‘Ta-dar!’ She flings open the door.

‘Nice,’ I say. ‘What is it, exactly?’

‘It’s a playsuit, divvy. A vintage one.’

‘So when would you wear it?’

‘Anywhere, shopping?’

Not shopping with me you won’t!

‘Hanging out in cafés, in Battersea Park, maybe with some high-heeled sandals,’ she says, doing a funny pose like one of those vintage postcards of ladies in 1920's bathing suits.

‘And I got these …’ She shoves a pair of shoes in my face. ‘And this …’ she puts on a purple trilby. ‘Cool, or what? And there were loads of stalls and some right nutters selling stuff. There was this bloke, right, he came up to me and he was going, “marijuana”, but pronouncing it with a “J” which cracked me up. So he was like, “Do you wan-na, some maru-ju-ana?”’ She puts her hand on her hip and says it with a convincing Jamaican accent, which, despite myself, makes me laugh. A little. ‘Then he was like, “Do you wan-na some Es?” That’s when I texted you.’

Es? At Camden Market? Why was I never offered Es at Camden Market? Well, could be I’ve never been to Camden Market …

‘And, guess what? Jerome was there!’

‘Who on earth’s Jerome?’

‘A guy I met on the way here on the train – you know, the one who rang me yesterday?’

So that’s who she was going all coy with.

‘Anyway, he’s somethin’ spesh, he is. Such an inspiring person. He says he wants to photograph me. He says I have a very interesting look.’

‘Lexi,’ I groan. I get that feeling, like stop the train, I want to get off. ‘You can’t just meet up with randoms off the train and let them take your picture. This is London. A big, scary, dangerous city.’

I’ve been thinking all day about what Dad said on the phone, but it’s only later, when I’ve drunk the best part of half a bottle of wine, that I pluck up the courage to talk to her.

‘So, Lexi …’ She’s slumped on the sofa in the playsuit; laptop open, one eye on Facebook. ‘I think we need to chat.’

‘Wow, sounds serious. Are you about to dump me?’

‘No!’ Sometimes, Lexi strikes me as very sophisticated. Then she says things like that and she sounds about twelve.

I reach over and slowly close her laptop.

‘Look, you know you’re very welcome to stay …’ I start.

‘But,’ she says.

‘But?’

‘There’s a “but” in there, isn’t there?’

‘No, not exactly.’ God, I’m crap at this. ‘It’s just, Dad’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. I think we need a plan for this summer, that’s all.’

‘What sort of plan?’

‘A plan, you know? A goal. An aim.’

‘God, now you sound like Mum and Dad. They can’t go to the toilet without a personal goal.’

I resent this comparison. I hardly think me suggesting a few things for Lexi to concentrate on constitutes a ‘motivational talk’ on a level with the talks (that’ll be evangelical lectures) Dad and Cassandra give as key speakers with the Healing Horizons Forum (that’d be cult) that they run. And anyway, it was Dad who insisted I talked to her. I would quite happily have avoided anything of the sort.

‘I made a list,’ I say, finally.

‘Not another one! You’re obsessed with lists.’

‘Oh, that’s unfair.’

‘I don’t think it is. I’ve seen them all over the place. You make so many lists, I’m surprised you have time to do anything on them.’

‘Lists help you to focus,’ I say, grabbing my notebook and opening it at the page that says LEXI’S FIVE POINT PLAN. ‘Number one, your room.’

‘Oh, you’ve seen it?’

‘Yes, and I nearly had a seizure, so please sort it out. Moving swiftly on. Number two, you need to get a job. If you’re not going back to sixth form – which, incidentally is number three, we need to discuss sixth form properly – then you need to know what else you’re going to do. I thought we could draw up your options.’

‘Make a list you mean?’

‘Number four,’ I sigh. ‘You need to call Dad.’

‘I’ll call him tomorrow.’ She shrugs

‘Good, well that’s all of them.’

‘That’s it? That’s the list?’

‘Yup. Told you it wasn’t serious.’

‘But you said there were five points,’ she says, edging closer.

‘Did I?’ I move my hand so that it covers up the fifth point. The bit Dad told me to do. The bit about finding out what’s actually wrong with Lexi.

She uncurls my fingers from the notepad.

‘Find out what’s wrong with Lexi,’ she reads out. ‘God!’ She flops dramatically onto the sofa. ‘Did Dad put you up to this? He did, didn’t he? There’s nothing wrong with me, except that everyone keeps asking what’s wrong with me, and my parents treat me like I’m depressed, or a total mentalist or like it’s not totally normal for a seventeen-year-old to not know exactly where she’s going or what to do with her life.’

‘Of course it’s normal,’ I say. ‘I’m thirty-two and I still haven’t really got a clue what’s going on with my life.’

‘Liar!’

‘It’s true! It’s just, Dad said—’

‘I don’t care what Dad said. He’s such a moron sometimes. I mean, I love him, but he doesn’t understand me. He and Mum, they’re always like: “You could do anything you want to do, Alexis. The world is your oyster!” But what if you don’t know what you want to do? What then?’

‘I thought you said you wanted to be a shoe designer?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean that really. I’m crap at Art A level.’

‘I’m sure you’re not.’

‘I am. I’m crap at all my A levels.’

Her face goes bright red and she looks like she might cry.

‘Look,’ I say, realizing this isn’t going anywhere. ‘We don’t have to talk about it now.’

‘Good,’ she says, ‘because there’s no big secret. I just came here to have fun, that’s all. I just want to have a good time.’

So why are you crying? I want to say. But of course, I don’t.

CHAPTER FIVE

Caroline. Sorry, can’t do exhibition tomorrow. Got an unavoidable appointment. Enjoy though.

I stare at the text again. The umpteenth time in two days. Why didn’t he just call me? Caroline, too. Martin never calls me Caroline. And no kiss. Not even a friendly exclamation mark.

I call him one more time but it goes straight to answerphone and this time I don’t leave a message. Still, Martin doesn’t know how to be enigmatic so maybe he does, actually, have an unavoidable appointment; probably something to do with his wisdom teeth.

It’s been almost a week since Lexi arrived, and, since the hair-dyeing fiasco and the tattoo, she’s been on best behaviour. She seems to love this job with Wayne, who has already achieved guru status in my house.

‘Wayne reckons people who write obsessive To Do lists are masking unhappiness,’ said Lexi the other day, as I added ‘dry-clean rugs’ to the list pinned to the fridge.

‘Does he now?’ I said, thinking does anyone actually talk like that? And anyway, since when was a complete stranger qualified to comment on my state of mind?

‘Yeah. He reckons they’re just avoiding the big stuff.’

‘Oh, right. I see. And what is this big stuff, according to Wayne?’

‘Dunno, life I s’pose. He didn’t really go into that bit.’ I rolled my eyes.

‘That’ll be because Wayne – who I am sure is lovely but who basically runs a jumble sale for a living, let’s not forget – doesn’t really know what he’s talking about.’

In truth, I don’t really care what Wayne says, as long as Lexi enjoys working for him and he gives her some focus. I’m still pretty worried about her. She won’t talk to me, not really. We’ve chatted a bit about how she hated sixth form, a lot about her friend Carly and her disastrous love life, but nothing about hers. Once or twice, late at night, I’ve heard her having hushed, stressed conversations on the phone but I think I’ve finally worked out what that’s about.