirt seconds before she appears in the doorway.

‘… or the living room,’ she says. ‘Repeat after me … sitting room.’

‘It’s been seventeen years, Dels. I think it’s about time you accepted I’m a bit common.’ I smile. ‘Wow, you look fantastic.’

I am not being sycophantic. She has got a post-vacation zing about her; the type that comes from two weeks spent at one with nature and yourself. She is refreshed. Personally, I have never quite grasped the concept of a health-boosting break. If your internal organs aren’t really feeling it, what’s the point? Once, as I was sunbathing on the final day of a heavy trip to Ibiza, Roger told me I looked like that Roswell alien laid out on the autopsy table …

Mind you, except when she’s sunk too much white wine, Adele always looks fresh and expensively demure. Today, her bouncy bracken-coloured curls are neatly held back with a beige silk scarf and she is wearing a white smock top with an ankle-length white tiered skirt. I think it’s all Anna Sui. It’s gypsy chic but done in an off-duty high-powered career-girl kind of way; a look that says more, ‘This cost me a fortune!’ as opposed to, ‘Can I read your fortune?’.

‘Ah, thanks,’ she says, pushing her scarf further back off her forehead. ‘I feel great. Nepal was amazing. Such an intriguing country and the people were so kind and generous.’

‘Good, good … but most importantly did you remember to get me some super-strength sleeping pills that have definitely not been authorised by any medical governing body, during your stopover in Bangkok?’ Adele always manages to get me the strongest downers without prescription in Thailand – presumably the Thai people need easy access to medication like that to help them zone out from the constant flow of gap-year students in Billabong T-shirts called Josh invading their homeland. I rub my hands together. ‘Please, tell me they’re as powerful as that batch you got me at Christmas? They could have felled an ox.’

She grimaces guiltily. ‘I didn’t get any. I’d planned to get them on the way back, but then … well, something happened. I got distracted and totally forg—’

‘Dels! Nooo! I took the last one after going clubbing while you were away assuming you’d replenish my stock.’

‘You shouldn’t take downers after doing uppers, anyway, or vice versa,’ admonishes Adele. ‘You’re asking for a cardiac arrest. If it’s any consolation, I did get you some Napalese black tea. I’m brewing a batch on the stove. It’s good stuff – packed full of antioxidants. In the old days, the villagers in the foothills filled pouches of—’ But then she stops, distracted by something on the floor.

I follow her line of vision to the carpet where one of her gold sandals is sitting. It didn’t quite make it under the bed. Shit.

‘Sorry, Dels, I really needed a pair of smart-ish summer shoes f—’

‘Don’t panic.’ She smiles. ‘Anything else you took whilst I was away? Confess now and we’ll leave it at that. Call it a flatmate amnesty.’

I peer at her suspiciously. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘No repercussions?’

‘You have my word. I won’t even confiscate any of my Aveda products from the shower as punishment, so you won’t have to use your decoy bottles of Pantene.’ She carries on smiling. ‘I do know they are a decoy, by the way.’

Nervously, I peel back my duvet to reveal her Stella McCartney top. ‘It still had the price tag in it.’

‘Again, it’s not an issue,’ she says breezily. ‘Just get it dry-cleaned.’

‘Dels, have you lost the plot? You hate it when I stea … borrow without asking.’ I grab the vest and show her the loose threads. ‘Look, it’s snagged, beyond repair probably, and you haven’t even worn it yet.’ Something else odd occurs to me. ‘Hang on a sec, you haven’t even mentioned Luke’s music equipment littered around the lounge.’

‘Sitting room. Personally, I don’t think he’s left enough. I was hoping to come back and find it rigged up to rival Madison Square Garden.’ She carries on grinning at me as she curls a tendril of hair round her finger.

I step closer to her. ‘And you haven’t told me off for filling the bathroom bin with latex gloves.’ I use them for tanning. Adele always moans that it makes her feel like she is living with a full-timer carer.

‘Sod all of that, Vivian.’ Her eyes are glassy. ‘Something incredible has happened. It’s actually happened …’

‘It has?’

She nods and my chest clenches. Obviously, her membership has been accepted for Shoreditch House. Before mine. For years, she never saw the point in shelling out for any other private clubs as she always came down to Burn’s for free. But just before she met James, Adele panicked that she wasn’t casting her net wide enough to meet Mr Right and filed requests to all the other leading clubs in town.

‘I can’t believe it. But it’s only been six months.’

‘Just over. I know. Crazy, isn’t it?’ She grins, her eyes filling up even more.

‘Congratulations, Dels …’ I reply, stoically, as I try to blank out the image of her plonked on a sunlounger by Shoreditch House’s famous rooftop pool, caipirinha in one hand, Factor-30 suncream in the other. ‘Perfect timing too, now that summer has arrived.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughs. ‘I’ll never have enough time to organise it for this summer. We’ll aim for December at the earliest. Hopefully it will snow. How fab would it be to have a white wedding?’

I cock my head at her. ‘Eh? Who’s getting married?’

‘Earth calling Vivian!’ She shakes her head. ‘Have you not heard anything I’ve said? It’s me. I am getting married. Me! Well, me and James.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Getting married. James asked me to marry him!’

‘Christ! That is such fantastic news! I thought that you had got your … Oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought.’ I rush over to hug her. ‘Dels, that is so amazing. You must be so pleased and …’

‘Shocked, yes. Very. It’s still sinking in.’ She steps back and looks at me. ‘I am engaged, Vivian. Engaged! Can you believe it? After the quagmire of relationship sewage that I’ve waded through – the crap excuses, the cheating turds, the full-of-shit arses on dating websites – I never thought anyone would propose to me.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith. I always knew someone would.’

She bursts out laughing. ‘That is such a whopping lie.’

‘Yeah, I did. Actually, I thought it might happen last year, with oh, you know, that guy who got so pissed during dinner at your parents’ house, your mum came down in the morning and found him asleep in the dog basket. What was he called? He actually sounded as if he could be a dog … ha! Was it Spike?’

‘Rex,’ she says, sounding less amused. ‘Anyway, look at the ring. The ring! My ring!’ She thrusts her left hand about a millimetre away from my face. ‘Look, look, look at it!’

‘I’m looking. I’m looking! That is some rock, Dels. So how did James propose? Did he get down on one knee?’

‘Eventually. But there was a bit of a build-up.’ She grins. ‘He asked me on the final leg of our trek through the Himalayas. Funny thing was I had been in a strop with him that day, because after breakfast he pelted off at a fast pace and left me with the dawdlers. But as dusk came and the peak came into view I could see everyone in the front pack holding up a massive sign with the lyrics of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” followed by MARRY ME, ADELE!’ Then as I made my final climb to the top, James got in position and everyone serenaded me with the whole song. How romantic is that? No prizes for guessing what retro classic I’m walking up the aisle to.’

‘“Smack My Bitch Up” by The Prodigy?’

She punches me in the shoulder a little harder than is necessary. ‘I’m obviously having “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.’

‘I was only mucking about. Come here, you …’ I give her another hug. ‘Congratulations, Dels, you’re getting married!’

‘Yes, I am. I am engaged. I am going to get … maaaaaaaaaarried!’ she screeches, directly into my left ear. ‘Married. Married. Me? Me! Getting MARRIEEEEEEEEEED!’

I jump back. ‘Ouch, volume!’

‘Eek, sorry …’ Her eyes glaze over as she reties her scarf. ‘I guess it’s still sinking in.’

‘Of course, it is. We should go out and celebrate.’

She fans her cheeks with her hands, and watches as her ring glints in the light. ‘Not tonight, James and I are having supper with my parents … to tell them our news. We need to visit James’ foster family too, but they live in Leeds.’ She says this as if it would be more difficult to arrange a couple of days in the North of England than one of her month-long treks across another continent. ‘We’ll have to get something in the diary soon. God, there is so much to organise …’

As Adele chatters away I am distracted by Monday appearing in the doorway. He stares at me in utter bewilderment. Clearly, having heard me get home ten minutes ago he is now wondering why the hell I am not preparing his tea. If he owned a wristwatch he would be tapping it with a single claw. I tell Adele to come and talk to me in the kitchen.

She pads after me. ‘Anyway, if we’re aiming for a Christmas do, I’ll need to step on the gas to arrange everything in time. Twenty-four weeks is nothing.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, Dels. Bob Geldof organised Live Aid in less than that. At least you won’t have the added hassle of trying to perfect the most ambitious international satellite television link-up ever for a global audience of four hundred million.’

‘Very funny. I’m certainly going to need to be focused,’ she says, pouring herself a mug of her stinky brew. ‘On the plane yesterday, I had already come up with the idea of a winter wonderland theme … possibly at Burn’s … Luke could DJ … but we’d also have world music to encapsulate mine and James’ love of travelling … and possibly some sort of tribal entertainment. That was before the cabin crew had finished their safety demonstration. We hadn’t even taken off!’ She giggles, but a little uneasily. ‘Joking aside, Vivian, do you think ethnic drumming whilst canapés are being served is too much?’

I laugh and suck in a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’d be very careful with bongos, Dels. They really are the Nicki Minaj of the percussion world – quite fun for five minutes but they’ll do your head in any longer than that.’ I get a serving of organic goose and venison chunks in gravy out of the cupboard.

‘Ha! Okay, no bongos.’

‘Or children,’ I add. ‘Too distracting, noisy, messy, demanding and unpredictable.’

‘And an added expense.’ Adele nods. ‘Thank you, Vivian. That’s exactly the sort of solid advice I will be needing from my chief – and only – bridesmaid.’

I stop peeling open the sachet. From between my legs, Monday looks up at me and mews, his face a picture of panic and confusion. I stare at the slimy cat food for a few seconds then return to removing the foil and scraping the contents into his bowl. I don’t put it down on the floor, though, because then I will have to turn round and react to what Adele has just said.

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