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party tea consisted of plastic baskets of brown, hard, cold chips and some breaded bullet-shaped sticks of indeterminate origin. I hadn’t been expecting a nice fresh green salad or anything, but you’d have thought they could run to a slice of cucumber or two, or a few carrot sticks…although perhaps that was being too optimistic. The kids probably wouldn’t have touched anything that healthy with a bargepole. We got up to help the other parents distribute it.
    ‘What do you suppose that is?’ I asked, pointing at one of the unappetizing sticks with distaste.
    ‘I have no idea,’ replied Vicky. ‘It looks like something my cat would produce.’
    We were joined by another of the mothers, an attractive, slim woman with wavy blonde hair and an ankle bracelet. ‘I think it’s supposed to be a chicken nugget. Although I wouldn’t swear to it. I’m Diana, by the way, Susie’s mum—that’s her over there with the stripy dress. Whose mother are you?’ She addressed the question to me, but Vicky butted in.
    ‘Crystal’s; there, the one without bowling shoes on. They didn’t have any tens left, so the boy said she could wear her sandals—just as well, really, since she hasn’t got any socks on. I didn’t like to think of her feet in those strange shoes, I’m sure she’d have got blisters from them.’
    I made myself snap back to attention, becoming aware that the plastic basket in my hand was at a perilous slant.
    ‘And who knows what else, too. I’m glad Susie’s wearing socks.’ The woman turned back to me. ‘So, whose mother are you?’ she repeated.
    There was a pause. Vicky’s eyes met mine, then dropped away.
    ‘I’m Crystal’s godmother,’ I said eventually. ‘I’m just here to provide moral support. Is there a bar in here? I’m gagging for a gin and tonic.’
    ‘I don’t think so. Soft drinks only, as far as I can see.’
    I rolled my eyes. ‘This place is a nightmare. All this noise, and no booze? It’s a shame, isn’t it—bowling is such a fun thing to do.’
    Clearly relieved that the crisis seemed to have been averted, Vicky joined in. ‘Yeah—you know, someone should open a middle-class bowling alley. No slot machines. Chilled Sauvignon and canapés.’
    Susie laughed. ‘Classical music piped in instead of this Euro-disco nightmare stuff.’
    ‘Velvet sofas to wait on in between turns.’
    ‘Members only, and you have to be proposed and seconded...’
    ‘Elderflower cordial for the kids—organic, of course.’
    I caught Vicky’s teasing expression. I supposed I’d asked for it, with my earlier criticism about the lemonade, but all of a sudden I found I couldn’t keep up the banter. The depression which I usually managed to keep in check in public rose up like a swirling tide, threatening to cut me off. ‘I’m just going to the loo,’ I said, walking away. I knocked a discarded basket of chips to the floor and although I picked up the basket, I didn’t bother to collect up the dropped chips.
    The Ladies’ was back through the amusement arcade and out the other side, next to those machines where you dropped ten pences in and tried to shove the existing ones off a ledge. It never worked; the ledge of money just got thicker and thicker and more and more teetering, from what I remembered of youthful seaside forays into arcades. Pressure, building up and up—that was how I felt most days. Getting closer and closer to the edge but stopping just short of it. For the moment. It was ten months since Holly died, but it still felt like yesterday.
    When I got into the Ladies’ I just stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection in the artificial light. Everything was artificial here, I thought. The light, the lemonade, the food. My ability to act normally.
    The door opened and Vicky came in, bringing a blast of slot-machine noise with her. She joined me at the basins.
    ‘Are you following me?’
    ‘Not entirely. I need a wee too.’
    ‘Where’s