‘Are you ready?’ I ask as soon as she picks up.

‘Almost!’ she trills. ‘Just made a quick adjustment to the outfit, and—’

‘What quick adjustment?’ I ask, suspicious.

‘Oh, well when I tried it on again I realised how dour and boring this dress that your PR people picked makes me look under the bright lights of the day,’ she says, ‘so I’ve tweaked the hemline and the neckline.’

I open my mouth to tell her off, and then close it again. Firstly, the damage is clearly already done – if she’s re-hemmed, the dress is unsaveable. And secondly, my risqué dress choice will look much better next to someone else who has also decided to show an unprofessional amount of skin.

‘Fine. We’ll pick you up at half past.’

‘Toodles!’ she says, hopefully ironically, though I’m not sure.

I check the time as I hang up. Ten minutes spare. (I had to factor in time for Rachel to get ready, which always takes at least fifty per cent longer than you think it will. She’ll blame it on me for making her do my hair, obviously, but it’s really because she is the self-proclaimed queen of contouring, and spends at least forty minutes subtly altering the shape of her face before she even gets started on eyes and lips.)

I’m just about to text Leon and see how he is when the flat phone rings.

‘What the fuck is that?’ shouts Rachel from the bathroom.

‘It’s our landline!’ I yell, already making a dash for the sound (it seems to be coming from the vicinity of the fridge). Dashing is not easy in this outfit – there’s a lot of billowing in the skirt region, and at least two risky moments where my bare foot catches in the tulle as I go. I wince as it yanks at my bad ankle. I can walk on it now, but it’s not enjoying this running thing. Not that my good ankle likes running either.

‘It’s your what?’ Mo asks, sounding amused.

‘Our landline,’ I repeat, fumbling around with the unbelievably large quantity of things on our kitchen surfaces.

‘I’m sorry, you didn’t tell me this was the 1990s,’ calls Rachel, just as I find the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Tiffy?’

I frown. ‘Richie? Are you all right?’

‘I’ll be honest with you, Tiffy,’ he says, ‘I’m shitting myself. Not literally. Though it might be a matter of time.’

‘Whoever it is, I hope they’re enjoying the latest Blur CD,’ Rachel calls.

‘Hang on.’ I head for the bedroom and close the door firmly behind me. With difficulty, I rearrange my skirt so that I can perch on the edge of the bed without anything ripping. ‘Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, in a van or something? How are you calling me? They have remembered your court date, right?’

I’ve heard enough horror stories from Gerty and Leon now to know that prisoners don’t always make it to court when they should, thanks to the various prison-related bureaucracies that are required to overlap in this situation. They moved Richie down to a (even grimmer) London prison a few days ago so he’d be in the area for the trial, but there’s still the journey from the prison to the courthouse. I feel physically sick at the thought of all this preparation going to waste because someone forgot to call someone else about transportation.

‘No, no, I’ve done the van bit,’ Richie says. ‘Barrel of laughs, let me tell you. Somehow spent five hours in there, though I could have sworn we weren’t moving for half of it. No, I’m at the courthouse now, in a holding cell. I’m not really allowed a phone call, but the guard is an Irish lady, and she says I remind her of her son. And that I look terrible. She told me to call my girlfriend, but I don’t have one, so I thought I’d call you, since you’re Leon’s girlfriend and that’s close enough. It was that or Rita from school, who I don’t think I ever technically broke up with.’

‘You’re rambling, Richie,’ I tell him. ‘What’s the matter? Is it nerves?’

‘“Nerves” makes me sound like I’m an old lady. It’s terror.’

‘That does sound better. More horror movie. Less fainting because your corset is too tight.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Is Gerty there?’

‘I can’t see her yet. She’s busy doing whatever lawyers do, anyway. I’m on my own now.’ His tone is light and self-deprecating, as always, but you don’t have to listen hard to hear the tremor in his voice.

‘You are not on your own,’ I tell him firmly. ‘You have all of us. And remember – when we first spoke you told me you’re coming to terms with being in prison. Well, that’s the worst-case scenario here. More of what you have already coped with.’

‘What if I vomit in the courtroom?’

‘Then someone will clear the room and call a cleaner, and you’ll pick up where you left off. It’s not exactly going to make the judges think you’re an armed robber, is it?’

He gives a strangled version of a chuckle. For a moment there is silence.

‘I don’t want to let Leon down,’ he says. ‘He’s got his hopes up so high. I don’t want— I can’t bear to let him down again. Last time was the worst thing. Honestly, it was the worst. Seeing his face.’

‘You have never let him down,’ I say. My heart is thumping. This is important. ‘He knows you didn’t do it. The . . . the system let you both down.’

‘I should have just taken it. Served my sentence and got out, and let him get on with his life in the meantime. All this – it’s only going to make everything worse for him.’

‘Leon was going to fight no matter what you did,’ I say. ‘He was never just going to let his little brother get picked on. If you’d given up, that would have hurt him.’

He takes a big, juddering breath, and lets it out again.

‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Breathing. I hear that’s a good one for those with delicate nerves. Have you got any smelling salts?’

That gets another chuckle, a little less strangled this time.

‘Are you calling me a pussy?’ Richie asks.

‘I fully believe that you’re a very brave man,’ I tell him. ‘But yes. I’m calling you a pussy. In case that helps you remember how brave you are.’

‘Ah, you’re a good girl, Tiffy,’ Richie says.

‘I’m not a dog, Richie. And – now that you’re hopefully less green . . . Can we go back to how you just said “Leon’s girlfriend”?’