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to kill you.’
    ‘For God’s sake, why? Why do I have to be there tonight?’
    ‘Because I’ve made arrangements and I’m not changing them now. Whatever it is that is so much more important than your family will just have to wait. I’m not arguing about this.’
    And with that she hung up.
    Dan didn’t go to the pub with the rest of the guys after the bell rang, he stayed at his desk. Once the office had emptied out I went over to speak to him.
    ‘How bad?’ I asked.
    ‘Pretty fucking catastrophic,’ he said without looking up. ‘The tip I got, last night, you know from that guy at Midas? Well, either he was trying to stitch me up or he just doesn’t know what he’s talking about, because I went heavily short on Lloyds TSB and Aviva and they’re two of the biggest gainers of the day. Jesus, Cass, I’ve fucked up, I’ve really fucked up.’ He took my hand in his. ‘Can we go home, babe? I just really want to go home.’
    Caught between the rock of disappointing my parents and the hard place of exacerbating Dan’s misery, I foundered.
    ‘What is it?’ he asked, looking up at me. ‘You still got work to do?’
    ‘I can’t, Dan. I’m really sorry, I have to go home. To Kettering, I mean. I meant to tell you yesterday but we never really got the time to—’
    ‘Right,’ he said, withdrawing his hand from mine and getting to his feet. ‘All right then. I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.’
    ‘Dan, please don’t be angry with me,’ I pleaded, but he was already walking away, his head bowed, looking more dejected than I can ever remember seeing him. I felt awful, heartbroken. By the time I caught the six fifty-two from St Pancras to Kettering, heartbreak had turned to rage. I was furious with my sister. How dare she guilt-trip me into going to this bloody party, into leaving my boyfriend at the very moment he needed me most? Silently I fumed for the next fifty-six minutes, planning exactly what I was going to say to her when I saw her.
    Frustratingly I had to rethink my opening gambit (‘You bitch, Celia’) when I saw her standing on the platform, the baby in her arms, three-year-old Rosie in the pushchair and five-year-old Tom crawling around on the floor pushing a small vehicle and making impressively accurate truck noises. Celia smiled winningly at me.
    ‘Look, kids, it’s Auntie Cassie! Come all the way from London to see us!’
    ‘Hello, darlings!’ I cooed back. It’s difficult to stay pissed off when you have two blond angels running at you, arms outstretched, gurgling wholehearted hellos. Disentangling myself from the children, I gave Celiaan unenthusiastic peck on the cheek and took Monty, the baby, from her arms.
    ‘God, he’s huge,’ I exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe how much he’s grown.’
    ‘That’s the thing about babies,’ Celia replied sourly. ‘If you only see them once every six months then you will be amazed by their growth spurts.’
    ‘He looks exactly like his dad,’ I said, knowing that would annoy her. The other kids have far more of their father in them than they do of Celia, too, and she hates it when people point this out. ‘Where is Michael, by the way? Is he not joining us for dinner?’
    ‘Change of plan,’ she said with an air of weary resignation. ‘The “quick pint” he went for after work turned into three, so I told him to just stay there. Do you mind if we get takeaway instead? Not sure I can be bothered to go out. Sorry, Cass.’ My anger at her dissipated and was replaced with guilt. Celia looked wiped out. Her face was pale and her eyes ringed with dark circles. With her hair scraped back into a ponytail and wearing a less-than-flattering tracksuit she looked closer to thirty-five than twenty-seven. It was hardly surprising though. How could she not be exhausted with three children of five and under to take care of and a twenty-eighth wedding anniversary party to plan, not to mention having to cope with her feckless husband and