‘I see,’says Maggie, slooooooowly. Scarily slowly, as she picks up the paper with my name plastered all over it and thrusts it at me. ‘Would this perchance have anything to do with the reason why her majesty is gracing us with her presence today?’

I’m in mid-patter though, and determined not to let her pointed jibes get to me.

‘I slipped up at work and lost my job—’

‘You call what you did a “slip-up”?’ sneers Sharon, sucking on her fag so deeply it’s like she’s inhaling all the way down to her feet. ‘Should have taken the bloody car and run, you gobshite. A Merc like that would go for eighty grand on the black market, easy.’

‘Hmm,’ says Maggie dryly. ‘Now if only there was some mechanism in your head that controlled the shite that comes out of your mouth.’

It’s as if they know exactly why I’m here and are toying with me now, like starving rottweilers teasing a kitten just before going in for the kill. So I’ll just give them the last sentence first. Easier and far, far quicker. ‘I’ve lost my home and until I get another job and get back on my feet again, I’m coming to stay here. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s happening, so suck it up.’

Stony silence.

Then, all of the sudden the tension that was hovering over the room earlier breaks like a storm and now everyone’s jabbering viciously over each other.

‘Sure what’s that to do with us?’ says Maggie. ‘Go and stay with one of your celebrity friends. How do you spell celebrity if your name is Jessie Woods? Oh I know, L. O. S. E. R. Or you could stay with your boyfriend. Oh wait a minute, I forgot, you don’t have one. At least, not any more you don’t. Oops. Silly me.’

Bloody ouch. That comment cuts to the quick, like Maggie’s comments have been cutting me most of my whole life. Meanwhile Sharon sniggers so hard at this that cider actually comes down her nose.

‘Nice one,’ she smirks over at Maggie, grabbing a Smiley Burger paper napkin and wiping her face with it.

‘Thank you, gag copyrighted to Maggie Woods.’

Christ alive, there’s so much about the pair of them I’d completely blanked out. That Maggie has by far the tougher, stronger personality for starters and where she leads, Sharon, who’s that bit weaker, will invariably follow. But the trick with them is never, ever to react, so I just gulp back yet more revolting vino and eyeball them, waiting to see who’ll blink first.

‘Well, I’m terribly sorry to put a damper on this,’ says Joan, sounding panicky, ‘but it’s out of the question. We have…emm…visitors coming to stay…emm…from Canada. For ehhh…three months.’ ‘Fine, then we’ll just all be a bit crowded, won’t we?’ I say firmly. Joan always was a crap liar.

‘You can’t stay here! This is ourhouse, not yours!’ snarls Sharon.

‘Technically, no it’s not. It’s half mine. Dad left it to Joan and me equally and my name is on the title deeds.’

‘Excuse me, your majesty, but has it occurred to you that we don’t actually get on? I mean, you’re sitting there now, drinking our wine and looking down your nose at us like we’re cave dwellers.’

‘No I’m not! Besides you’re looking at me like you want to have me…diagnosed.’

‘She can’t stay here and that’s all there is to it. Besides, it’s not a runner because there’s no room for her,’ says Sharon triumphantly to the other two and completely ignoring me. Like the Chardonnay has suddenly made me invisible.

‘This house only has three bedrooms and I’m fucked if any of us are going to share with her.’

‘So? I’ll sleep on the sofa. Not a problem.’ Funny, the more they protest, the more I’m digging my heels in, mainly because I know this is the surest way to annoy them even more.

‘I don’t see why you can’t just check into a hotel until you get back on your feet again,’ says Joan, nearly spitting out the words. ‘Far easier and far less stressful all round.’

‘Do I have to spell it out to you? Gimme a B, gimme an R, gimme an O, K, E.’

‘Hang on one minute,’ says Maggie, leaning forward in her armchair like a sumo queen squaring up for a fight. ‘I hate to be the fingernail in the salad here, but we all pay the mortgage on this house, as we’ve done ever since the happy day when you first fecked off. Even Ma and she’s only working part-time. All the bills are split equally between us and we pay for our own food, booze and fags.’

‘So?’

‘So, if you’re out of a job, how are you going to pay your way here? Because if you think we’re supporting you, you can feck right off.’

Shit. I never thought of that.

There’s another silence while I gulp back the disgusting Chardonnay and rack my brains to come up with something.

Eventually Sharon speaks, ‘Here’s a thought.’ We all turn to look at her and by now even my bum is starting to sweat. ‘If Jessie can’t contribute to bills and stuff, then…well, maybe she could earn her keep by doing all the housework, couldn’t she? Just imagine, we could come in from work every day to all the laundry done…’

‘And all the groceries bought…’ says Maggie slowly, with an evil glint lighting up the stony grey eyes.

‘And a home-cooked dinner served up to us…’

‘That she has to wash up after, not us…’

‘And all the ironing done. I bleedin’ hate ironing…’

‘And the garden looking immaculate…’

‘Be like having an au pair, except without the hassle of kids…’

‘And one that we’d never have to pay…’

‘Right then, Cinderella Rockefeller,’ says Maggie, with murder in her eyes and spinach in her teeth. ‘If this is what you really want, then move in, soon as you like. Because you have yourself a deal.’

I get the hell out of there as soon as I can. And as I slam the hall door behind me, I’d swear I can hear the sound of cackling.

Chapter Seven

Sunday

Packing is a nightmare. I pick up something to fling into a suitcase, then remember exactly where I was when I bought it, time, date and place, the works, then dissolve into floods of tears, then try ringing Sam again, then round off by leaving a tonne of voicemails for him. What the hell, if you’re going to boil the bunny, you might as well turn the heat right the whole way up. If I’m turning into Glenn Close with the bubble perm, might as well go the whole hog. And all of my desperate, pleading messages are ignored. Of course they are; at this stage, what the feck else did I expect?

So far, all I’ve managed to pack is three pairs of knickers and an old deodorant. I am officially a basket case.

Sunday night

Sleepless. Wondering how much longer before I’m turfed out of this house and am forced to move back into Whitehall, a.k.a. the Sandhurst of emotional emptiness. A week possibly, maybe even less? Maybe that couple from yesterday loved it and want to move in here in a few days? And find me still wandering around here, like the mad wife in the attic from Jane Eyre.Then a fresh worry: suppose the estate agents sue me for not clearing out of here fast enough?

Suddenly I get a nightmarish flash of myself standing in the dock, in handcuffs and a neon orange jumpsuit, pleading for clemency, like in one of those witness for the prosecution-type courtroom thrillers. Right. Gotta pack. Gotta clear out of here. Got. No. Choice. In a blind panic, I hop out of bed, switch on the lights and start flinging stuff that’s strewn on the dressing table into an abandoned suitcase on the floor. But then I come to a cherished old black and white photo of Mum and Dad taken on their wedding day and start bawling all over again. Times like this I’m almost glad neither of them is around to see what a sad disappointment I’ve become to them.

No, on second thoughts, packing is a bad idea. Sleeping for twelve hours = miles better.

Monday morning