The flat feels strange without Max. Good strange, though. Tash’s right, it was more like being flatmates than – and I shudder at the word – lovers. Until, of course, he’d get into bed and nudge his erection up against my arse. Not exactly romantic.

I decide it’s time to take back my flat – god knows, there’s not much else I can do – and I spend a couple of hours in a frenzy of tidying and cleaning and rearranging. I move the sofa and get all the extra cushions that Max hated back out of my wardrobe. I flip the rug over to hide the mango chutney stain. I change the bedding. I open the windows. I light a scented candle.

And then I pack up all of Max’s stuff. Because even though he’s only just left (not even left: run away) and even though I may not be in my right mind, I know one thing for sure: I don’t want him to come back. Not because I’m invisible and he didn’t even notice. Not even because of whoever the hell El is. But because he’s always made me feel invisible and I told myself that was okay. It’s not okay.

I pack his clothes into suitcases and his gaming crap into boxes and I shove the lot into the cupboard with the ironing board and Hoover and bags and bags of carrier bags.

I flop down on the sofa. I’m flicking through Netflix, trying to decide whether I want to watch a film or marathon a series when the phone rings. My mother. Great.

‘Hello, darling,’ she says. But with a sigh in her voice. The put-upon sigh.

‘Hi, Mum.’ I worry for a second that she’s going to know I’m invisible through the phone. Do I sound invisible? But of course she’s got more pressing issues to deal with.

‘I don’t know why you have a phone if you never answer it.’ She rang me on Thursday, I think. And I haven’t rung back. She always says this.

‘I just haven’t had a chance, sorry. Been really busy at work.’

Another long sigh. ‘I feel like we never see you any more!’

Ha. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Like I said, work’s been busy. We’ve got this client and—’

‘How’s Max?’

Ah yes. Zero interest in my job. All the interest in my so-called love life. I think about lying and then I throw caution to the wind.

‘We split up,’ I say.

‘Oh, Isabel!’ she almost howls. ‘What happened?’

I ponder telling her exactly what happened – well, Mum, see, I turned invisible, found out Max was shagging someone else, and then used the invisible thing to convince Max the flat’s haunted and he freaked the fuck out – but instead I say, ‘It just wasn’t working. It’s fine.’

Silence.

‘I mean… we haven’t exactly split up yet…’

Silence. This is what she does.

‘But we are going to. We’re just not happy.’

‘Oh, Isabel, grow up. No one’s happy.’

What?

‘What?’

‘You find someone and you stick with them no matter what. That’s just how life works.’

‘You’re not happy?’ I say. ‘You and Dad?’

‘Oh, we’re fine,’ she says. ‘I just don’t understand why you can’t…’

‘Can’t what?’ Is it true? Is no one happy? Really?

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No. What?’ Are my expectations too high? Is that it?

She sighs heavily again and I feel my teeth clenching in response. That sigh was the bane of my childhood.

‘You know your father’s sixtieth is coming up? Well, he’s decided he’d like a party.’

‘Mum,’ I say. ‘You were just telling me that no one’s happy and so I should stick with the boyfriend who I don’t think I love and who probably doesn’t love me. And now you’ve moved on to Dad’s birthday party?’

‘Well there’s no point talking to you about any of that stuff. I know you’re not going to listen. You’ve always had notions about this kind of thing.’

Have I?

‘What notions?’

‘About… happiness. And independence. And love.’

Oh. Those notions.

‘Is that bad?’ I ask her. ‘Wanting to be happy and independent and loved?’

She scoffs and I know even through the phone that she’s smoothing her hair behind her ears and then fiddling with an earring.

‘Not at all,’ she says. ‘It’s just unrealistic.’

It’s my turn to sigh. ‘So,’ I say. ‘Dad wants a birthday party.’

‘At the sailing club,’ she says.

‘That sounds good,’ I say casually. She doesn’t go to the sailing club. It’s something my dad does on his own.

‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Well. He’s very keen on the idea. I have no idea why. So can you come?’

Oh shit. How do I keep managing to forget? ‘Er. Yeah, I’m sure I can. When is it?’

‘You’re asking me when your father’s birthday is?’

‘No,’ I say calmly. ‘I’m asking you when the party is.’

‘On his birthday.’ So that’s in three weeks. I’ll be back to normal in three weeks, won’t I? I have to be.

‘What time?’

‘Eight o’clock. But I was assuming you’d want to get here earlier to spend some time with him. On his birthday.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ I might just be, you know, invisible.

‘And wear something nice.’

‘Oh for god’s sake.’ I can hear teen-Izzy in my voice.

‘A dress. Your father always thinks you look nice in a dress.’

‘I know,’ I say.

And I do know. Last time I wore a dress – to a family christening – he actually took me to one side to praise me for looking ‘so feminine’. The ‘for once’ was implied. And it was a nice dress. But I spent the whole day fiddling with my underwear and trying to stop it riding up. I took my bra off on the train on the way home.

‘So I assume you’ll be coming alone?’ Mum says.

‘Probably,’ I say.

She sighs again. I’m such a disappointment.

‘Sorry to be such a disappointment,’ I say.

‘Oh, Isabel,’ she says. But she doesn’t say I’m not.

The conversation with Mum has actually rattled me. I know I shouldn’t let her get to me – she’s been doing it my entire life, at some point I need to either tell her to knock it off or stop letting it bother me – but I can feel the old teenage feelings coming back.

When she upset me as a teen, I used to go and have a long, hot bath. It was mostly passive aggressive – Mum thinks long baths are self-indulgent and wasteful. She used to have baths in about five inches of warm water until they got a shower put in and now she doesn’t have baths at all. But I discovered that if you blocked the overflow with Blu Tack you could fill the bath right up and so I’d spend hours up to my neck in water as hot as I could stand it, listening to loud music and ignoring the fact that we only had one loo and I was stopping everyone else from using it.

I don’t bother with the Blu Tack any more, but I do still love a long bath. And I didn’t really get to enjoy my shower this morning, thanks to the whole freaking-the-fuck-out thing. I pour in the Molton Brown bubbles Tash got me for Christmas that I’ve been saving – for what, I don’t know – and then I drag the full length mirror in from the bedroom.

I feel better as soon as I sink into the water. I lift one leg and, for a few seconds until the water falls away, I can see it. It’s kind of disturbing to watch your own body parts disappear, but it’s also so nice to see them again that I don’t mind. Once I feel fully relaxed, I dunk my head under the water then stand up and look in the mirror. For a second I can see my whole body. And then it melts away and I feel a bit faint. I grab the shower curtain for support. I don’t know whether it’s watching myself disappear or standing up so quickly out of a hot bath, but I sit back down carefully and rest my forehead on the edge of the tub.

Shit.

I have got to make sure I’m visible again by the first weekend of next month. I can’t possibly attend my dad’s birthday party invisibly. But how?

I only get out of the bath when Tash turns up with a takeaway. I’ve topped up the water repeatedly and I can feel how pruned I am even though I can’t see it.

‘How was Liam?’ I call from the bedroom as she’s dishing up at the table.

‘Good actually,’ she says. ‘He’s got an amazing body. Six pack, “v” lines, fucking phenomenal shoulders.’

I don’t think I’ve ever slept with someone with a good body, I realise. Max’s was okay, but certainly no six pack or ‘v’ lines, and the only distinguishing thing about his shoulders was that they were hairy.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever slept with anyone with a good body,’ I tell Tash as I join her in the kitchen.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Of course you haven’t.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You like to keep your standards low,’ she sings, scraping what looks like tikka masala on to a plate.

‘That’s not fair,’ I say. Even though it probably is.

‘And just because someone’s got a good body, doesn’t mean they’re a good person!’ I pull a dining chair out and sit down. ‘I’d rather have a nice person with an okay body.’

‘But Izzy,’ she says, holding a bottle of Kingfisher towards the middle of the table. I reach out and take it from her. ‘You didn’t even have that.’

‘Text him,’ she says, half an hour later, when we’ve migrated to the sofa with another two bottles, half the naan and some leftover sauce, and I’ve told her about the texts and the football kit sex and the fake haunting.

‘I can’t dump him by text,’ I say. ‘We’ve been together for two years.’

‘I mean… he’s been fucking someone else. And you can’t dump him in person, can you?’

‘You make a good point.’ I rub my hands over my face. ‘I should ring him, though, right? At least.’

‘Go for it. Rip off the plaster.’ She laughs. ‘The bastard. Rip off the bastard.’

I phone him. It goes to voicemail. And I leave a message.

‘I think you know this isn’t working. And I think it’s time to end it. I’ve packed up your stuff, you can collect it any time.’ I’m about to hang up, when I add, ‘This is Izzy.’

Tash laughs so hard she spills her bhuna.