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sixteen-year-old who has serious issues with her frazzled mum. Not in my humble experience, anyway.
    Joshua tells me he’s busy for the rest of the week but can make it next Monday evening. I nod vaguely, my attention wandering back to the state of my walls. When he finally leaves me to it, I plonk myself down in the middle of the floor to think.From my battered holdall I extract the list I started last night. There are only two items on it so far and I’m too embarrassed to tell you what they are. (OK! An American double-door ice-maker fridge-freezer and a Kenwood food mixer. Happy now?) Bonnie told me to think of important things that I really need, and I figure this is a reasonable start, but possibly not what she had in mind ...
    Shaking out the pink sheet of paper I smooth it onto my lap and, pen in hand, try again. Think, Stella, think. Well, I’m going to need furniture. Lots of it. And clothes, of course. Proper clothes, not this capsule nonsense. Stuff for Lipsy – a new computer, Playstation, iPod, clothes… A new DVD player. TV. I brush my sooty hair out of my eyes and start to scribble:
    CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT
    American double-door ice-maker fridge-freezer
    Kenwood food mixer
    Furniture! (Sofa, dining table, chairs, beds, wardrobes …)
    Clothes: see sub-list
    TV – whatever
    Lipsy – computer, Playstation, iPod, clothes …
    Oh my God, this is a huge amount of stuff. It’s impossible to think that I’ll ever be able to pay for it all on my tiny salary. And my chances of getting a loan are slimmer than a Hollywood A-lister – my credit rating isn’t exactly what you would call “prime”. Feeling panicked all over again, I rack my brains for anybody I could ask for a loan.
    My poor brain comes up empty. Bonnie’s reasonably well-off but I wouldn’t want to put our friendship under the kind of strain that borrowing money might engender. Ditto Paul. My brother, Billy, doesn’t have a pot to piss in as far as I know – and nobody knows where he is anyway. Which just leaves my mum, and that’s a complete non-starter. Lately, she’s had a bit of a blow in the income department. Namely that her one source of income, my father, has been temporarily removed.
    And he’s definitely not in a position to lend me money. Unless, perhaps, I wanted some of the “laundered” variety …
    No, I don’t want to talk about my father and his stint at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. I don’t visit, I don’t write, and, if I can help it, I don’t talk about him at all. To anyone. Especially not my mother.
     
    ***
     
    Later that day I am curled up on my mother’s sofa watching Calamity Jane . After a stressful few hours at the house, I decided to finish my afternoon off with some quiet time watching a silly film. My mother is off doing what she does best – shopping – and Lipsy is out with her new boyfriend, apparently. This boyfriend was news to me but my mother knows all about it and seems to approve. Not sure if I should be reassured or worried by this.
    Alistair the lodger is at work being slimy and I have the whole house to myself. It feels great. Calamity Jane on TV is an added bonus, and for once I am actually benefiting from my mum’s exorbitantly expensive taste. The sofa is soft, the television flat screen and huge, the duvet made from the feathers of the finest baby ducks.
    My father had this house in Shenley Church End built in the early days of Milton Keynes’ development, when his construction firm was raking it in and land prices were still relatively low. It looks grand and impressive, if you like that sort of thing. Five bedrooms, two receptions, study, double garage, etc. “Executive Homes” we call them at Smart’s.
    He indulged my mum in everything, and as a result the décor is a showy blend of bad taste and no taste. I will grudgingly admit that my father was generous. I have to: he bought my house for Lipsy and me when my daughter was three and I was desperate – a cheap repossession, and