‘Visited the war zone, so to speak?’ says my mother. She sounds unsure.

I plough on regardless. ‘But it was really scary, so I… well… I…’ Bugger – when did I start stuttering? ‘Ran away.’ Issie tuts like a budgie. ‘But once I knew the war zone was real, really real, I found it impossible to ignore. Marrying Josh would be a halfway measure, like sending food parcels.’

‘You want to be a foot soldier rather than part of the Red Cross,’ says my mum. She still doesn’t sound confident. Hearing her repeat it back to me like that, I realize how bizarre my analogy is. So I try something more conventional.

‘I am so sorry that I’m going to hurt Josh. But don’t you see? It would be much worse marrying him when I don’t feel about him the way he does about me.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ says Issie. ‘That was my point all the way along.’

‘Darren makes jokes funnier if he laughs at them and he makes the room more homely when he enters it. He makes water cleaner, nights blacker and stars brighter if he notices them. I hadn’t wanted to admit that love existed, that I’d made such a monumental, disastrous misjudgement. But I have to, because I love him. Even when I’m asleep.’ At this point it seems a genuine possibility that foreign tongues have possessed me.

‘I, I, fucking I. That’s all we ever hear from you, Cas. What about thinking about someone else for a change?’

I stumble backwards, nearly overwhelmed by the power of Issie’s words. She rarely swears and never says fuck.

‘First you hurt Darren by just walking away from him, then you pick him back up when you feel like it—’

‘It isn’t like that, it’s—’

She waves her hands in front of her, cutting through my objections. Imagine Issie’s little, skinny hands being so powerful and effective.

‘You are so selfish.’ She’s on her feet now and pacing around the room. ‘OK, so you believe in love now – let’s have a party!’ She stamps her foot and with anyone else I’d have been tempted to laugh, but since this fury is coming from Issie and directed towards me, all I can do is listen.

‘No, on second thoughts, let’s not. Let’s examine your ridiculous behaviour instead.’ I think I prefer the first option, but then I don’t think this is a genuine choice situation. I listen to Issie as she begins to list my crimes against humanity. The way she explains it, it appears that I have more in common with Imelda Marcos than a love of shoes. ‘… The horrible way you’ve treated your countless lovers. The stupid destructiveness of Sex with an Ex and finally your selfish, fucking, engagement to Josh.’ With each accusation Issie raises her voice a decibel. I fully expect the people in the flat above to bang on the floor and ask us to keep the noise down.

My insides are raw. I want to tell her that I wasn’t awful to all my lovers and anyway most of them didn’t really expect anything too laudable. I want to tell her that the show saved jobs. I want to tell her that I love her and Josh and never meant to hurt either of them. But all these arguments seem hollow and pointless. She’s heard them before. She was never that impressed. Anyway she’s gone.

The door bangs behind her.

I turn to my mother. ‘Do you think she was disappointed because she’s not going to be bridesmaid next week?’

‘Don’t joke about it, Jocasta,’ replies my mother sternly. ‘You always rush to hide pain in jokes and it comes across badly.’ Subdued, I follow her through to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

‘We can always depend on you to have champagne in the fridge,’ she comments. ‘I’ve always thought that is so stylish of you.’

‘Have you?’ I’m so stunned I’m momentarily diverted from pondering Issie’s outburst. I’d always assumed that Mum thought champagne was decadent. The only bottles my mum keeps in the fridge are brown sauce and tomato ketchup. My initial surprise is superseded by the fact that my mother expertly opens the champers and pours it into the glasses without spilling a drop. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mum open champagne in my life.

‘Do you think Issie’s right?’ I want to know where I stand, but I’m not sure how much more straight talking I can take.

‘Yes,’ replies my mum, without taking her eyes off the drink she’s pouring.

‘Oh.’ We both silently watch the bubbles fizz and then settle, and I wonder if I’m going to have any friends left, if I get through this at all.

‘What are we celebrating?’ I ask apprehensively.

‘It’s not quite as simple as that, is it? I mean we could raise a glass to your new engagement but that would seem rather insensitive towards Josh. Poor boy.’

I stare at my shoes. ‘If only I could turn the clock back.’

‘You can’t. Ever,’ states Mum. And as if to prove her point I notice that the only sound in the kitchen is the clock ticking. Then in a kinder voice she adds, ‘But do you know something? I’m proud of you.’

‘Proud of me?’ I can’t believe it.

‘Yes. You’ve recovered. You aren’t letting your father ruin your life.’

‘Like he did yours, you mean,’ I mutter glumly. I really don’t want to be reminded of my father right now. All too clearly, I remember the innumerable occasions when my mother moaned and grumbled about him. I received the subliminal message loud and clear: men are bastards.

Not all of them. I remind myself.

Expecting an onslaught of bitter regret and fury from my mother, I cling to the thought as though it were a shield. Not all of them.

‘He didn’t ruin mine, darling. I have a lovely life. Bob and I are very comfortable with one another.’

‘Bob?’ I’m amazed. Surely her life is dished. Why else would it be so quiet? Except of course if she likes it that way.

‘Yes, Bob.’ She smiles and doesn’t elaborate. Thank God. I’ve had enough monumental shocks and surprises in the past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime. I’ve discovered I’m capable of loving. I’ve learnt Darren loves me and revealed that I love him too. I’ve got engaged. Again. I’ve heard Issie say fuck. I’ve seen my mother open a bottle of champagne. I could not stand knowing that she has a sex life.

‘I’m proud of you for falling irrationally and uncontrollably in love. I didn’t know if you’d ever have the grit to do it. I thought your father and I had denied you that on top of everything else.’ She pauses and then adds, ‘Well done, Cas!’ I think she’s going to slap me on the back but she hugs me. It’s a small, tight hug – not exactly the huge grasping to the huge bosom that you see in movies, but then my mother hasn’t got a huge bosom.

It’s the best hug I’ve ever received.

We pull apart and grin at one another. I think I’ve just come first in the egg and spoon race. I must have because my mother is every bit the proud parent.

‘Issie,’ I groan.

‘Don’t worry too much about Issie, she’ll come round eventually. She’s too kind not to want to see it from your point of view,’ smiles Mum. Then she adds, in a tone I’m much more used to hearing from her, ‘Not that you should dismiss what she said – it was spot on. You have a lot of bridges to mend and maybe some of them will never be repaired.’

I can’t bear to think about that.

‘Now come and tell me some more about Darren. When will I get to meet him? Don’t forget to bring that bottle of champers.’ She takes my hand and leads me to the sitting room.

Mum sits on the settee and I sit next to her. We while away the early evening with chatter about Darren and, more shockingly, Bob. I tell her the big things that make Darren wonderful and some of the small things too.

‘He raises his eyebrow and it is sooo sexy. And he kind of ruffles his hair in a boyish way.’

‘Bob does that too. Not that he has much hair. Which does, I suppose, encumber the effect.’ We laugh. ‘Maybe you and Darren would like to have tea with Bob and me on Sunday.’

I think of a compromise. ‘Or we could all go to a restaurant.’

She sees it as that and meets me. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. We can get dressed up. Make it a bit special.’

At some point I ease down the settee and find myself half slumped, half draped across Mum. My head is on her lap and she’s playing with my hair. She runs her fingers over my scalp. I have Darren. I have Mum. I am as safe and as loved as a child.

Buuuuzzzzzzzz.

‘Wonder who that can be,’ I mutter, annoyed that my bonding time with my mother is being so rudely unglued.

Buuuuzzzzzzzz.

‘Are you expecting anyone?’ asks Mum.

‘No.’ I drag myself towards the intercom but before I open the door it opens from the outside and Issie falls through it. She’s fumbling with her keys and mobile and handbag, which she drops, scattering tissues, money and make-up everywhere. I’m thrilled to see her.

‘Put the TV on,’ screams Issie. She’s tense and still angry, which incites her to forcefully yell, ‘Now. TV6.’ Yesterday this sudden boldness would have been unusual; now the unexpected is all that seems available. I do as she says.

I hear a familiar theme tune.

‘Sex with an Ex? But the series is over.’

Issie shushes me.

‘Hello. Thank you very much and welcome,’ says Katie Hunt as she bounds on to the stage. Her tits are trembling and, to make the job of the close-up camera easier, her shirt is unbuttoned one more button than necessary. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, have I got a treat for you!’ She winks cheekily, the way I taught her to.

Issie hands me a gin and tonic, which I take unquestioningly. I see that she’s poured Mum a sherry.

‘Tonight we are featuring our very own “voice of our generation”, only days before her wedding. We are going to see if she’s ready to say “from this day forward”, or is it a case of “from this lay forward”. The audience erupts into loud oohs and phwas. ‘Our celeb was given the opportunity to appear on the show but has declined, so instead we’ll meet her fiancé, Joshua Dixon. A big hand, ladies and gentlemen.’