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looked annoyed and said, 'That's your father you're talking about.'
    But what was I meant to say? Plenty more fish in the sea? You'll meet someone else? Like, Mam is sixty-two, she's soft and comfy and looks like someone's granny.
    If you get a chance, call me at Mam's. She's terrified of being on her own, so I'm going to stay here for a little while, just until he comes to his senses and returns home.
    Love Gemma
    PS No, I don't mind about you not having a Valium and yes, a rum and Coke was a good substitute. You did the right thing.
    Mam let me out to collect clean clothes from my flat, a fifteen-minute drive away. 'If you're not back in forty minutes, I'll be afraid,' she promised.
    At times like this I hate being an only child. Mam had had two miscarriages - one before having me and one after - and no amount of rocking horses and pink tricycles made up for not having brothers or sisters.
    As I drove my mind was on Colette and her highlights. The greatest shock was that she was almost the same age as me; did this mean Dad had been eyeing up my friends? He had no history of affairs or flirtations - until yesterday the thought would have been thigh-slappingly funny — but all of a sudden I was looking with fresh eyes. Thinking back, he'd always been nice to my friends, giving them chocolate whenever they called round, but that was almost the same as inviting them to partake of the fresh air in the house. And when I was in my late teens and early twenties he was the dad who used to come out at two in the morning with his coat on over his PJs to collect me and nine or ten others from a club in town. We were usually a bit the worse for wear and the highwater mark was the time Susan opened her window and gawked half a bottle of peach Schnapps down the outside of the car door. Dad didn't notice until the next morning when, jingling his car keys, he was leaving for golf only to find one of his doors caked in gunge. But instead of going on a mad rant like Mr Byers did the time Susan gawked into his flower bed (You tell that little brat to get round here and clear it up! She shouldn't be drinking, she's under age and she can't hold it!' etc., etc.), all Dad said was, 'Ah, sugar! That Susan,' and tramped back inside to get a basin of water and a J-cloth. At the time I thought Dad was simply being kind but now I was wondering if it implied something far more lecherous.
    A revolting thought.
    I got caught on several red lights, which ate into my time, but at least the code on the electronic gate was working. My flat is in a complex which aspires to be swinging and 'modrin' and among its many facilities are a (laughably poor) gym and an electronic gate which is meant to provide 'security'. Except that, on a regular basis, the code on the gate doesn't work and people either can't get out for work, or can't get back in for their dinner, depending on what time of the day it happens.
    I flicked through my post - six or seven leaflets advertising power yoga, a flyer for colonic irrigation - and checked my answering machine: nothing urgent; everyone finished their messages by saying, 'I'll try you on the mobile.' (Mobile indeed. My life would be easier if they just put wheels on it.) Then I flung toiletries, underwear and my mobile charger into a bag and tried to track down clean clothes for work. I found one crisply ironed shirt hanging on the wardrobe door, but I needed two. A rummage through the hangers produced another, then I saw that the reason it was unworn was because it had funny yellow stains under the arms that washing couldn't shift, so I never wore it any more. Well, it would have to do; I just wouldn't take my jacket off. Finally, I packed my pinstriped suit and four-inch heels. (I never wear flats. My shoes are so high that sometimes when I step out of them, people look around in confusion and ask, 'Where'd she go?' and I have to say, I'm down here.')
    Before I left I gave my bed a wistful look; I'd be sleeping in my parents'