On the way to Saph’s you’re like, That was nonsense before, by the way. Auntie Bridge was only teasing. Sapphire & Steel was a show from the eighties, and Saph’s older than your auntie Bridge so she can’t possibly have been named after that Sapphire.

Maybe it’s Sapphire like the actual jewel?

Most probably. Actually, the daughter in Ab Fab was called Saffy, wasn’t she? But I don’t know what that was supposed to be short for. Anyway, I think your auntie Bridge’s Saph played drums for The Bangles once, so that’s her claim to fame.

Who are The Bangles?

You laugh and shake your head. Never mind.

Saph is The Promise’s drummer, obvs. She’s a photographer too, and she also makes this leather jewellery with silver on it for shops all over Britain. Until this day, the day of the headshot, I’ve only seen her on stage and said hello to her, but I’ve never talked to her properly. She is so cool even though she is old, and when she opens the door I feel myself go bright red.

Hey, babe, look at you. Her long grey hair is so straight and shiny the light bounces off it. She tucks a lock behind one ear. The top of her ear is pierced with a silver hoop with a tiny butterfly on it. You ready to look beautiful?

Me with a cherry face. I wish she would stop looking at me. I’m like, Er, no, I… Not sure.

Come in, come in, babe. Let’s sort you out.

You’re all, Hi, Saph. So lovely to see you, it’s been ages. How are you?

I can tell you want to come in just by your body language; we do loads of work on body language in drama. You’re leaning towards her and that means you like her and you’d like to stay. If you wanted to go you’d be backing away. Maybe you’d have your palms up.

I’ll see you later, Mum, I say, in a nice voice. But my hands become fists and you tilt your head a bit and back off. I can tell by your smile that I’ve hurt your feelings. Your smile is like one I would do if I took a hockey ball to the shin and it killed but I didn’t want to admit it. I’m sorry, thinking about that now. You came all the way to the door with me and then I brushed you off.

All right then. You have this weird, cheerful voice. I’ll be back in, what, an hour, Saph?

Sure. Saph’s pushing back her shiny hair. No rush, hon. Actually, give us a couple of hours, yeah? She’s safe with me, aren’t you, babe?

I giggle. My cheeks have gone hot again. So embarrassing.

I don’t even wait for you to get into the car before I go inside. I don’t wait and I don’t wave you off. I pretend to forget. I can see myself now on Saph’s front step, as if I’m someone else. The way I turn away, the way I step into Saph’s house and let her close the door. The way I leave you behind.

That was mean, I think. I’m sorry.

Saph chats to me for, like, twenty-five minutes, without even taking a single picture! She makes me this cool tea. I can’t remember what it’s called but it’s not PG Tips or even Earl Grey. I think it’s called red bush but she says it another way – something like roebuck, like the pub on Richmond Hill. That’s probably so she doesn’t have to go around saying red bush all the time because hello? Rude!

So how long have you been acting? She’s setting up this umbrella-dome-satellite-dish thing in the corner of the living room. Bridge tells me you’re really talented. Sorry I missed you in Little Red, Bridge said you were amazing. You’re very pretty when you smile, do you know that? You have a really lovely aura and your hair is amazing. I’m so jealous of your hair.

No way, I’m jealous of your hair! I so don’t say because that would be lame.

Saph talking to me is like having a spotlight on me. It doesn’t burn my eyes but even so I can’t look at it. I can’t look at Saph. She is too cool. On stage, I’ve seen her wear these hippyish clothes, like she’s wearing today: a pink maxi skirt with silver patterns on and big black biker boots like Auntie Bridge wears and a cream-coloured peasant top with pink and peacock-green embroidery on it and plaited cotton strings at the neck, and on her fingers she wears loads of silver rings, and I wish I could be like her. That’s why I can’t look straight at her – because I want to be her so much. Well, be her but my age version? I don’t want her to look at my clothes – they are so boring. Skinny jeans and a T-shirt. So conventional. When I’m older, I’ll go to second-hand markets and buy cool second-hand stuff and put loads of plants on my windowsills like Saph has and hang loads of different pictures on the walls of all the plays and TV stuff I’ll be in.

I will be way less conventional.

Are you OK, Rosie babe? The tea OK?

Oh yes. Thanks. Tea’s nice.

It’s not – it’s rank. But I can’t say that. I think I have fallen in love with Saph except I don’t want to, like, kiss her or anything. That would be gross.

She makes me laugh while she takes the photos.

Think of the most annoying boy in your year.

Urgh.

Now pretend he’s asked you out on a date.

Oh my God, no!

OK, think of a hot boy in your year. The hottest.

I think of Ollie. I think of all the photos of him, how his hair flops over one eye, how his teeth are all even and white. My face is probably radioactive by now. Thank God no one can see my thoughts. I laugh with Saph and feel my face go even hotter. I bet I look gross. I bet I’ve got a big fat cherry head. I bet the concealer on the zits on my forehead has worn off.

Snap snap. Snap snap snap.

She has a thing called a light meter, which she makes me hold under my chin. Her drum kit is in the opposite corner. After the photos are finished, she lets me have a go on it. It’s awesome – so loud. Then she plays the drum opening for ‘Middle of the Road’ by The Pretenders and I say I know it because Auntie Bridge is a Chrissie Hynde nut, and she says, Yes, I know, she is. I take a photo with my phone for Instagram. Then I get back on the drums again and ask Saph to take one.

Later, I put it on Instagram: Me on the drums at Saph’s #thepromise.

Ollie likes it. He comments: Looking cool, rock chick.

Which is a bit lame, but I don’t care.

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Saph sends the pictures through a week later. Normally, clients can only have three, she puts in the email, but she sends, like, twenty or something and says we can use whichever we want. We will have to put them on a USB stick and get them printed at Boots or somewhere, save on costs. She says she doesn’t want paying for the shoot.

You’re all teary. That’s so kind of her, you say. She’s basically done that for free. And she’s got to make a living just like the rest of us. We’ll have to think of a gift for her. Honestly, Rosie, the less people have, the more generous they are.

You always say that last bit: The less people have, the more generous they are.

You are generous, Mum. You are kind. Even though things are tight for us, you always make sure I have what I need and most of what I want. I do know that. I do appreciate it. I wish you would get yourself some new things sometimes. You never buy new clothes or shoes, and your boots went out of fashion in, like, Tudor times, LOL. I’ve got an iPhone and you’ve got an old, crap phone. You haven’t even got a laptop and you know Auntie Bridge would get you one – she’s always offering.

Anyway, on the pictures, Saph made me look much more beautiful than I am in real life. She made my eyes bluer, my freckles cuter, my hair richer. She made my skin glow. I thought I’d have a bright red face but no, it was kind of lit up and peachy.

Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf? I say when I see those photos for real. Not me!

This is the next day when we pick up the actual physical pictures from Boots in Kingston, and you want to look at them properly, straight away, so we go across the courtyard to Caffè Nerd. It’s Caffè Nero obvs but we call it Caffè Nerd because that’s what the sign looks like and that made us laugh once and then it stuck.

Hot chocolate? you ask.

Actually could I have a cappuccino?

Your face, like I’ve said something confusing. A cappuccino? Since when did you like coffee?

Since… I don’t know. Not a big deal, is it?

No, of course not. Just didn’t realise, that’s all.

You give me your card to go and order while you get us a table. I carry the drinks over. You are still flicking through the photos even though there are only three.

You’re so like your daddy. Your eyes are wet.

I look Irish. I hope you’re not going to start crying – what if someone I know comes in?

Irish, yes, you say. He had that Celtic charm, did your dad. He was from Cork – you know that, don’t you? And he was so funny. He adored you.

I know. I know. And I know.

You press your nose to mine, and your eyes go all fuzzy because we are so close. I know you know and you know and you know.

I know you know I know and I know and I know.

You’re silly.

You’re sillier.

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That night, I make one of the photos my Facebook profile pic. Later I check it to see how many likes it’s got: 146, which isn’t even all that many for some people, but it is for me, and loads of my friends have commented. All of them are really nice, apart from Zac, this lad in my year, who has written Sket, which means slag or whatever. But he’s a weirdo and no one likes him.

After that, I change my Instagram profile pic to my favourite headshot. A second later, Ollie comments: Beautiful.

That’s so quick, I think. As if he’s been waiting.