‘Marvellous. What for?’ says Matthew, without looking up from his computer screen. We’re on air in just under ten minutes and almost everyone, including Madeline, has already gone through to the studio.

‘Brunch,’ I say.

‘With who?’ He looks up at me, giving me his half-full attention. Then I see his expression change as he notices my new dress, my make-up, my hair, bullied into shape by brushes and hot air. He sits up a little straighter and his left eyebrow exerts itself into an appreciative arch. I find myself wondering whether he is actually gay or whether I had just presumed that he was.

‘Today’s panel. The women in their fifties guests. We talked about it last week,’ I say.

‘Did we?’

‘Yes. You said you’d take them out after the show, talk through some future ideas.’

‘What future ideas?’

‘You said we needed to be more innovative, shake things up a bit.’

‘That does sound like me.’

It doesn’t. When he hesitates, I bombard him with more well-rehearsed words. ‘They’re expecting to meet you straight after the show, but I can cancel it if you want me to, make up some excuse?’

‘No, no. I think I do remember now. Is Madeline joining us?’

‘No, it’s just you and the guests.’ He frowns. ‘So they can talk freely about what they think works and what doesn’t.’ I didn’t rehearse that part, but the words form themselves and do the trick.

‘OK, I suppose that makes sense. I’ve got a physio appointment at three, so I’ll need to head home straight after.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

‘And joining us now on Coffee Morning are Jane Williams, the editor of Savoir-Faire, the UK’s biggest-selling women’s monthly magazine, and the writer and broadcaster Louise Ford, to talk about women working in the media in their fifties,’ says Madeline, before taking a sip of water. For once, she looks as uncomfortable as I feel in the studio. I dig my fingernails into my knees beneath the desk as hard as I can; the pain calms me enough to stop me from running out of the tiny, dark room.

I set up a fake Twitter account last night, took me five minutes when Paul was having a shower before we went to bed. I posted a few pictures of cats I found on the Internet and had over a hundred followers by the time I woke up. I hate cats. I can’t pretend to understand social media, either. I mean, I get it, I just don’t understand why so many people spend so much time engaging with it. It’s not real. It’s just noise. Still, I’m glad that they do. Is Madeline Frost leaving Coffee Morning? has been retweeted eighty-seven times since I posted it twenty minutes ago and the #FrostBitesTheDust hashtag is proving very popular. That bit was Jo’s idea.

The make-up I don’t normally wear feels heavy on my skin. My red lipstick matches my new dress and the carefully selected armour makes me feel safe. The protective mask hides my scars and soothes my conscience; I’m only doing what I must to survive. I catch myself slipping out of character and stare down at my red fingers. At first I think I’m bleeding, but then realise I’ve been picking the skin off my red-stained lips.

I sit on my hands for a moment, to hide them from myself. I have to stay calm or I’ll never get through this. I realise I’m chewing on my lower lip now, my teeth picking up where my fingers left off. I stop and focus all of my attention on Madeline’s half-empty glass. The hiss and fizz of the sparkling water it holds seems to get louder as my eyes translate the sound to my ears. I retune them to the noise of her voice instead and try to steer myself back to centre.

I smile at each of the studio guests sitting around the table with us. So good of them to come in at such short notice. I study their faces as they continue to talk over one another, all of them present and incorrect for the same reason: self-promotion. Each one of us is sitting here with a motive today. If you were to strip us all down to our purest intentions, the lowest common denominator would always be wanting to be listened to, needing to be heard above the noise of modern life. For once, I don’t want to be the one asking the questions; I wish someone would listen to my answers and tell me whether my version of the truth is still correct. Sometimes the right thing to do is wrong, but that’s just life.

The smile stretched on my face starts to ache. My attempt to portray a happy persona has been effective but exhausting and I find myself repeatedly checking the clock on the studio wall. Time is running out for me and yet, here in this room, it has slowed down, trapping me in locked minutes. Each time my eyes bore of looking down at the script, they look up at the clock until I become transfixed, following the large hand as it plots its clockwise rotation to oblivion. A sound of ticking that I have never noticed before today gets louder and louder until I can barely hear what the guests are saying. I see the faces of the team in the gallery, it feels like they’re all staring at me. I look for Jo, but she isn’t there. I’m picking the skin off my lip again. I stop, irritated by my lack of self-control and rub my lipstick-stained fingers on the cloth of my dress. Red on red. I must try harder not to be myself.

When the show finally reaches its conclusion, I take pleasure in watching Madeleine retreat to her office, knowing exactly what she’ll find there. I thank the guests, someone has to, and leave them with Matthew, who has his coat on, ready to take them out. I pop to the toilets to check that my mask is still in place. Madeline’s current PA is there, staring at herself in the mirror. She looks tired and there is a sadness behind her eyes that makes me want to save her. I smile and she gives me a half-hearted smile in return. One of her many jobs each morning is to go through Madeline’s mail; she’s too busy and important to read it herself. There’s always a tidy pile to tackle: press releases, invites, free stuff, the usual. She gets more post than the rest of the team put together, including me. Then there’s the fan mail. That gets left on her desk after the show. She likes to read anything that looks like a personal letter herself once we’re off air and then she marks the ones that she deems worthy of a reply with a small red sticker. She doesn’t keep the letters. She inhales the admiration and breathes out arrogance, her own bespoke photosynthesis. The letters with red stickers get sent a signed photo of Madeline. She doesn’t write the replies, she doesn’t even sign the photos, that’s another job for her PA. I watch her reapply her make-up and wonder how she feels, pretending to be someone that she’s not every day.

I head for the meeting room and wait with the others for the debrief. Jo gives me a nod as I take a seat, Project Madeline is so far going according to plan. A low rumble of chatter has sparked over the rumours of Madeline’s departure online, and I’m pleased to hear word is spreading. Lies can seem true when told often enough. The hot gossip is extinguished as soon as she enters the room. Madeline slams the glass door behind her and sits down at the table. I’m guessing she’s seen Twitter too. She can’t figure out how to print her own scripts, but she can tweet. I know she checks her account after each show, to make sure her fifty thousand ‘followers’ still adore her, and discovering that she’s trending for all the wrong reasons will not have gone down well.

‘Where’s my coffee?’ she barks at nobody in particular. Her PA’s face burns bright red.

‘It’s . . . right there, Madeleine,’ she says, pointing at the steaming cup on the desk.

‘That’s not my mug. How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘It’s in the dishwasher.’

‘Then wash it. By hand. Where’s Matthew?’

I stare at her, this successful, formidable woman and wonder where all her anger comes from. I know things about Madeline, things that I shouldn’t and that she’d rather I didn’t, but it still doesn’t explain all the hate. I clear my throat and ball my hands into fists beneath the table. Time to deliver my lines.

‘Matthew has taken Jane and Louise out for a meeting and some food,’ I say.

‘What? Why?’ asks Madeline.

‘I’m not sure. He said he’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day.’

Madeline is quiet for a moment. Everyone waits while she looks down at the table, a small frown folding itself onto her already heavily lined face.

‘Right, well, maybe someone else can explain to me where this “Women at Fifty” idea came from. This morning was the first I heard about it.’

I let the others do the talking while I sit back to study my enemy. Her dark-rimmed glasses perch on the end of her upturned nose and behind them her dead eyes dart around the room.

Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?

Her long, witch-like nails drum an impatient beat on her notebook and I spot something poking out from between its white pages, the crisp edge of a red envelope. She’s read it then. I smile to myself.

Step One is complete.

Before

Thursday, 24th October 1991

Dear Diary,

So Taylor, the girl I sit next to in class, wants to be friends. She didn’t say that, but I can just tell. It’s a problem. She’s a nice girl, doesn’t seem to be very popular, but that isn’t what’s bothering me. Being popular isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, people expect too much from you. Far better to blend in with the crowd, that way, when you do shine, people notice.

One of the popular kids was mean to Taylor in the changing rooms before hockey today. Kelly O’Neil, who always has a tan because her family go on lots of holidays, is not a nice person. She called Taylor flat-chested, which is stupid, we’re all flat-chested – we’re ten. Everyone laughed, not because it was funny, but because they’re scared of Kelly, which is also stupid. She’s just a spoilt moron. Taylor’s cheeks went all red but she did a good job of blinking away the tears in her eyes. Nana used to say that if you didn’t let the tears out of you they can turn to poison. Mum says only babies cry and that it is a sign of weakness. I think it must depend on the type of tears because I catch her crying all the time.

There are three things I’ve cried about recently, when nobody could see:

1. Nana being dead.

2. My fountain pen leaking all over Little Women.

3. Going to bed with no dinner and my tummy hurting so badly I couldn’t sleep.

Hockey was cold and boring. It started to rain halfway through but we carried on playing. The PE teacher said that a little rain never hurt anyone. She looked like she could do with some exercise herself. She said the grass on the hockey pitch was bare in places from over use and under care, so I tried not to run on the bald patches, hoping that would help. I was running for the ball on the wet grass when I slid. I stretched my hands out in front of me to break my fall and let go of my stick. It was only when I stood up afterwards that I saw what had happened. My stick had flown through the air and hit Kelly O’Neil in the face. Her nose was bleeding and everything. It was an accident, so I didn’t feel too bad about it. Nana used to say that there was no such thing as accidents and that everything happens for a reason. I don’t know what I think about that. Sometimes stuff happens when you don’t mean it and just because no one believes you, it doesn’t mean that you did it on purpose.

I just heard a plate smash downstairs. I listened on the landing for a while. Dad was yelling that it nearly hit his head. Plates don’t tend to fly through the air by themselves, so I’m guessing Mum threw it at him. They smash plates for fun in a country called Greece. I heard Kelly O’Neil telling people about that in the changing rooms before hockey. She’s been to Greece on holiday. Twice. I’ve never been abroad, but I have been to Brighton. We went there for the weekend once, me, Mum and Dad. I think they were happy then. They’re definitely not happy now. I can’t remember what Dad looks like when he smiles. Mum looks sad all the time and is bigger than she used to be. She’s started wearing leggings with stretchy waistbands instead of her jeans. Maybe that’s why Dad is so angry all the time. I did hear him say that she had let herself go, which means not looking as good as you used to and being unattractive.

I’ve closed my bedroom door but I can still hear them. I’ve got Nana’s doorstop on the bed with me now for company, seeing as it no longer has a job to do. I like the feel of it, heavy brown metal, shaped like a robin. It was one of Nana’s favourite things and now it is one of mine. The best thing about being a bird is that you can always fly away. This one can’t though, he has to stay here, with me, in our room. He can’t fly, or sing, or build a nest of his own somewhere far from here. I bet he would if he could though.

I’m going to have a big think about whether to be friends with Taylor or not. Nana always said it was good to sleep on things, which means if you think about the thing you’re worried about when you go to sleep, then you’ll dream about it and hopefully wake up with the right answer in your head. I tend to forget my dreams as soon as I’ve woken up, they’ve never shown me the answer to anything.

Then

Tuesday, 20th December – Afternoon

I get home early, hoping to talk to Paul but he isn’t here. I expect he’s gone for a walk. He does that a lot, says it helps with the writing when the words won’t come. The words often don’t come lately and I think his world must get awfully quiet. The house is quiet too and I’m not sure what to do. I open the fridge and stare at its contents for far longer than is necessary, there’s barely anything inside. I grab a cold soft drink and sit down at the kitchen table, facing out at the garden. The cloudless sky is bright blue, the grass is green, only the leafless trees and chill in the air give away the fact that this isn’t a summer’s day. It’s a very different scene to the one I stared at last week, home alone one night while Paul was on one of his research trips, convinced that somebody was out there in the darkness, trying to get in. I swear I heard footsteps and the sound of someone attempting to open the back door. Paul thinks I dreamt it. I shake the thought.

The can makes a psst noise when I open it with my fingernail, as though it wants to tell me a secret. I take a sip. It’s so cold it hurts my teeth, but I enjoy the tingling sensation and drink it down. I look back out at the garden and see a robin perched on a fence post. I stare at him while he appears to stare back. It all happens so fast. A mess of feathers in full flight hurtle straight at me with such speed and determination until the glass doors get in the way. The thud of the impact makes me jump and I accidently knock my drink over. The robin’s tiny body falls backwards, almost in slow motion, and lands on the grass. I rush to the patio doors but don’t open them. Instead, I stand and stare at the tiny bird lying on its back, flapping its wings in mock flight, its eyes already closed. I’m not sure how long we are frozen like that, the creature fighting for breath as I involuntarily hold my own, but time eventually catches up with what has happened.

The robin stops moving, its wings lay down by its side.

Its red chest sinks until it is still.

Two tiny legs lower themselves down onto the damp grass.

I feel somehow responsible but I can’t open the door or go outside, I need the safety of the glass barrier between us for now. I crouch down on my knees, lowering my face to get a better look, as though I might see the life leave the bird’s body through its beak. I remember a friend telling me once that robins were the dead revisiting you with a message. I wonder what kind of message this is supposed to be and notice the hairs on my arms standing on end.

The knock on the glass startles me. I look up to see Claire’s face at the window. She doesn’t notice the bird, even though she is only a few steps away from it. I stand to open the door and she steps inside without waiting to be invited, as though she owns the place. She helped us find this house, spotted it online and arranged an early viewing with the estate agent. I went along with it, it’s a nice house, but choosing something and owning it are not the same thing.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks, taking off her coat. She’s perfectly groomed as usual, her clothes crisp and clean despite having two young children, not a hair out of place. I hate the way she always comes round the back of the house to see if I’m at home. Anyone else would ring the doorbell at the front and take a hint if nobody answered, but not Claire. She’s asked for a key a few times now. I always say I’ll get one cut but never do.

‘Nothing, I thought I saw something.’

‘You’re home early.’

‘It’s a bit quieter than normal because of Christmas.’ ‘Paul not here?’ she asks, putting her jacket on the back of a kitchen chair, making herself at home.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’ I regret my choice of words as soon as they are spoken. My tone doesn’t go unnoticed, it never does.

‘Well, I’m glad I caught you on your own,’ she says. I nod. I do feel caught.

‘Do you want a drink of something?’

‘No, I’m OK, can’t stay long, have to pick up the twins,’ she says, sitting down at the table. I take some kitchen towel and mop up the spilt drink before sitting down opposite her, my seat still warm from before. I can’t help staring over her shoulder at the dead bird just outside the door.

‘So?’ I ask, without meaning to sound abrupt. My exchanges with Claire aren’t the same as the conversations I have with other people. It’s like when you turn on the radio and they’re playing the song that you were already humming inside your head. You can’t possibly have known what was coming, but somehow you did. That’s what it’s like with Claire.

‘So . . . I’m worried about you. I thought maybe we should talk,’ she says.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you? You don’t look fine. You’ve been ignoring my calls.’

‘I’ve been busy. I have a full-time job.’ I study her face for a moment, stalling for time as my mouth rejects each form of words my mind suggests. She looks so much younger than I do, as though her face has forgotten to age over the last few years. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’ I wish I could tell her the truth, share the sort of secrets that normal sisters share, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. We have everything and nothing in common and our mother tongue doesn’t contain that kind of vocabulary.

‘Do you remember the boy I dated in my last year at university?’ I ask. She shakes her head. She’s lying and I already regret bringing it up.

‘What was his name?’

‘Edward. You didn’t like him. Not that that will jog your memory, you never liked any of them.’

‘I liked Paul,’ she says. I ignore the past tense.

‘I bumped into him on Oxford Street, yesterday, one of those crazy coincidences I suppose.’

‘I think I do remember. Tall, quite good-looking, very sure of himself.’

‘I don’t think you ever met him.’

‘Is there a point to this story? You’re not going to have an affair, are you?’

‘No, I’m not going to have an affair. I was just making conversation.’

I stare at the table for a while, wishing she would just leave, but she doesn’t.

‘How are things with Paul?’

‘You tell me, you’ve spent more time with him than I have lately.’ I’m surprised at my choice of words, which are far braver than I’m feeling. We’re sailing into unfamiliar territory here. I’m aware that I’ve started speaking in a language she doesn’t understand and for the first time we might need an interpreter. She stands to go, removing her coat from the back of the chair. I don’t try to stop her.

‘I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time, I’ll leave you to it.’ She opens the back door before turning back. ‘Remember, I’m only around the corner,’ she adds before leaving.

Her final words feel like more of a threat than a comfort. I listen as she walks down the side of the house, the sound of crunching gravel getting fainter until I hear the gate slam shut.

My thoughts return to the robin. For a moment I believe it must have come back to life and flown away, but as I get closer to the glass, my eyes find its brown body lying motionless on a carpet of green. I can’t leave it there, broken and alone. I open the back door and wait a second or two before stepping outside, cautious not to disturb the disturbing. It takes me a while to summon enough courage to reach down and pick up the bird. It’s lighter than I imagined, as though it is made of nothing but feathers and air. The thud as its tiny corpse lands at the bottom of the bin echoes the sound of it hitting the glass and I can’t shake the feeling of guilt that’s come over me. I step back inside and wash my hands, soaping and scrubbing my skin beneath the scalding water three times. When I have dried them, I turn the tap back on and do it all again and again until there is no soap left. I push my hands, still wet this time, into my pockets and try to stop thinking about them. I feel strange about dispensing with a life as though it is rubbish. There one minute, gone the next, all because of one wrong decision, one wrong turn.

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