They keep Gloria in hospital for a week, to start her on some medication and to keep an eye on her. Edie visits her every day, and Harry pops in too. I manage to go a couple of times, but the rest of my time is taken up with revising or thinking about Liam, texting Liam, receiving texts from Liam, seeing him in class or generally wondering when the next kissing goodbye opportunity will arise.

I know Edie’s called Jenny to tell her the news. I don’t know what Jenny said, but it obviously wasn’t what Edie wanted to hear. Her face clouds over whenever Jenny’s name is mentioned.

I call Crow to let her know what’s happened. I haven’t seen her since before term began and I’m really missing the sight of her light in the basement workroom. More than anything, I just want to talk to her.

‘It’s sort of good news, in a way,’ I explain. I don’t want to alarm Crow too much. ‘Gloria’s agreed to see a therapist and talk things through. Plus she’s going to let social services visit, so Edie won’t have to go round so often.’

‘Good,’ Crow says.

There’s a bit of silence, while we both work out what to say next. Crow and telephones don’t mix brilliantly.

‘Er, did you get my email?’ I ask, eventually.

I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while. I sent the email ages ago. Since then I’ve been a bit busy with Liam and kisses and Gloria and stuff, but at the back of my mind I’ve still been worrying about Crow’s total lack of contact. I thought she liked emailing these days.

‘What email?’ she asks.

FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!

‘The one about the MIMOs. The one about your sketches for cotton print dresses,’ I say, crossly. The one about her whole new career as an international designer! Honestly! What email does she think it would be?

‘Mee-mos? Oh, that,’ she says. ‘I remember. Those sketches were just stuff I did when I was supposed to be revising for maths. I didn’t expect anyone to see them.’ She sounds guilty again, which is how I feel.

‘I’m sorry I sent them without asking you. But it seemed such a shame to waste them. I was so sure the MIMOs would be really excited about them.’

‘I’m glad you liked them.’

‘The MIMOs? I thought they were a bit weird, but—’

‘No, the sketches,’ she says. ‘I liked the way you described them.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I thought they were amazing. But what I think doesn’t matter any more. You need to talk to the MIMOs direct. I sent you their details. Promise me you’ll talk to them, Crow? Promise?’

‘OK.’ She sounds unconvinced. Maybe she has something totally different in mind. But I so want to be able to help her. I want it to be my thing she does. Not whatever else she’s thinking of.

‘How’s your family?’ I ask, as an afterthought. I’d hate her to think I’m just obsessed with her sketches. Although I suppose I am.

She sighs down the phone.

‘It’s difficult. Now Edie’s stopped doing her website, there’s not so much money for the school back home. Please don’t tell her, I know it will make her sad, but she was so good at raising money. Now it’s harder for my dad to buy books. And maybe they won’t be able to pay Henry to be a new teacher after all. So I’m designing some fabrics for the school bags because they say if the bags have my name on, they’re easier to sell. But you mustn’t worry, Nonie. I wasn’t going to tell you . . .’

I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. She wasn’t going to tell me? Why? Has she given up talking to me altogether? I have no idea how to end the conversation. I can hear a sort of judder in my voice as I say goodbye. I’ve obviously done something terribly wrong. Was it sending off the sketches, after all? I’m not sure. I’m not really sure about anything Crow-related any more.

Even Mum notices something’s up. She’s spotted that Crow’s hardly around at the moment, at least.

‘That girl’s working too hard,’ she says one day. ‘She needs some fun.’

WHAT? This, from the woman who would physically chain me to my laptop if she knew how. I say nothing.

‘It’s her birthday soon, isn’t it? Her sixteenth?’

I nod.

‘Sixteen’s a big deal,’ Mum goes on. ‘I’m sure if she was at home, her family would do something to mark the occasion. And Crow’s never really celebrated, has she?’

This is true. Up to now, we’ve normally been busy doing a collection or something and she hasn’t had much time to think about it. It only highlights what a fashion desert this year has become.

‘I’m happy to organise something for her,’ Mum offers. ‘If she wants. Can you find out what she’d like?’

I try and think of an excuse not to call her, but I can’t come up with anything, and besides, just because she doesn’t want to talk to me, that doesn’t mean she should miss out on a birthday party. So I call, and it’s as if nothing ever happened. She’s thrilled by the party idea and very grateful to Mum. I’m more confused than ever, but glad that Crow still gets on with at least one member of my family.

They decide on a grown-up dinner party, with close friends and family members. Mum suggests going to a posh restaurant in Mayfair. I’m not sure why. Our kitchen is perfectly good enough. But Crow loves the idea. And I suddenly realise that I really, really need somebody else to be there too.

‘Would you come?’ I ask Liam after French. ‘It will be truly awful. I mean, lovely for Crow, but full of my family. And they’ll probably ask you the most embarrassing questions. But . . . well, I don’t want to be there on my own.’

I know this is putting pressure on him, which I feel bad about, but at the moment I always feel I’m on my own unless he’s there.

He’s very brave about it. Positively cheerful, in fact.

‘I’d love to meet your family,’ he says. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask. They all sound totally mad from the way you talk about them. Particularly your granny. Bring it on!’

The restaurant is grown-up and sophisticated. Panelled walls and big, round tables with white tablecloths and a spotlight on each one. Photographs by one of Mum’s artists on the walls, which is spooky, but hopefully a lucky sign. And waiters who couldn’t be more attentive if we were Elton John and Alicia Keys.

Crow arrives in a special party outfit that consists of silver dungarees, a red and black ladybird cape and two little bobbing antennae in her enormous hair.

‘Ladybirds are lucky,’ she explains. ‘I want this to be a lucky year for me.’

Hopefully, having a giant silver ladybird at the table will be lucky for us all. However, once she sits down she blends so easily into the conversation that you sort of forget about the antennae and the cape. She spends ages chatting to Harry about Victoria’s bag-making empire in Uganda. Well, not exactly empire. Just this female co-operative making stuff, but it feels like an empire to me. And to Harry too, by the sound of it. He’s seriously impressed and offers to buy a bunch of bags to give to his friends at fashion shows. Maybe they will pay for part of a new computer for the school.

I’m sitting opposite them both. Harry gives me a puzzled frown and asks me what I’m thinking. I’m actually wondering whether Crow has talked to the MIMOs yet, but I lie and say I’m admiring Edie’s new haircut. She has finally, after many years, got it cut into a short bob and she looks beautiful. Crow suggested it, apparently. She’s sort of taken Edie under her wing since the Gloria thing. We all look across to where Edie’s sitting at the other end of the table. She’s brightened up a lot since Gloria came out of hospital. And the new haircut was a seriously good decision.

‘Better,’ Harry says, with a grin and a raised eyebrow. ‘Definitely better. She’s quite fit, in fact. Don’t tell her, though.’ This – from a boy who is constantly surrounded by models and engaged to a super-version – is about as good as it gets.

Liam, meanwhile, is being monopolised by Mum. After she’s asked him all the boring questions about A-level subjects and college applications they get onto favourite photographers, and it turns out that Liam knows nearly as much about Henri Cartier-Bresson as Mum does. In fact, it’s all going so bizarrely well that I start to wonder if the evening will be all right after all.

Then it’s Granny’s turn. I wince as she starts asking him about his family, and where they’re from, and whereabouts in Kensington they live exactly, and all sorts of ‘subtle’ questions designed to work out if he is from good stock and whether there might be some relative in the background with a yacht, or a trust fund, or something else useful. I can’t bear to listen. Because I know that Granny’s about to find out that Liam’s dad is a chef. Not a Michelin-starred one, but a chef at the local caff where we do our revision. And his mum’s a receptionist at the hospital where we took Gloria. As it happens, they do have a dinghy, which they keep at his uncle’s place on the west coast of Ireland, but if I tried to show off my graceful calves by jumping off that, I’d probably sink it.

I tune out, although I can’t help noticing Granny’s lips turning down a bit more with every new piece of information, and Liam’s turning up – because I’ve warned him about this and hopefully he’s finding the whole thing quite funny. Instead, I focus on my food, which is a yummy steak, and Mum, who’s now talking to Crow about wedding-dress designs.

‘The Galliano dress sounds amazing,’ Crow says. ‘Isabelle was telling me about it. He’s doing the one for the reception. It’s a narrow column dress at the front, but there’s a panel that balloons out at the back to make a sort of hidden train.’ Her fingers flutter as she describes it with her hands.

‘Beautiful,’ Mum says wistfully. ‘I like that Seventies vibe. It sounds just like what I’ve been imagining for myself.’

And then she gasps, shuts her mouth, stares at me for a moment, grabs her glass to hide her embarrassment and chokes on her wine.

It would have been fine if she’d just carried on talking. I wouldn’t have noticed. Or I’d have assumed she was being theoretical, or picturing some future party. But the gasping and the staring and the choking have given the game away. And my shocked expression must mean she knows it.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says to Crow. ‘I was thinking about . . . something else. So, tell me about . . . the other dress. The one for the evening do. Who’s doing that one?’

The trouble is, it’s too late. Mum’s got as far as picturing her wedding dress, and she still hasn’t talked to me. If she’s actually marrying Vicente, it must mean she’s thinking of moving to Brazil, because there’s no way he could live in London. He’s got all his eco-projects to look after. No wonder she hasn’t wanted to talk about it.

Liam touches my arm.

‘You OK?’

I nod. This is Crow’s evening and I can’t spoil it for her. The conversation goes on for a bit, but I can’t concentrate on it and nor, I can tell, can Mum. Then the restaurant lights go low and a man comes out of the kitchen with a big chocolate birthday cake, lit with sixteen tall white candles. It’s beautiful. Liam touches my arm again. I realise that everyone else is clapping, so I clap too.

The evening goes from uncomfortable to weird. The man carrying the cake isn’t one of the normal waiters. It’s the man from next door. The one who’s going to buy our house when Mum goes to Brazil.

‘This is Peter Anderson,’ Mum says, for the benefit of the people who don’t know. ‘He owns this restaurant. He kindly gave us the best table.’

Oh. So that explains the whole restaurant-in-Mayfair thing.

Harry and Edie shove up so that Peter can sit at our table. We all sing happy birthday to Crow. We eat cake. We drink coffee. Mum offers to pay the bill and Mr Anderson says no, he wouldn’t dream of it. We get our coats. We go outside. It isn’t until Liam’s face is about two centimetres from mine that I realise he’s about to kiss me goodbye. Normally I spend the previous half-hour building up to this moment. Now I hardly get the chance to savour it at all.

He looks into my eyes, worried.

‘Tell me tomorrow,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Whatever it is.’

I watch him go, and I wonder. There are things I haven’t told Crow, or Edie, or even Jenny. There are things I thought I’d never tell anyone. But this time I think, perhaps, I will.