y first instinct on entering the flat is one of panic. Bunty’s lying flat on the living-room floor in a shower of flashing lights. It’s only when she holds up a crystal necklace that I realise I probably don’t need to call an ambulance. She’s lying in a small patch of sunshine, waving the necklace so that tiny rainbows bounce around the walls.

Suffice to say, Kylie immediately runs in and tries to violently kill one.

“Bunty-boo,” Wilbur says, walking over and prodding my grandmother with a stripy sneaker. “May I join you?”

“Of course, darling. Take a pew.”

Wilbur lies down next to her, and they both watch the rainbows in silence. Finally he says, “Any ideas?”

“Quite a few, as it happens.”

“About—”

“Exactly.”

“And the—”

“I thought so too. Nothing yet but it’s getting there.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about, my little Paper-flip-chart,” Wilbur says with a smile.

“Harriet, darling, why don’t you go into the bedroom and have a little look round? See if there’s anything missing?”

The mouse in my brain suddenly wakes up and takes another nibble. I shift uncomfortably.

“Harry-chan?” a small voice says from the doorway. “Do we have visit? Is it Ted? Do we need more presents?”

“Is it Nick?” Poppy says from behind her. “I’ve been calling and calling him and …”

They spot Wilbur, and there’s suddenly silence. A strangely long and uncomfortable silence. The kind of silence you could drink, if you were interested in drinking silences.

“Poppy,” my agent says. “Cherry-winkle, I haven’t seen you since you jumped shipski to that other agency without cancelling our contract first. How’s tricks, Pumpkin?” There’s a slight edge to Wilbur’s voice that I haven’t heard before.

“Umm – hi, Wilbur,” Poppy says awkwardly, tucking her golden hair behind her ear and standing on a different foot. “Nice to see you again. How are you?”

“Fandabby, naturally, Darling-cake.” Then he looks straight at Rin. “And how’s my little Rin-chops?”

Wilbur knows Rin? How does Wilbur know Rin?

Then I see that Rin has gone bright red, and has immediately grabbed Kylie and buried her face in Kylie’s fur. “Wilbur-San,” she says, dropping into a low, formal bow. “Iamfinethankyouandyou?”

“Marvelly,” Wilbur says, sitting up. “And tell me, Sheep-pudding: have you found much work since Yuka dropped you from the Baylee campaign and replaced you with Harriet?”

Rin abruptly steps backwards until she’s pressed against the wall with Kylie held protectively in front of her.

What the sugar cookies is going on?

“Not so much,” she says in a small voice.

“Not at all, I’ve heard,” Wilbur says, flashing a glance my way.

I suddenly realise that although Rin said she was a model, she hasn’t actually mentioned a single modelling job since I got here.

“I am OK. I enjoy the chill time.” Rin’s cheeks are now scarlet.

“Of course you do,” Wilbur says. “Who doesn’t just adore penniless, anonymous unemployment, Rabbit-nose?”

My head is starting to make an incomprehensible buzzing sound. Rin used to be the Baylee model? I replaced her? I ruined her modelling career and I didn’t even know? I’ve Googled everything in the world that has ever happened ever, and it never occurred to me to look up the model I replaced last year?

“B-but I don’t understand,” I say, looking at both of my flatmates. “What are you saying—” and suddenly the mouse in my brain stops chewing.

Annabel changed the time on my alarm clocks.

While I was getting ready to leave the house for the airport, she changed my watch, my phone and all three alarm clocks. Dad had to help her screw on the back of the little bird because it was too tight.

A fraction of a second later, the mouse sighs and clonks me gently round the head.

I charged my phone the night before the sumo shoot. I know I did, because I had to get my six-piece adapter kit with snap-on plug out of my suitcase. And plug it in next to the doorway. Not under my bed.

There was no note about the doorbell next to my bed when I went to sleep.

The shoes at the sumo ring were pink, glittery and too small.

My brain continues making a few more whirring sounds, and – finally – the mouse stands up, rolls its eyes and punches me straight in the face.

No. No.

NO.

Feeling sick, I turn round and run to the bedroom; hoping I’m wrong, hoping I’ve made a mistake, hoping I’ve jumped to irrational conclusions. But I haven’t.

The corner of the room is empty.

The cockroach trap is gone.