Page 86 of Who’s That Girl?

And with good cause.

Bracing myself, I tug it open and come face to face with more ice than is left in the Arctic. Anyone who’s worried about the polar ice caps disappearing would be reassured by this fridge. ‘Defrosting’ is obviously a word I wasn’t aware of when I was younger.

Nor was I familiar with the words ‘fruit’ or ‘vegetables’. Instead what lies waiting for me on the top shelf, my shelf in the shared fridge, are two cheese triangles, a half-used jar of pasta sauce and an unidentifiable fossilised object that could be anything, I think, looking at it curiously.

Is this how I used to survive? On instant noodles, ketchup, cheese triangles and pasta sauce? I’m surprised I never got scurvy or rickets or something.

I think back to my list and add to it:

17. Eat healthily.

‘You know, you really should try and eat a balanced diet,’ I advise Lottie, spying a dog-eared carton of milk at the back and pouncing on it. ‘You should eat a recommended five servings of fruit and vegetables a day.’ I glance over at Lottie, but she’s not listening. Crashed out on the dining-room table, she’s emitting a faint snore.

I give up on the dietary tips – for now, anyway – and turn back to making coffee. I take a quick sniff of the milk. Euccchh. It’s gone totally sour. In fact it’s gone past that and is a sort of solidified lump.

Hastily I put it back in the fridge. (Well, I would put it in the bin, but it’s already spilling over.) She’ll just have to drink it black. It’s better than nothing.

‘Here you go.’

I put the coffee and instant noodles in front of her, but she doesn’t stir. She’s out cold. I give her a shake and she wakes up, squinting in the light. For a moment she looks blearily around as if not realising where she is, then pounces on the coffee. ‘Mmm, thanks,’ she mumbles, perking up and taking a large gulp, followed by a spoonful of the gloop that is the instant noodles. ‘Yummy.’ She grins up at me. ‘Want some?’ She proffers the noodles.

‘No, thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Suit yourself.’ She smiles, taking another forkful. ‘More for me.’

Whatever, it seems to do the trick, and it’s not long before she’s revived enough to climb the stairs to her bedroom. I follow, partly out of curiosity, partly to make sure she doesn’t slip and fall back down the stairs. I throw out an arm as she wobbles precariously on the top step. Phew, that was a close call.

‘Well, here we are, home sweet home.’ Noodles in one hand, mug of coffee in the other, she bumps open her bedroom door with her hip. It swings open, revealing she’s left the light on. Saving energy was not my thing in those days. Neither, it would appear, was picking my clothes up off the floor.

Following her in, I stare at the scene that greets me. The only way I can describe it is this: imagine emptying your drawers and chucking everything on the floor. Then opening your wardrobe and pulling everything off the hangers and chucking those on the floor too. Add on top a few pairs of shoes. A coat. A couple of wet towels. And bingo, you’ve got my old bedroom.

‘Make yourself at home,’ grins Lottie, kicking off her shoes and flopping cross-legged on to the bedspread.

I look around for somewhere to sit. The room is so tiny I can barely turn round. There’s a small table and a fold-up plastic chair by the window and I perch uncomfortably on the edge. The table is cluttered with books. An ancient computer takes up most of the space, and there’s a pile of pages next to it.

‘I’m writing a novel,’ she says, seeing me look at them.

‘Oh wow, I’d forgotten about that,’ I murmur, remembering, then catch myself. Luckily Lottie hasn’t heard me; instead she’s busily tucking into her noodles.

‘I haven’t finished it yet, but I’m going to,’ she continues assuredly. ‘At the moment I’m working at a cross-stitch magazine, but I really want to be a writer. Ever since I was a little girl it’s been my dream. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.’ She smiles and takes another forkful. ‘What about you? What do you do?’

‘Oh, I … um … I run my own PR company,’ I say, focusing back.

‘Wow, really?’ Eyes wide, she looks impressed. ‘That’s amazing. Your own company. You must be mega successful!’

‘I wouldn’t say “mega”,’ I say modestly, but inside I feel a swell of pride at how well I’ve done, at how far I’ve come, I think, glancing at Lottie, sitting cross-legged on her rickety futon, in the middle of her poky little room, eating noodles.

‘I bet you live in an amazing flat, don’t you? As well as driving that amazing car.’

I smile as I remember giving her a ride home from the concert last night, and her oohing and ahhing about my heated leather seats. ‘Well, I like it …’

‘You’re so lucky.’ She sighs wistfully. ‘I’d love my own place and a new car one day. And some money would be nice.’

I smile, basking in her respect.

‘So do you love your job?’ she asks eagerly.

‘Well, I don’t know about love it,’ I admit, thinking about this last week. ‘There’s a lot of stress involved—’