Page 85 of Who’s That Girl?

Quickly I snap to. ‘OK, everyone, smile!’

Everyone beams for the camera, and as I press the button, I look at Lottie, at my younger self, eyes wide, smile bright. There’s a flash and the shutter clicks, and I capture the moment for ever.

I offer to walk Lottie home. My car is parked outside her house. Plus, more crucially, she’s totally drunk and needs an escort. I don’t think she’ll get home without me.

Linking arms, we stroll back to her house. It’s a really warm evening. Or should I say early morning? Everything is quiet and slightly magical, as if the whole world is asleep but us.

Arriving at her house, she struggles with her house keys, and after dropping them on the ground three times, I take over. Deftly unlocking the door, I haul her inside.

‘I think I should make you a coffee, help you sober up a bit,’ I suggest, taking her through into the kitchen, which is in darkness, and plonking her on a chair.

Actually, I would plonk her on a chair if each one wasn’t heaped with piles of rubbish. Old tea towels, newspapers and, oh God, is that a pair of knickers? I recoil at the sight of what appears to be a discarded G-string. In the dimness I can’t tell if it’s clean underwear or not. And quite frankly, I’m not getting close enough to find out, I decide, grabbing a wooden spoon with my free hand and looping the thong over the handle. Hastily I drop it on to another pile. Trust me, there are plenty of piles to choose from – it’s like a mole’s been in here, only instead of mounds of earth, there’s just mounds of stuff everywhere. Clearing away a mound, I drape Lottie on a chair.

OK, I’ll put the kettle on.

Flicking on the light, which is just a bare bulb hanging forlornly from the ceiling, the kitchen is suddenly flooded by a hundred watts of harsh glare.

I freeze.

Sweet Jesus, there’s been a robbery! Someone’s ransacked the house!

As the thought flashes through my mind, panic ignites. Oh my God, I need to call the police, quick. What if they’ve stolen lots of stuff? What if – God forbid – the intruder’s still in the house? Panic fires up a notch to terror. Shit, where’s the phone?

And then suddenly I notice that my younger self isn’t jumping up and down yelling, ‘We’ve been burgled!’ On the contrary, she’s sitting very calmly on the chair as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

Because nothing is out of the ordinary, Charlotte.

All at once it registers. There hasn’t been a robbery, and nobody has ransacked the house – except the people who live here. I pause to take it in. Did I really used to live like this? My flatmates and I were pigs! Actually, no, pigs are cleaner. And they don’t leave underwear lying around … My eyes sweep the room – across every surface littered with dirty mugs, half-eaten food, shrivelled-up teabags and bowls with dried-on cereal, which would require a hammer and chisel to remove – and finally land on the pile of dirty dishes. It’s almost skyscraper in its proportions. And what about the rubbish? I glance with horror at the plastic swingbin, its top off, the black bin-liner spilling over with empty cans, most of which appear to be Heinz baked beans.

Then there’s the smell.

Gagging, I turn away. Unearthing the kettle, which, by the way, has so much limescale there’s no need to ever take calcium tablets, I fill it up (not an easy task – I have to wedge the spout between the tap and the pile of dishes, in a tricky manoeuvre that reminds me of a game of Jenga) and flick it on.

I think about my own lovely, spotlessly clean flat. Not for the first time am I glad I’m not Lottie any more.

I turn back to Lottie, who’s leaning forwards, the side of her face resting on the dining-room table, her eyes closed.

‘Coffee won’t be a minute,’ I encourage, trying not to let out a shriek as I look for a mug that doesn’t have mould growing in it.

‘Umm,’ she moans sleepily.

Somehow in the space of a few minutes she’s gone from euphorically life-and-soul-of-the-party drunk to falling-asleep-in-her-clothes-drooling drunk.

‘Maybe you should eat something too,’ I suggest.

‘Mmm.’

Gingerly I tug open a few cupboards. Back at my flat, my shelves are filled with packets of organic wholewheat pasta, jars of sundried tomatoes, a bottle of virgin olive oil …

Instant noodles.

I stare at them blankly. That’s it?

I rummage around a bit. There’s got to be something else, apart from instant noodles. Oh, hang on, there’s something else. A bottle of ketchup, which has gone all congealed and manky around the top and probably has the grand total of about one drop of ketchup left in it, and that’s only if you stand it upside down for a week.

Still, she needs to eat something, so it’s got to be the instant noodles or nothing, I decide, grabbing a pot in desperation and peeling off the lid. Mmm, very nutritious, I muse ironically. I dread to think how many additives and E-numbers are in there.

The kettle flicks off and I fill it up to the brim with hot water, then turn back to making coffee. Chipping away at the remnants in the bottom of the jar of Nescafé, I turn to the fridge for milk. Quite frankly, I’m scared what I’m going to find in there.