The only websites she ever visits are craft suppliers, cooking stores, and gadget sites. She watches EastEnders, she manages Farrs, she goes to her Zumba class; that’s it. Sometimes I’ve suggested that she take a trip abroad or visit a country-house spa. But she gives me this kind little smile and says, “That’s for other people, love.”

As for another man, forget it. She hasn’t looked at another man or been on a single date since Dad died. She says he’s still with her and she still talks to him and she doesn’t need anyone else. When Jake once tried to sign her up to some “silver years” dating site, she got quite angry, which is unlike her.

“Jake, you make the coffee for Mum,” says Nicole. “Where’s Leila?”

“I sent her off to buy some more beer,” replies Jake, whereupon I have a sudden image of poor Leila lugging ten crates of beer along the street in her skinny arms. And I wasn’t going to ask, but before I can stop them the words spill out:

“Is Ryan here?”

My voice is husky and I flush as everyone turns to look at me. I would never have mentioned Ryan—but I suddenly got worried he might appear in the kitchen. I’ve still got pipe water all over my hair and I’m wearing my work jeans and basically I’d have to hide in the fridge.

“Not yet.” Jake runs his eyes over me. “Jeez, is that your party look? Drowned weasel?” At once Nicole bursts into laughter.

“Oh God, Fixie, you do look like a drowned weasel.”

“A ceiling fell on me!” I say defensively. “It wasn’t my fault!”

“Darling, you go up and take a shower and you’ll look lovely,” says Mum in that soothing way she has. Soothing with an edge of steel, enough to warn off Jake and Nicole.

Mum’s like one of those dressage riders on TV. She changes her voice an iota and we all obey her instantly, like trained Olympic horses. Even Jake.

“Are you OK, Fixie?” asks Nicole, looking abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“Fixie, I didn’t mean it,” says Jake. “You go and get ready. Take your time. I’ll hold the fort here.”

He sounds so charming, I’m mollified. Jake can be really nice when he wants to.

“OK.” I pick up my bag of hair clips. “I’ll go and have a shower. Mum, why don’t you come up too now? We could pick out an outfit for you.”

“In a moment,” says Mum absently as she shapes another peony.

I’ll be in a better position to chivvy Mum into her party clothes when I’m ready myself, I decide. I sprint upstairs, rip off my damp jeans and T-shirt, and quickly take a shower in our tiny old-fashioned cubicle.

I haven’t always lived at home—I shared with Hannah for a while. She bought a flat in Hammersmith and said I had to live there too and she would subsidize the rent with her ridiculously large salary. But then she and Tim got more serious and I felt awkward, lurking around every evening.

Then my company went bust and everything had to change, anyway. Mum was the one who said, “Lots of girls your age are still at home, love,” and made me feel OK about moving back for a while. To be honest, I was just really grateful to have that option.

I stand on the landing to dry my hair, wrapped in a towel, because there’s more space and a big mirror. And I’m pausing between blasts when a sound catches my attention from downstairs. It’s Jake, talking.

Our house isn’t huge, and the walls and floors are pretty thin. So although I can’t hear exactly what Jake is saying in the kitchen, I can pick up on how he’s saying it. He’s talking on and on, and nobody’s interrupting him, and I suddenly feel suspicious. I hurry downstairs, still in my towel, and now I can hear Jake properly, saying in his smoothest drawl, “As I say, it’s an amazing opportunity, and the oil tastes out of this world. But I don’t want to bother you with the details, Mum; you’re busy enough. So shall I just put in an order? Ten bottles?”

What?

I’m breathing furiously as I reach the bottom of the stairs. He deliberately got me out of the way; he deliberately chose a moment when Mum was distracted …

Shit. I’ve dropped my towel.

I hastily wrap it around myself again and approach the kitchen.

“Mum!” As I burst in, my chest is rising and falling. “About this olive oil …” The ravens are flapping around me, but I’m trying desperately to ignore them. “I’ve already talked to Jake, and I … I really don’t think …”

Oh God, my voice has gone wobbly again. My courage has disintegrated. I loathe myself.

“It’s nothing to do with you, Fixie,” says Jake, glowering at me.

“Yes, it is.” I glare back at him.

“Jake. Fixie.” Mum’s calm voice cuts through the atmosphere. “You know I’d never order a new product without seeing the details. Show me, Jake.”

“It’s your party!” Jake is obviously trying to sound jovial. “You don’t want to see all that right now—”

“I do, love,” she says pleasantly. “Hand it over.”

“Right. OK,” says Jake at last. He hands Mum a sheaf of papers and we both stand waiting while she flicks through them. I see her reach the price list and I see her eyes snap in shock.

“Too expensive, love,” she says, and hands the papers back to Jake. “Way too expensive. Not for us.”

“They’re aspirational,” begins Jake. “They’re a different kind of product.” But Mum shakes her head.

“Our aspirational is a bottle of edible glitter. Not this.”

“Mum, don’t set your sights so low,” says Jake cajolingly. “People buy this kind of stuff! They really do. At Harrods—”

“Maybe they sell all sorts at Harrods,” Mum cuts him off calmly. “But put olive oil on our shelves for a hundred pounds and it won’t just not sell, it’ll upset people. It’ll offend them.”

Now she says it, I realize she’s right. I can see Vanessa striding through the shop, brandishing a bottle, saying, “You’re charging a hundred pounds for this? That’s daylight robbery!”

“But—”

“No, Jake.” Mum interrupts him as crisply as she did when he was ten and using grown-up bad words. “Enough. My answer’s no. Your dad would have said the same.”

When Mum invokes Dad, that really is the end of the discussion. Jake shoots me a look, as though this is all my fault, but I don’t care. I just feel relieved. And foolish. How did I ever think that Jake would hoodwink Mum? She’s Mum. She runs the ship.

“I’ll go and finish my hair,” I say, and Mum looks up. She runs her eyes up and down me and I don’t know what she sees, but she suddenly gives me one of her special, warm, encouraging smiles.

Whenever Mum smiles, lines appear all over her face. They stretch like sunrays from her eyes; they score her cheeks and mark out her forehead in deep creases. Grief brought extra lines to her face. I saw it happen. And maybe some people think the lines are ugly, but I see love and life in every one of them.

“Why don’t you ask Nicole to do it with her special curler?” she says, and shoots Nicole a look.

“Oh,” says Nicole indifferently, looking up from her phone. “OK, fine, I’ll do it. Come upstairs.”

I know Mum wishes that Nicole and I were closer. She’d love us to be “there for each other,” like sisters in movies: hugging and confiding in each other and all that.

I mean, I try to be close to Nicole. I do. But it’s a bit like oil trying to be close to water. We just don’t take.

“And, Jake,” says Mum, as he reaches into the fridge for a beer, “before you have that, could you help me arrange these cupcakes? Mind you don’t mess up the icing, though.”

“Right,” says Jake, looking unenthusiastic as he puts down the beer, and I hide a smile. No one else could get Jake to put off drinking beer in order to arrange cupcakes. But then, no one else is Mum.


Five

Nicole’s room is like an Instagram page come to life. Everywhere you look there’s a photo of her, or a poster with a saying on it, or some styled accessory. I linger by the black-and-white montage of her wedding pictures and yet again sigh inwardly at how effortlessly lovely she is. What is it like to wake up every morning and be Nicole?

In all the photos, Drew is gazing at Nicole as though he can’t believe his luck. He’s tall and nice-looking, with thick brown hair and a frank, open face—but he’s not in Nicole’s league, looks-wise. Even his mum would admit that. I turn to the shot that they sent out with their thank-you cards. They’re under a tree and Drew looks besotted, while Nicole looks …

Well. Affectionate. She definitely looks affectionate.

I’ve never really got a handle on Nicole’s relationship with Drew, but then, that’s Nicole. She doesn’t talk about stuff. She doesn’t confide in anyone, even Mum. If anyone confronts her or tries to dig deeper, she just slides away and changes the subject or looks blank.

She met Drew through a friend, and at first he was going to help her with a new digital lifestyle company. He used to come over and they’d get quite animated about it and we’d all make suggestions. Then Nicole went off the idea, but by that time they were going out together, and then, fairly soon, they were engaged. I think Mum was concerned it was too quick—but on the other hand, Drew seemed nice and stable and well meaning … and the wedding was amazing.

I turn away from the montage and look at some new cushions on the bed. They’ve all got embroidered slogans, like Love Yourself and Me Time and a big one which says, You can’t pour from an empty cup: Take care of yourself first.

Nicole is lighting a series of scented candles in glasses, and they’ve got slogans printed on them too: Love. Spirit. Compassion.

“I’m all about compassion right now,” says Nicole seriously, following my gaze. “Compassion feeds the soul. Compassion is what makes us human.”