The Sister Surprise
ABIGAIL MANN

One More Chapter

a division of HarperCollinsPublishers

The News Building

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Abigail Mann 2021

Abigail Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2021 ISBN: 9780008393694

Version: 2021-03-01

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Abigail Mann

About the Publisher

To Joe

For all the laughing and walking that brought me back to myself

Chapter 1

At twenty-seven, I should have outgrown the act of picking glitter from my cuticles, but then again, being Lorrie Atmore’s daughter comes with its own set of obligations. Today, I’m covertly multi-tasking. If you were to part the wind chimes at the back door to peek inside our tiny kitchen, you’d see me blasting oak leaves with a hairdryer, using my elbow to pin down the stack that I’ve already washed and dried. In my head, however, I’m running over lines from the script I’ve spent every lunchtime working on for the past week.

Mum launches into an anecdote about a supposedly malicious gluten scandal between the PTA mums as I silently mouth the words that I’ll present on a live stream tomorrow morning. After five years at Snooper, I’m a little too well-adjusted to my role as sub-editor, or Captain Comma, as my colleague Max so often calls me. The Oxford A-Z of Punctuation is my Bible and I can reference it with the passion of a born-again Christian. It’s not the legacy I thought I’d have, so when I was offered a chance to front something of my own, I said yes immediately. Seeing as Snooper claims to be ‘on-the-pulse media for the anti-news generation’, I should have expected that career progression would be unconventional, but going from an editorial desk to a spotlit studio is decidedly out of my comfort zone, not that I’ve admitted it.

Mum, however, relishes being at the centre of a community that hums around her. She’s been the chairperson at Dulwich Green Primary since 1999, a position she refuses to relinquish, despite the fact that I stopped attending fifteen years ago.

I hold two glittery acorns to my chest like I’m plucking the cherry from an iced bun. She frowns, her cheeks dimpled in a barely suppressed smile.

‘You look like a burlesque dancer. A really cheap one,’ she says.

‘Mum!’ I shout, as she chugs with laughter like a faulty diesel engine. I flick the acorns across the table, stretch high above my head, and let my mind tick things over. I’ve been on the cusp of telling her about my work assignment all week, but every time I open my mouth it’s like a claw drags the words back down my throat. ‘So …’

‘Mmhm?’ She threads a silver bead down the stem of an oak leaf.

Now. Tell her now.

‘How many more do I have to do? My fingers hurt,’ I say, falling back on topics I know to be conversational safe zones.

‘Don’t be silly. It’s too early for that. You’ve got no idea what a hardcore session with half a dozen placards and paint tubes looks like—’

‘Back in the day …’ I say wistfully, pre-empting her speech. Thanks to her terrible aim, the acorn she throws in my direction misses by a foot and tinkles as it hits a porcelain teacup on the dresser behind me.

‘Cheeky cow,’ she says, using her glasses as an Alice band for her mess of over-permed hair. ‘But yes, back in the day we’d pull all-nighters with the fabric paint. That red blob by the fireplace is a symbol of resistance. And sleep deprivation.’

‘The one that makes the living room look like a crime scene?’

‘That’s it. “You Otter Be Ashamed” painted over four bed sheets. We made the front page of The Sunday Times with that one. Best day of my life,’ she says, wistfully.

‘Thanks …’

‘All right, second-best day of my life,’ says Mum. ‘Before you came along, obviously.’

I push my chair back to let our pot-bellied cat vault onto my lap. He purrs, kneads my thigh, and looks up at me with sleep-drunk eyes.

‘Tea?’

‘All right, but then I’ve got to go to bed. Big day tomorrow.’

I rub my stiff knuckles and knead my temples, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. I glance at the clock and check my phone through a squint. If I go to bed now, I might be able to get six hours in before I have to travel to Holborn for the hair and make-up appointment that was booked for me. Personally, I don’t think my twice-yearly trim needs updating, but apparently when you’re asked to present on a live stream it requires a look that’ll ‘stop the kids from scrolling’, whatever that means.

I think back to the steps that led to me presenting tomorrow and struggle to credit it to the Rolodex of self-help books I listen to on my commute. To get ahead at work, The Career Doctor suggested ‘socialising with your superiors outside the office to build rapport’, but Duncan – our Editor-in-Chief – didn’t even attend his own birthday lunch, so that was off the cards. Take the Reins details a five-point-plan for success that includes ‘say yes to everything’, but that led to working late on Christmas Eve, checking for typos in a recipe for vegan pigs in blankets.

Snooper frequently gets sent PR products to review, so when Duncan handed out genealogy kits in the conference room for this week’s ‘Hot in Tech’ feature, I didn’t think much of it. That was until we each unboxed a plastic vial with instructions to fill it with saliva. The meeting was undignified, to say the least; lots of hacking, spitting, and wiping of chins. Like always, everyone in editorial had to pitch for features linked to the product, and like always, I expected my idea to turn up on someone else’s desk. When I let slip that I didn’t know who my father was, Duncan sat back and rubbed his jowls, a sign that he was listening.

The notion that I’ve been given this chance purely because there’s ambiguity over my parentage has crossed my mind, but I’m not going to jeopardise it by asking any questions. Opportunities like this are rare; like getting through a day without seeing a single Kardashian in your Twitter feed. Mum still takes pictures on a disposable camera, so there’s no chance she’ll watch the live stream, but the idea that I’m going behind her back to find answers to questions she never wanted to answer makes me a feel a bit … squirmy.

Mum plugs in a hot glue gun and taps the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. She’s always liked the idea of me being a journalist, but new media is a step down from the kind of writing she thought I’d be doing. This is largely due to her fervent mistrust of the internet. Basically, if it’s not in print, she doesn’t think it legitimately counts; although the same logic doesn’t apply to Henry, our elderly neighbour, who writes, prints, and delivers the community paper on his electric scooter.

My stomach squirms like I’ve swallowed a sandwich bag full of baby eels. For the umpteenth time, I’m within arm’s reach of asking about my dad. Mum’s in a good mood, so the risk factor is fairly low. Then again, I don’t know why it would play out differently today. It’s like the very first time I noticed that we weren’t like the families around us, the ones with 2.5 kids and a car big enough to fit camping gear in.

I was six years old in the bakery section of Sainsbury’s, which would soon become synonymous with traumatic moments I’d rather forget about. Seeing as I’d just been given the part of narrator in the school play, I wanted to show off, and picked up the nearest greeting card to do so. The words confused me, so I patted Mum’s leg.

‘Does “father” mean the same as “dad”?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, looking elsewhere.

‘Why do fathers need a day?’

‘They don’t,’ she replied. ‘Put it down.’

‘We could send it. To my dad.’

‘We can’t. You should only send cards to people you love.’

‘Why don’t you send it then? Mums and dads love each other.’

She squatted down, kissed my head, and gently peeled my fingers off the cellophane wrapper. ‘Some do, but lots of mums and dads don’t, and that’s OK too. Because I’m both, aren’t I?’

This was wildly confusing to me, but I didn’t say so.

‘So, he doesn’t have a house?’

‘No, sweet pea. He’s in the same place Grandma and Granddad are. Shed his mortal coil, so to speak.’

‘What does that mean?’

Mum pulled me to one side, away from the wheels of someone else’s trolley. ‘He’s dead, my love.’

‘Why?’

‘Jesus Christ, Ava. Sorry. Can we not talk about this now? I only came in for milk.’

I thought I was in trouble, so did what most six-year-olds would and started to cry.

‘Shit.’ She hauled me into her arms and walked us round to the bakery, where rows of birthday cakes sat covered in thick factory icing. ‘Pick one.’ Thus distracted, I forgot about the conversation and we went home with a ten-person sponge covered in candy bracelets and gummy sweets.

This routine persists; I bring him up, Mum snipes at me, drags me along for the food shop, and we come back with a disproportionately large celebration cake.

I think about it now and feel a bit sick. We’ve not done the bakery run for a few years.

Mum pours hot water into our mugs and picks up a glue gun, wielding it with the dexterity of a cowboy in a shootout. ‘How are you feeling about it, then? Being on camera.’

‘Absolutely horrible, to be honest. And excited, in a way. It feels like a really long time coming. I’ll finally be delivering the content I write, y’know? It’s just the thought of everyone watching my face.’

‘You can hardly wear a paper bag.’

I snort and a smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, despite the headache sitting heavy on my brow. Mum runs a hand through her hair, glittery dandruff falling on the table. ‘I think we’ve rehomed half of south London’s woodlice by bringing all this lot inside, don’t you?’

‘Pickles is too lazy to chase them out, so they’re essentially lodgers at this point.’

Mum snorts and squints at the calendar tacked by the door. ‘You still all right to take photographs tomorrow? For the Harvest Festival? If you’ve got something on, I can find someone else.’

‘Nah, it’s all right, I’ll be there. Did Ginger say if Rory was going?’

‘I don’t think she is, no. Apparently she’s busy doing a “Wagamama’s crawl”, whatever that is.’

‘Really? I thought that was just a distraction technique after she broke up with Myles,’ I say, sliding a silicon mat under the glue gun before a globule of molten plastic lands on the table. ‘I didn’t think she’d still be going after – what has been now, a month?’

‘She sounds like her mother when it comes to break-ups.’

‘Katsu curry is for Rory what Malbec is to Ginger.’

‘Your generation. Honestly.’

Mum and Ginger became friends at playgroup when Rory and I were babies, and we’ve been solid fixtures in each other’s lives ever since. Whereas Mum is stubbornly independent, the same isn’t true for Ginger, who has welcomed countless boyfriends and five fiancés into their house over the years. Rory and I started to make bets on how long they’d last, with a sherbet Dip Dab awarded to the closest guess within a week.

‘I’m surprised Rory hasn’t moved back in with Ginger whilst she’s in between flats. All that money she could save,’ says Mum, wistfully.

‘She wants to be independent. I don’t blame her, to be honest. Ginger keeps telling her to forgive Myles, but why should she when he has a propensity for Thursday evening cocaine and can’t say where he spent the last three nights? Anyway, I don’t think that Rory finds living with Ginger particularly … calming.’

Mum scrapes her hair into a top knot, rubs her neck, and looks at me from beneath a puff of fringe.

‘What about that one you went out with? Dan? Demi?’

‘Drew.’

‘The American. Any more dates on the cards?’

‘Pfff, absolutely not. He told me he hates cats because “they have no concept of the alpha male”, which is really … disturbing.’

I slide Pickles off my lap. He lands on the floor with a sizeable thud owing to his near spherical shape, achieved by eating three dinners a night thanks to neighbours who fall victim to his feigned cry of starvation.

I pull out a plastic wallet containing the script I wrote for tomorrow’s live stream, my lines neatly highlighted in pastel green. As I re-read it, a band of tension tightens across my forehead. The lines I wrote to sound authentically casual now read like I’m trying too hard, which, of course, I am. Mum puts her hand on the back of my chair and cranes forward. She smells like hemp hand cream and sandalwood smoke.

‘Want to practise with me?’

‘No,’ I answer, folding the page in half. She holds her hands up, as though absolving herself from a crime.

‘Sorry for asking! What’s it about anyway, this TV thing you’re doing tomorrow?’

I pull one leg up, hug my knee, and peek through my overgrown fringe. ‘It’s not on TV, it’s the internet.’ I breathe in slowly. It feels like a moth is fluttering in the core of my chest, tickling up my throat until it’s between my teeth, ready to be spat out.

‘Yes, well, near enough.’ Mum rubs her eyes. ‘Go on then, tell me.’

‘We’re going to have our DNA profiles revealed,’ I say, my heartbeat pulsing in my neck. Mum dangles a tea towel in front of her. Pickles lazily bats it with his paw. The kettle flicks off, but she doesn’t move to pour it. ‘Max and I posted samples to a lab. Well, so did everyone, but we were chosen to lead the feature.’

‘What does it tell you, this test?’

‘Err, well, something to do with our nationality based on shared genes.’

‘Oh!’ Mum flicks the tea towel onto a worktop and picks up the kettle. ‘Fashion changes all the time. I expect the feature won’t age well with the rate that trends move on these days.’ She puts a mug down on the table and screeches. ‘Ah! That bloody animal! Shoo! Go on, off!’ She swats a hand in front of Pickles, who howls and shakes his paw, having stepped on a sticky leaf that he’s now wearing like a ski.

‘No, not like that. It’s DNA stuff. The science-y bits that make up a person. We find out … we find out—’ I stutter, tiptoeing around the edge of a conversational landmine. ‘We find out where our DNA is traced to, so there’s a chance that my paternal data is—’

A rapping noise turns our attention to the back door, where Ginger is just visible through the window. I can tell she’s on tiptoes; the strain is visible in her eyes, wide, wet, and husky blue.

A throaty squeak breaks through chugging sobs that accompany her entrance. Ginger shrugs herself out of a faux fur cape and lets it drop to the floor before collapsing into a kitchen chair with renewed trumpet-like sobs.

‘Ginger! Whatever is the matter? Oh, Ginger! Let me get some wine. Ava, a bottle of white. Ava?’

I open the fridge and slide a bottle off the top shelf as Ginger tries to talk through guttural tears. ‘I’ll get out of your way,’ I add, not quite loud enough to be heard above the cooing and sobbing coming from the table. Going by the state of her, I can safely assume that I’ve won the sherbet Dip Dab this time, but I’ve missed my last chance to ask Mum about my father before tomorrow.

I leave them to it and plod upstairs, take off what little remains of my make-up, and practise my ‘camera face’ in the mirror whilst I sweep rosewater serum over my neck. An article I’d read on Refinery29 said that three litres of water a day and botanical toners would get rid of the dark circles under my eyes, but even after buying every product listed and teaching myself Japanese facial techniques, I haven’t seen a change.

‘No way, that’s unreal! Like, so cool …’ I whisper to my own reflection, trying to make my delivery sound detached and aloof like the fresh-from-the-womb media graduates that Duncan insists on hiring. ‘No, I’ve never wondered about him,’ I say, unconvinced by my own smile. ‘Not for a minute.’

Chapter 2

‘Are … are you sure this is what Duncan asked for?’

‘Yep,’ replies the stylist with a curt nod. I blink beneath false eyelashes so thick I feel like I’m about to take off. My hair has been scraped back into what I have been reliably told are called ‘space buns’, giving my eyebrows an arched quality thanks to eye-watering tension at my scalp. The headache that I slept off last night has reappeared with renewed vigour, aided by white lights framing the mirror I’ve been wheeled in front of. Not only do my eyes hurt from the brightness, but I’m now reacquainted with every long-lost pore and blemish on my face. Nice.

‘He’s gone for an edgy, youthful look, y’know? Imagine you’re the kind of person who gets drunk tattoos and shags a member of One Direction whilst listening to Billie Eilish on repeat.’

Right, so that explains the facelift I’ve been given courtesy of Natalie’s brutal work with a metal comb and an entire packet of Kirby grips. ‘I know it’s meant to make me look younger—’

‘Youthful,’ interrupts Natalie with a self-satisfied nod. She shakes a can of hairspray and blasts it in an arc above my head. With no warning, I inhale most of it.

‘Sure,’ I splutter, ‘but … I feel like it’s accentuating the fact that I’m a decade too old for this look.’

‘It’s just because you’re not used to being on camera,’ she says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s all about lighting. This one actress – she was a Dame or something – wouldn’t do television appearances unless her team could screw their own lightbulbs in. They were turned up so high, right, that the studio was humming. Benedict Cumberbatch sweated through his three-piece. You won’t believe the powder I got through doing touch-ups.’

‘Weirdly, that does makes me feel better.’

***

‘Hey!’

I stand on tiptoes and look over the heads of a small crowd gathered at the collection point of a café counter. A harried barista attempts to steam three kinds of milk in tiny jugs, a backlog of KeepCups lined up beside him. A hand waves, a swimmer in an ocean of hipsters. I wriggle through.

Rory’s fiercely red hair is piled on top of her head and held in place with a huge clip, a loose tendril running over her shoulder like a snake. She pulls me into a one-armed hug; a little uncomfortable owing to the bag of coffee beans wedged between us.

‘Are you buying these?’ I ask.

‘No, they’ve given them to me so I don’t lose my place in the queue. I feel like a right pillock.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘You’re a peach.’

She handles the bag like a cautious parent with a newborn, transferring it into the crook of my elbow. Manoeuvre complete, she clasps my shoulders and turns me from one side to the other like I’m a patient she’s examining. I frown, my hairline taut. I open my eyes wide to relieve the pressure.

‘Wow. That’s … that’s a look,’ says Rory.

‘Oh, don’t,’ I say, massaging my scalp.

‘It’s very slick.’

‘Hmm, that’s the word for it. She combed so much gel through my hair I thought she was about to insert me somewhere.’

‘You say that, but since I was relocated to A&E I’ve seen some things that truly confront my understanding of human anatomy,’ says Rory. ‘Oh, hang on. Yep, that’s me! I’m coming! Ava, bring the coffee beans.’

We scurry to the front, where I cautiously hand over our beany placeholder, swapping it for a lukewarm flat white. Outside, Rory and I sit on an old bench by the window. With the parquet flooring, painted bricks, and school gym equipment, I get an unnerving flashback to PE lessons, most of which involved Rory and me chucking a musty beanbag to each other at the back of the hall.

‘So glad we could do this, even if it is for ten minutes,’ says Rory, her eyes softening as caffeine slips down her throat. ‘Ah, that’s the stuff. Got a hangover. Before you say anything, I will tone it down from now on. It’s getting silly. Thing is, I can’t bear the thought of having dead time in the evenings. Too many opportunities to think about Myles.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not been that long. Couldn’t you stay with Ginger for a bit? Use it as downtime?’

‘Absolutely not,’ says Rory, flicking down a pair of oversized sunglasses. ‘Mum’s taken my break-up worse than I have. She randomly wails like Mrs Bennet. The melodrama! She’s one step away from smelling salts, I swear to God. I said to her: “Mother. This stops now. He hasn’t cheated on you, has he?” Perhaps if I’d seen just one example of a healthy relationship between her and literally any of the men she went out with when I was a kid, I wouldn’t be so bloody useless at weeding out the arseholes. I said that to her and all,’ she adds, licking coffee foam from her finger.

‘Wow, that’s brave.’

‘Oh, you know what we’re like: lay everything on the table, get out of each other’s hair for a while, and meet up for a consoling tapas session when we’ve both chilled out.’

I nod, quietly envious of Rory and Ginger’s open – if chaotic – relationship. If I bring up the tiniest grievance to Mum, she reacts like I’ve made a personal dig at her and then bustles off to do some work for one of the various committees she’s on. Later, when she gets home and I’m on the sofa watching Queer Eye, she pretends like nothing’s happened. That’s that. We move on.

‘Anyway, I’ve talked about Myles to death. Distract me. How’re you feeling about your first live stream? Exciting, right?’ Rory interlocks her fingers in mine and jiggles my hand, making the pot of sugar cubes dance on the table.

‘Yeah, I mean … I’m excited. I am. I’m just feeling a lot of other things too,’ I say.

‘You’ll be fine! You and Max have got great chemistry, you’ve said so before,’ says Rory.

‘Only when he’s not trying to wind me up.’

‘It’s because he tries to wind you up. You can handle it.’

I bite my lip and bounce a chunky heel on the floor.

‘What’s up? There’s a lot of nervous energy radiating off you,’ says Rory, flicking her glasses down her nose to inspect me properly.

I close my eyes, the warm autumn sunshine cutting between two austere townhouses. When I open them, Rory is poised like a blackbird, listening.

‘It’s the DNA results that I’m worried about. Not in a Jeremy Kyle way, but I don’t think they’re going to be … straightforward.’

‘Well, isn’t it that the point of a reveal? Like, the surprise element is the hook, right?’

‘Yeah, obviously. But …’

‘Oh! Oh!’ Rory grabs my knee, her eyes wide. ‘Do you think you’re the love-child of someone famous? Mick Jagger? You could have, like, twenty siblings by now.’

‘Not quite …’

‘Go on, put me out of my misery.’

‘Well, you know there are questions about who he is. My dad.’

‘I know that him and Lorrie weren’t properly together, right? She bonked him during her activist days, didn’t she?’ I grimace, but nod regardless. ‘You must know his name though.’

‘Nope.’

‘Really?! Bloody hell. Lorrie really went for the “dine and dash” approach. Dark horse.’ I put a finger to my lips, willing Rory to talk a little more quietly. She grins and scratches lipstick from her front teeth. ‘You must have asked at some point,’ she says.

‘Yeah, but not recently. Every time I do, she ignores the question and overreacts, as though the idea that I’m curious about him is proof that she’s failed at bringing me up properly. As far as my father goes, the only thing I know is that they met during a protest about dolphins. Or whales. Some sort of sea creature. Anyway, he died when I started primary school. Not sure when exactly.’

‘I can’t imagine that’s going to make for an uplifting watch,’ says Rory. ‘Do Snooper know about your family history?’

‘Only what I told Duncan in the first meeting. Basically, that it’s kind of a mystery.’

Rory props her chin in her hand and taps the table, thinking. ‘What kind of vibe are they going for during the live stream?’

‘It’s Snooper, isn’t it? So, light-hearted banter and wide-eyed reactions. Something they won’t have difficulty editing into little clips for short attention spans.’

‘That doesn’t sound so bad. Still, it’s a pretty extreme way to explore your family history.’

‘Trust me, this is the better option. It’s not just an opportunity to show Duncan I can do more than check for misplaced commas, but I get to find out about him, whoever he is. This is one way to do it.’

‘I’m surprised it’s taken you this long. In all the time we’ve known each other, you haven’t once gone into Full Ava Mode. I thought you’d be pinning a bunch of Lorrie’s old receipts and photos to the wall to map her movements during 1991 with red string and a stack of Post-its.’

‘As much as I love the thrill of a colour-coded research project, this one is too complicated,’ I say, massaging my scalp. My leg jiggles so much that our teaspoons rattle on their saucers. Rory holds my wrists, performing a slow inward breath. I copy her.

‘Do you remember when you sorted through five years of medical school notes for me? Three thousand pages stacked and categorised with coloured tabs and so much highlighter you could have self-referred to a solvent abuse clinic?’

I nod, feel my brow soften, and allow my shoulders to retreat an inch or two away from my ears. ‘I had to dust off my industrial hole-punch for that. It was a good use of annual leave.’

‘There we go. Feel better?’

‘A bit.’

Rory grins and plucks a loose blonde hair from my jumper.

‘You can always pretend you’re ill if don’t want to do this today. I’ll write you a doctor’s note.’

I pick at my thumbnail, which has been painted a lurid shade of green. ‘Seriously, it’s fine. I just feel a bit weird because Mum goes twitchy and awkward whenever I bring him up. Getting my ancestry results on a live stream feels … underhand.’ I run my tongue across my teeth. The coffee is making my heartbeat throb, the effect more debilitating than restorative. ‘I don’t feel prepared enough and I’m not sure Max has even read the script. We had one snatched conversation about it last week by the vending machine. Did you know he’s the middle child of three brothers? Think we all could have guessed that …’

‘Try and relax into it. It won’t be as bad as you think,’ says Rory, squeezing my hand. ‘Come on. I’ll walk you to the station. Take this.’ She slides her Lotus biscuit over the table towards me. I pick it up and hold it to my chest.

‘I’m honoured.’

‘Just in case you need a sugar hit at some point.’ Rory stands up, swings a bag across her chest, and flicks a lighter until her cigarette glows amber.

‘Oh, hang on. I owe you for this coffee trip,’ I say, consulting an app on my phone. So far, your tab stands at £32.70 and mine is £26.60.’

Rory laughs, the cigarette puckered between her lips. She takes a drag and blows the smoke over her shoulder. ‘I’ll get this, on one condition,’ she says, pulling me to my feet.

‘What’s that?’

‘That you give Max my number.’

‘Are you sure? I can’t verify that he’s had all his jabs.’

‘If it comes to it, I’ll walk him to the clinic myself,’ she says, bumping me with her hip. ‘Fancy coming out after work? Waterloo? Me and some of the hospital gang are planning to get drunk on pink wine.’

‘Maybe another time? I promised Mum I’d help out at this school thing tonight. Kind of hoped you’d be there.’

‘Ah, of course. I can’t face a children’s choir tonight, especially if they’re doing split harmonies. Right. I’ve got to go. Good luck! I’ll be watching from here!’ she says, tapping her phone.

Chapter 3

I swipe into our building, hang my bag on the back of my chair, and scan down today’s schedule in my bullet journal. I’m nine minutes behind. Bloody train strike. My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder telling me to head to the dressing room, where I’m given a white crop top and baggy trousers to wear. My emergency measure of over-the-counter migraine medication followed by a takeaway porridge pot hasn’t had a chance to kick in yet, so when I lace up the patent Doc Martens that I’ve been given (unnecessarily, seeing as we’re only going to be on camera from the waist up), I feel my heart beating behind my eyeballs and the effect is nausea-inducing, to say the least.

I didn’t know it was possible to feel wildly tired and drastically awake at the same time but, alas, this seems to be the case. Max hasn’t responded to the five messages I’ve sent asking if he’s ready for a run-through. As he’s not at his desk, I go on the hunt, my feet clumpy and unfamiliar. I push the door open to the work kitchen and stifle a yawn to avoid straining my hairline.

Alongside me, a stretch of windows looks down onto a throng of street-level activity, as a ribbon of red buses, cycles, and beeping Hackney cabs jostle for space on a road split by pedestrian crossings and tall Georgian buildings. Giselle is perched with an espresso by the door, her head bent in concentration as she shakes beauty samples out of a padded envelope. She squints at the underside of a lipstick, taps a note out on her laptop, and rolls her sleeve up. From a distance, her skin looks like it’s covered in a number of puce-coloured burns, but then I notice the arc of lipsticks before her, each with a corresponding swatch on her skin. Phew. No clingfilm bandage necessary.

‘Hey, have you seen Max anywhere?’ I ask, tapping on the back of a chair.

‘He came out of Duncan’s office earlier, but that was first thing this morning,’ says Giselle, holding her arms parallel to compare identical shades of burgundy.

‘Hmm. Shit.’

‘You all right?’ says Giselle, looking up. ‘You look a bit sweaty.’

‘Yeah. Sorry, I’m just a bit distracted,’ I say, reaching up to rub my eyes.

‘No!’ shouts Giselle, her chair tipping backwards as she slaps my wrist down. The lipsticks scatter across the table. ‘Your make-up looks insane! Don’t touch your face!’ She tips my chin from one side to the other. ‘Is this the new Charlotte Tilbury palette?’

‘Maybe?’

‘How could you not know?’ she asks, incredulous.

‘I was thinking about other things.’ I stretch the back of my neck and wince. ‘I swear it’s getting tighter,’ I say, cautiously tapping my hairline.

Giselle sits on a beanbag and pulls her heels onto her lap.

‘Have you practised your surprised face yet?’ she says, tying her hair back with a sequined scrunchie.

‘No …?’

‘You might want to. I’ve seen Max do his and it’s pretty good.’

‘Why would we need to practise?’

‘Well, you’ve already seen your DNA results, right? You’ve got to make it seem authentic.’

‘What do you mean? It’s meant to be revealed live!’

‘It’s got to seem like it’s revealed live. Max was going on about it earlier. Something to do with being related to King Louis the Sixteenth …’

I exhale sharply and pace up to the windows and back again. ‘Oh, God. This is a nightmare. I’m living in an actual fucking nightmare.’

Max blasts through the double swing doors.

‘Morning, all!’ He wipes his palms on his jeans, rocks back on his heels, and rubs his nose. He nods in my direction, but reels into a conversation with two tech hands by the fridge that contains few words but plenty of over-enunciated laughter.

I take a half-step towards them. ‘Max,’ I hiss, trying and failing to attract his attention in a subtle manner. ‘Max!’ He whips around and smacks his lips like he’s popping bubble gum.

‘Ava? Man, didn’t recognise you. You look good. What happened?’

My neck grows hot and I now regret the urgent email I sent to lighting about using the high wattage bulbs. I pull him out of the kitchen and into a darkened corner of the studio.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Did you have an appointment this morning?’

‘What kind of appointment?’

‘With the stylist?’ I say, tugging at my space buns in an attempt to loosen them.

‘Didn’t have one,’ replies Max. He throws an arm across my shoulders and grins down at me as he steers us towards the studio. I jab a knuckle into his ribs and face him straight on, arms crossed over my scooped T-shirt that shows three inches more cleavage than I’m comfortable with showing.

Max and I met on our NCTJ journalism course five years ago and became an unlikely pair; I’d save him a seat during lectures, he invited me to parties, and our friendship was uncomplicated by sex, which is how he burned his bridges with the rest of our cohort. We ended up at Snooper within six months of each other and he delivers peanut and prawn dumplings to my desk if I’m on a tight deadline, so there’s genuine friendship there beneath the bravado.

‘Duncan literally told me I wasn’t allowed to appear on camera if I refused to go.’

‘Call it natural beauty,’ says Max, posing with his fist propped beneath his chin. He does look annoyingly cool, if dishevelled.

‘You excited?’ he asks, glancing around at the technicians taping cables to the floor.

‘No. I’m … annoyed at you.’

Max places a hand on his chest and pretends to look affronted. ‘Me? No.’

‘Please – for the love of all that is holy – can we go over the script.’

‘Sorry, looks like we’re about to start,’ says Max with a wink.

Lowanna, the floor manager, pulls aside her headphones and runs a finger down her clipboard. ‘Can we get you in position? Max? Ava? We need to set up the shot.’

I sit down on set and clutch my forehead, squinting. The lights are so bright that everyone’s silhouette is stamped on the back of my eyelids. My head throbs. I never thought I’d relate to Harry Potter so strongly, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say Voldemort was close by.

Max sits down next to me on a plywood cube and pulls his leg up.

‘So, you know the set-up of the feature,’ says Lowanna.

‘Yes,’ says Max, at the same time as I say, ‘No.’

‘Great,’ says Lowanna, ignoring my response. She scrolls through the auto-prompt on her iPad. ‘Intro, couple of jokes, quick description of the spit samples, then results. Oh, and if you want to throw in the phrase “Who do you think you are?” that’d really help our Google ranking, but not too obvious. We can’t afford to get sued. Make some guesses about what you think you’ll discover. Ava, you’re up first, Max second, a lil’ reflection to close … and we’re done!’ Lowanna locks the iPad and hovers, the cups of her headphones held just above her ears. ‘All good?’

‘Yeah, s’fine,’ says Max, nudging me with his arm.

‘Don’t forget, push all your feelings into your face,’ says Lowanna, snapping her headphones back on. ‘Subtlety doesn’t work on camera.’

‘Yeah, about that. Can I have a quick look at the DNA results? I didn’t know we were meant to know them in advance.’

‘Uhh, no. Slight change of plan. We’ve decided to keep your results sealed until the big reveal. Max has been prepped for it. He’s got your back. Trust me, it’ll make for a better delivery.’

Max picks his teeth and flashes me a school photo smile. ‘Time to shine, buddy.’

I take a shallow breath as the set swims in front of me. Industrial lighting, the smell of heavy aftershave, and a drum-skin tightness across my forehead swash together and catch in my throat like bile. At the back of the studio, Duncan unfolds a chair in the gloom. He settles into it, his legs crossed at the ankle, observing all before him like the family patriarch. Max raises a hand to wave, but I’m barely keeping my cinnamon porridge down as it is, so don’t risk any non-essential movement.

‘Something must have caught his attention. Thanks, Tia.’ Max drops his gaze, heel jiggling, as Tia turns to me. She removes a wide brush from her holster and dusts my T-zone so thoroughly I’m sure she’s trying to lift fingerprints.

She steps away and I sense Max beside me, sitting tall and poised. He squeezes my knee and nods towards the camera, red light blinking. Lowanna clicks her fingers to get my attention and traces the line of her mouth, urging me to smile like an over-zealous pageant mum.

‘Quiet on set!’ comes a voice from the darkness. ‘Energy! Enthusiasm!! And we’re live in three, two, one …’

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