“Well, let’s do that!” I say eagerly. “Let’s organize a picket! It’d be fun! I could make some banners…”

Jess looks nonplussed.

“A picket of what?”

“Er… I don’t mind! Anything. You’re the guest — you choose!”

Jess is just staring at me in disbelief.

“You don’t just organize pickets. You have to start with the issues. With the environmental concerns. They’re not supposed to be fun.”

“OK,” I say hastily. “Let’s forget the picket. How about if you hadn’t been at the meeting? What would you be doing now? And whatever it is… we’ll do it. Together!”

Jess frowns in thought, and I watch her face with hope. And a sudden curiosity. For the first time I feel like I’m actually going to learn something about my sister.

“I’d probably be doing my accounts,” she says at last. “In fact, I brought them with me, in case I had time.”

Her accounts. On a Friday night. Her accounts.

“Right!” I manage at last. “Fab! Well, then… let’s do our accounts!”

OK. This is fine. This is good.

We’re both sitting in the kitchen, doing our accounts. At least, Jess is doing her accounts. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing.

I’ve written Accounts at the top of a sheet of paper and underlined it twice.

Every so often Jess glances up, and I quickly scribble something down, just to look like I’m into it. So far my page reads:

20 pounds… budget… 200 million pounds… Hello, my name is Becky…

Jess is frowning over a pile of what look like bank statements, leafing backwards and forwards and consulting a small bankbook.

“Is something wrong?” I say sympathetically.

“I’m just tracking down a bit of lost money,” she says. “Maybe it’s in one of my other cashbooks.” She gets up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

As she leaves the kitchen I take a sip of champagne and glance toward the pile of bank statements.

Obviously I’m not going to look at them or anything. They’re Jess’s private property and I respect that. It’s none of my business. None at all. The only thing is, my leg is feeling itchy. It genuinely is. I lean over to scratch it… then casually lean a bit farther… and a bit more… until I can glimpse the bottom figure on the top statement.

£30,002.

I hastily sit up again, nearly knocking over my champagne glass. Thirty thousand pounds? Thirty thousand pounds?

That’s a bigger overdraft than I’ve ever had. Ever!

Now it’s all starting to make sense. It’s falling into place. No wonder she makes her own weights. No wonder she takes her coffee flask everywhere. She’s probably on an economy drive, just like I went on once. She’s probably read Controlling Your Cash by David E. Barton!

God, who would have thought it?

As Jess comes back into the room, I can’t help looking at her with new eyes. She picks up one of her bank statements and sighs heavily — and I feel a sudden wave of affection for her. How many times have I picked up a bank statement and sighed? We’re kindred spirits!

She’s perusing the figures, still looking hassled. Well, no wonder, with a whopping great overdraft like that!

“Hi,” I say, with an understanding smile. “Still trying to track down that bit of money?”

“It must be here somewhere.” She frowns and turns to another statement.

God, maybe the bank’s about to foreclose on her or something. I should give her a few tips.

I lean forward confidingly.

“Banks are a nightmare, aren’t they?”

“They’re useless,” she replies, nodding.

“I sometimes wonder why they give people overdrafts if they’re going to be so unsympathetic…”

“I don’t have an overdraft,” she says, looking puzzled.

“But—”

I stop as her words hit my brain. She doesn’t have an overdraft. Which means—

I feel a bit faint.

That thirty thousand pounds is actual…

It’s actual money?

“Becky, are you OK?” Jess gives me an odd look.

“I’m… fine!” I say in a strangled voice and take several gulps of my champagne, trying to regain my cool. “So… you’re not overdrawn. That’s good! That’s great!”

“I’ve never been overdrawn in my life,” Jess says firmly. “I just don’t think it’s necessary. Anyone can stay within their means if they really want to. People who get into debt just lack self-control. There’s no excuse.” She begins to straighten her papers, then stops. “But you used to be a financial journalist, didn’t you? Your mum showed me some of your articles. So you must know all this.”