“Wow,” said Charley. “Look at you!” Then he started to say “Happy Birthday, Lana,” but he only got as far as “Hap—”

She’d been staring at me in silence, more like a rabbit caught in the headlights than Nicolas Cage caught by love, and then she went off like a siren.

“What the hell are you supposed to be dressed up for?” she shrieked. “You’re not going out with us, looking like that.”

Charley glanced over at her. “Hilary,” said Charley. “Hilary, don’t start.”

“Go right back to your room and take that junk off your face this minute!” she roared. “And put on something decent while you’re at it.”

“I am decent.” My voice was as stiff as my eyelashes.

“Only if you’re a child prostitute,” she informed me. “We’re not going anywhere with you dressed like a tart.”

Charley knocked back his wine. “You look like you might be cold,” he mumbled. “Have you got a coat?”

“Never mind the coat,” she roared. “She isn’t leaving this house like that, and that’s final.”

Charley looked at his glass in case it had been magically topped up since he emptied it.

Sometimes I didn’t know why she put up with Charley. He was unattractive, overweight, filthy ninety-five per cent of the time, and he never wanted to do anything but go to the pub with his mates or watch telly. But sometimes I didn’t know why he put up with her, with her nasty moods and everything. This was one of the times I felt sorry for him.

“For Christ’s sake, Hil,” said Charley. “It’s Lana’s birthday. Let her be.”

My mother turned her glare from me to him. “It’s her fifteenth birthday, not her thirtieth.” She was pronouncing her words really clearly. She went back to glaring at me. “I’m your mother,” she informed me.

Big news.

“So what?” I screamed back. “I’m not a little kid any more. You can’t keep treating me like I’m a baby.”