I rush into Waterstones and look around for Callie. She’s standing at a table of books holding two already. I spot a Foyles carrier bag on the floor next to her, she’s obviously had a good shopping session in the station, she must have caught an early train from Shrewsbury. I watch her before she’s seen me – she looks relaxed, holidayed and happy. As if she senses me, she looks up, drops both books back and runs to me.

‘Congratulations!’ I hold out my arms to her.

‘I know, right? I was starting to think I might not get in anywhere,’ she laughs with the ease of someone who’s safe. ‘You know the theatre school’s around the corner from your hospital?’ Of course, I know where it is. While I’m stuck in hospital, she’ll be starting at Birmingham Theatre School.

‘So, how was the holiday?’ I change the subject.

‘A-MAZE-ING. Total blast. But I missed you a disgusting amount,’ she says into my hair. We part and she carries on. ‘There was loads of street theatre and singing in the evenings, which you’d have loved. I wish you’d come with us. They even had snow globes there! I got you one, total cheese-fest with glitter and plastic figurines.’

I remember the awkward moment her parents asked if I wanted to come with them. Even if we’d had money for the flight I couldn’t have left Mum. It wouldn’t have been fair – but now, looking at Callie, I kind of wish I had.

‘How was Ethan? Did you get to skip the queue again?’ I ask.

‘You’re not going to believe this but he was fine this time. We went through a different entrance from everyone else. Mum organised it with the airport first. Dad bought Ethan’s ear defenders and his blanket. It all worked, especially the stuff I downloaded for him on to his iPad. So, have you heard from him yet?’ She doesn’t need to say his name.

I shake my head. ‘Did you make Ethan a social storybook again?’ I ask, avoiding the subject.

‘Yeah, Mum made one this time. It had photos of the villa and his bedroom there, the toys he could take with him, the pool, the plane, both airports. She even did a “how many sleeps” count down in the book. The owners were lovely and sent their own photos of the garden which weren’t on the website so Ethan could picture it all before we got there. Their granddaughter is autistic so they were really helpful,’ Callie explains. It had been her idea to make a photo-book for Ethan when they moved house a few years ago. ‘Anyway, Miss Sidestep-the-question, why haven’t you heard from Riley?’

‘Dunno. It’s been two weeks now and nothing,’ I tell her.

‘Have you sent more emails or texts?’

I nod.

‘Tell you what, if karma doesn’t get him I will. You shouldn’t have asked him to meet you. It was too soon,’ Callie tells me as we walk through the adult fiction section and head up the stairs to the YA department.

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ I rush up the stairs.

‘All right! Calm down, don’t take it out on me…’ she replies, catching me up.

‘I’m not, it’s just when you say stuff like that… I don’t need to hear it!’ I try and calm down but it isn’t easy. It happens so quickly, the flaring up and the volume and the anger.

‘Alright,take it easy.’ She shakes her hair out – she must have had it relaxed: the box braids have been replaced by a sleek short bob. She puts on a smile and starts chatting, as if we were in the middle of a perfectly lovely conversation, neatly negotiating the edges of an argument. ‘So where were you last night? I called round as soon as we got back with your snow globe but your mum said you were out, with Nonno.’

‘Oh, he took me to Stratford for the day,’ I tell her carefully, although I’m not sure why I’m being cagey. I should tell her it was my idea.

‘Ah, he’s so lush, isn’t he? Wish my grandfather was more like him. So, what did you see?’ she asks, putting down another book.

‘Top Girls.’

‘Oh, that’s my play! I could have come!’ she whines.

‘Two weeks in a French villa not enough for you?’ skips out of my mouth before I can get a handle on it.

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant it could have been fun to come too. And I asked you to come with us on holiday,’ she reminds me.

‘I know, I know. Sorry, ignore me,’ I apologise. ‘Anyway, it was a last-minute thing.’

‘So, what was it like? Good cast?’ Callie asks.

‘Incredible. All-female cast and crew. I think Lucia was the best, she played Angie in such a unique way, really focusing on her proximity to other characters by invading their personal space. Susannah, that’s the director, was so clever, the way she’d get them to deliver a line completely differently in rehearsal so that it changed the meaning of the scene every time.’ I can’t stop now I’ve started. ‘Susannah told me she wanted the set to be minimalist with costumes hanging down and just a table and chairs because…’

‘Hang on, how do you know this Susannah director woman? Did you get to go backstage? Who’s Lucia?’ Callie interrupts, saying their names like I’ve cheated on her. ‘Hope?’ She grabs my arm.

‘I did a bit of a workshop with them. Well, I got to watch them rehearse,’ I tell her.

She looks hurt, jealous, cross and then something else, her face changing frame by frame.

‘I was going to tell you,’ I add in quickly. ‘It all happened at the last minute.’

‘Yeah, so you said.’ She takes her arm away from mine. ‘This book looks good,’ she says, picking up the first book she can lay her hands on.

‘Cal, I was going to tell you.’ I reach out to touch her but she moves on to the next table.

‘I’ve been wanting to read this for ages,’ she tells me, practically shoving a book into my hands. I look down at it. ‘It’s a Malorie Blackman, so you know it’s going to be good. You should get it, Hope. It’s about Othello.’ She’s talking and talking and talking, not letting me explain.

‘I remember it. Jealousy, right?’ I challenge.

‘Yeah, right. So, the RSC, hey?’ she sighs. ‘Lucky you.’

‘Yes, the RSC.’ I put the book back on the table.

‘Some people get all the luck,’ she says under her breath, with just enough volume for me to hear her.

‘Are you serious, Callie? Are you mad? I mean, look at you! Swanning off to your French villa with your perfect family before you start your real life, the life you want, the life I want. I get fuck all luck!’ I tell her hard. I tell her loud. I tell her the truth because right now she can’t see it.

‘God, I didn’t mean it like that. Just y’know, you’re connected. Your Nonno’s got connections. I wish I had someone like him in my life, that’s all,’

‘He’s hardly connected. He just knew someone whose granddaughter was in the cast. I asked him to ask her for a favour, okay? It was my idea, not Nonno’s. There’s no such thing as luck, you have to make stuff happen,’ I tell her. She’s living in a fairy tale. ‘And anyway, you weren’t even in the country, so I couldn’t have asked you to come, could I?’

I’m shouting and I don’t care. I’m making my own scene right now, directing, writing, producing and starring in it, and we’re beginning to gather a very British audience of browsers pretending not to eavesdrop on our row.

‘You want to know the truth? The holiday was boring, alright? Happy now? I sat about by the pool and read all my books and listened to Ethan telling me how air-conditioning units work and what the chances of the plane crashing on the way home are. Mum and Dad pretty much argued on and off the whole time about re-mortgaging the house. Oh and the best part was it rained. For a whole week, so much for sunny south of France. And if you’d been there, instead of hobnobbing with your connections at the RSC, it would have all been okay! I wouldn’t have given a crap about the rain!’ Now she’s loud too. Our audience is growing.

‘Well, you didn’t say that, did you? How was I to know? And don’t be stupid, we might be Italian but we’re not in with the mafia, okay? Connections, grow up, Callie! It was just a rehearsal. It’s not like it’s going to lead anywhere. It was just one random day. And if you’d been here I would have asked you to come with me,’ I tell her, secretly glad I didn’t have to make that choice.

‘Really?’ she asks, hope in her eyes.

‘Really. And you’ll always be my Marlene,’ I add to make her laugh. And it works.

The audience disperses, returning to the blurbs on the books they’ve been holding all this time.

‘So, I’m going to wander. Meet you in the coffee shop in ten?’ she asks me. Just like that, it’s over for her. She knows it was just one day and it meant nothing. I’m not going to be given the keys to the RSC stage door.

‘Alright. See you in ten,’ I agree, relieved to have a bit of time and space apart. I look at Callie to check she’s really fine, but she’s already on the floor reading, escaping easily into someone else’s world.

I spot a small section tucked away in the corner: the self-help zone. I skim the shelves, over a lot of parenting guides: The Terrible Twos, The Tricky Tweens, The Turbulent Teens and Eat Yourself Thin and Think Yourself Slim. There’s lots on psychology. It has a whole subsection on depression, which is brilliant for those who are depressed, but I need something different and I can’t find it. It seems like no one knows about this period problem, apart from way too many people on the internet. I need a book on PMDD, a chunky book, full of references and bibliographies and contents and indexes and help.

‘Can I help you?’ a member of staff asks. I freeze. I try to say no but my head goes up and down, and then I stare at her, in silence, for way too long.

‘What are you looking for? Do you know the author?’

I shrug. Why am I not talking? Yes, there’s something I’m looking for, but I can’t seem to say it to her.

‘There aren’t any books on it. It’s fine, I’ll find something online,’ I tell her finally.

‘Are you sure? I could look it up on our system if you like?’ She points to the cash desk and the computer. I smile and follow her across the shop. She has curly red hair and a huge gap between her front teeth. Her tongue is pierced and for a second I can’t take my eyes off it.

‘I said, do you know the title?’ I shake my head. She laughs. ‘How about the colour?’ She’s trying hard. This is the part where I’m supposed to talk. I clear my throat.

‘No, sorry. It’s about PMDD. Don’t worry, you won’t find anything, I don’t think. I don’t want to waste your time.’

She smiles, silver bracelets clanking. She starts typing into her search engine, frowning.

‘Nope, you’re right, nothing coming up. I’ll do a search, what does PDMM stand for?’

‘It’s PMDD not PDMM. Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get back to work.’

She looks disappointed. ‘If you find the title you’re looking for, come back and I’ll order it in for you,’ she offers. But she can’t help me because there’s a gap on the shelf.