I hate you. That’s the last thing I said to you.

I can’t move my mouth. But I’m telling you I don’t hate you. I love you, Mummy. Mum? Are you still there? I need to tell you…

I’m in my bedroom. I know when this is! It’s today, this morning. I’m going to meet Ollie in, like, an hour. I’m trying on outfits. My phone is ringing. Emily’s rosy apple face is on the screen.

Hi, Emily.

Hello there, dear. Lovely out, isn’t it? A real corker.

Dunno. I’ve not been out yet.

Quite right. What kind of teenager worth their salt is even out of bed at this ungodly hour, n’est-ce pas? She chuckles, and I laugh too because she is such a wally. I love her but she’s pretty batshit, to be honest, and I really want to look nice for Ollie so I’m like:

I’m going out in a minute, Emily.

Right you are! I hope he’s handsome! More chuckles. Batshit on speed, no word of a lie. Why do old people always assume you’re going to meet your boyfriend… sweetheart in old language. Well now, I’ll be brief. The reason I’m phoning is that I was wondering if you feel ready for another audition? I don’t want to rush you, but remember we talked about trying to get on top of this nasty nervous sicky business.

I’m not sure, I say. My mum’s been saying we should think about leaving it for a while, until I’m older.

Yes, yes, dear. Of course, it’s up to you. I’ll drop the notes over anyway and you can see how you feel. Are you in today?

I’ll be in this afternoon. I know you’ll make me be back by then. Because psycho Mum.

Jolly good. Now, off you go and I’ll catch up with you later, all right? Just have a think about it and let me know what you decide. Toodle-oo for now.

OK, I say. Bye, Emily.

---

You’re in the kitchen. Yeah, this is defo today. I’m wearing my black skinny jeans with rips and my Docs and my white crop top with a kiwi fruit on it. I’m coming to tell you that Emily’s going to bring some notes over later, even though I know you’ll tell me off for the top. I bought it online and you won’t like it ’cos it shows my belly, but all of my friends wear tops like this, literally all of them, and they haven’t even got sick abs like mine. I’m about to tell you but then you freak out on me. I’m trying to tell you something, I’m trying to talk to you – you know, communicate? And you start going on about Naomi even though we’ve already arranged all that and you’re not listening. As usual.

I hate you. I only say it because that’s how I feel in that moment. I love you even when I hate you. You’re my mum, for flip’s sake. But you’re doing my head in, and I’ve had enough. I just want to meet my boyfriend. I don’t care about you and your fussing and who’s a flake and who’s not.

I’m sorry for saying that now.

I’m so sorry, Mum.

And I’m sorry for telling you to F off, obvs – that was way harsh.

But… even that’s not the big thing. There’s something bigger and the shame of it is making me feel sick. What have I done, Mummy? Why can’t I remember? What have I done?

On the bus, I start to feel bad that I haven’t told you about Ollie. I’ve wanted to. But I want to meet him so badly, Mummy. I want to meet him more than I want to tell you. I want a bit of life that’s mine – do you get that? If I’d told you I was meeting an older boy, you so would have stopped me. I haven’t even told Auntie Bridge because I was worried she’d tell you. And Mum? If you’d seen him, you’d have seen that he’s so fun and so hot. I’m in love with him, Mummy. I’m in total, deep love with him.

But there’s something bad in my gut and it has to do with him, I can feel it. I’ve done something worse than all the lying. Something worse than telling you I hate you or even telling you to F off. But I can’t figure it out. It’s here on the edge of the soup; it’s down in the dark water, floating in the weeds. It’s got something to do with the back of the van. The smell in my nose and the tape on my mouth. And the smell of baking. And the van door opening and the light. And the figure… Auntie Bridge? But that doesn’t make sense with this fear that fills up my insides every time I remember it. It’s something, it’s someone, but it’s not Ollie. It can’t be Ollie. I can see Ollie, I can, but it’s not… it’s not… it’s only a photograph.

I’m getting near the bad thing. I’m coming up, Mummy. I can see light above the soup water. The weeds are clearing. My mouth opens but my heart blocks my throat. I can’t scream. There is no sound. I am covered in sweat. Sweat in my hair. It runs down the sides of my head, my body. I am in the café. I am at the counter. The girl is putting cups on the shelf behind the till. It is 11.25 a.m. There is a smell of coffee and bacon. It’s coming. The bad thing is coming towards me. My body fills with heat.

‘Decided to give him another chance, eh?’

I swing round. The bald man from last week is in the window seat. His newspaper is on the table and he is pouring his tea. He looks up as if it wasn’t him who spoke just now, but I know it was. I recognised his voice. The light bounces off his dirty glasses. Outside a red bus thunders past.

I glance away, willing the girl on the till to stop putting cups on the shelf and look at me. Look at me look at me look at me… The heat in my body gets hotter. A line of sweat runs down the side of my forehead.

The girl stops doing the cups and turns to me.

Hello, she says in her accent. Hot chocolate? She smiles; this means she remembers me from last week. I wish I knew her better. I wish she was my friend. If she was my friend I would say, Help me.

Yes, I say. Thank you.

Take seat. I bring.

OK.

It is OK. It is OK because it’s broad daylight. There are lots of people around and this time Ollie knows which café I’m in. Ollie knows where I am. He will save me. He knows me. He loves me.

I go and sit at the back of the café on the other side of the bar. It is as far away as possible from the baldy man. I know he’s just, like, some lonely old man who thinks he’s being friendly, but I don’t want him to talk to me. There are nice leather sofa seats here and a low coffee table. I can’t see the man from where I’m sitting. Even if he’s a total perv, it’s not like he can, like, pull me into a van and drive off with me from here, is it? But my heart is beating fast.

Hot chocolate. The Polish girl smiles at me as she puts my drink on the table.

Thank you, I say.

She walks away before I can say any more – before I can say, Help me.

The sweat dries on my face. I rub at the sides of my eyes and it flakes off, soft and salty. I lick it from my fingers. I go to check my phone. It’s not in my bomber-jacket pocket. I open my rucksack and root around. My purse, my iPod Shuffle, a packet of tissues, half a packet of cherry menthol chewing gum, my lip salve. Where is my iPhone? Where is it?

I was going to put it in my bag but then I saw it needed to go on charge, and after Emily called I left it there because it was only, like, sixty per cent. After our fight, I ran out of the house. I grabbed my bag from the hook and I ran because I knew you’d never catch me. I thought my phone was in my bag. But it wasn’t – it was still on charge.

Shit.

My phone is in my room.

It’s in my room on my desk. I left it there when I went to talk to you in the kitchen. I was going to go back. I wasn’t planning to run out. But you didn’t listen to me. You were going on about Naomi. And then I ran out. I grabbed my bag and I ran out. It’s your fault I don’t have my phone.

Where do you think he’s got to, eh?

The baldy man is standing at my table. His newspaper is folded under his arm. He is wearing pale jeans and his shoes are black leather and they look like those special comfortable shoes that old people wear. He still has little whitish dots of what looks like dried milk on his glasses.

He’s on his way, I reply. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t look at him. I just want him to go away.

You look hot, he says. It is awfully hot in here, isn’t it? We should go outside and wait for this fellow of yours. We could wait in the park.

We. Park. What?

It’s OK. I’m OK, thanks. My hot chocolate is a weird shade of brown, almost purple. I blow on it and it ripples like old skin.

Are you sure you don’t want to take the air? I could wait with you until lover boy gets here.

Lover boy. Gross. Where is the girl? I can hear the steamer heating up the milk. Where is the other girl? The one with the blue hair? I can’t speak.

I’ll join you here if you don’t mind. No fun being lonely, is it? He sits next to me on the sofa. I can feel the heat from his body. I can smell the grease on the thin strands of his hair, the oil on his skin. His leg is almost touching my leg. He pats my thigh and says, Ollie won’t be long.

My heart is in my throat. There is a buzz in my ears. How does he…

Hello, Sexy Lady. His voice is lighter, higher, younger. It is a voice I recognise.

Who are you?

He laughs, leans in close to me. Don’t you know? I’m Ollie.