'There's something I wanted to say.' He bites his lip. 'You know we always speak frankly to each other about our relationship.'

'Er ... yes,' I say, feeling a little apprehensive.

'This is just an idea. You may not like it. I mean ... it's completely up to you.'

I gaze at Connor in puzzlement. His face is growing pink, and he looks really embarra.s.sed.

Oh my G.o.d. Is he going to start getting kinky? Does he want me to dress up in outfits and stuff?

I wouldn't mind being a nurse, actually. Or Catwoman from Batman. That would be cool. I could get some shiny boots ...

'I was thinking that ... perhaps ... we could ...' He stops awkwardly.

'Yes?' I put a supportive hand on his arm.

'We could ...' He stops again.

'Yes?'

There's another silence. I almost can't breathe. What does he want us to do? What?

'We could start calling each other "darling",' he says in an embarra.s.sed rush.

'What?' I say blankly.

'It's just that ...' Connor flushes pinker. 'We're going to be living together. It's quite a commitment. And I noticed recently, we never seem to use any ... terms of endearment.'

I stare at him, feeling caught out.

'Don't we?'

'No.'

'Oh.' I take a sip of coffee. Now I think about it, he's right. We don't. Why don't we?

'So what do you think? Only if you want to.'

'Absolutely!' I say quickly. 'I mean, you're right. Of course we should.' I clear my throat. 'Darling!'

'Thanks, darling,' he says, with a loving smile, and I smile back, trying to ignore the tiny protests inside my head.

This doesn't feel right.

I don't feel like a darling.

Darling is a married person with pearls and a four-wheel-drive.

'Emma?' Connor's staring at me. 'Is something wrong?'

'I'm not sure!' I give a self-conscious laugh. 'I just don't know if I feel like a "darling". But ... you know. It may grow on me.'

'Really? Well, we can use something else. What about "dear"?'

Dear? Is he serious?

'No,' I say quickly. 'I think "darling" is better.'

'Or "sweetheart" ... "honey" ... "angel"

'Maybe. Look, can we just leave it?'

Connor's face falls, and I feel bad. Come on. I can call my boyfriend 'darling', for G.o.d's sake. This is what growing up's all about. I'm just going to have to get used to it.

'Connor, I'm sorry,' I say. 'I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm still a bit tense after that flight.' I take his hand. 'Darling.'

'That's all right, darling.' He smiles back at me, his sunny expression restored, and gives me a kiss. 'See you later.'

You see. Easy.

Oh G.o.d.

Anyway. It doesn't matter. I expect all couples have this kind of awkward-ish moment. It's probably perfectly normal.

It takes me about half an hour to get from Connor's place in Maida Vale to Islington, which is where I live, and as I open the door I find Lissy on the sofa. She's surrounded by papers and has a frown of concentration on her face. She works so hard, Lissy. She really overdoes it sometimes.

'What are you working on?' I say sympathetically. 'Is it that fraud case?'

'No, it's this article,' says Lissy abstractly, and lifts up a glossy magazine. 'It says since the days of Cleopatra, the proportions of beauty have been the same, and there's a way to work out how beautiful you are, scientifically. You do all these measurements ...'

'Oh right!' I say interestedly. 'So what are you?'

'I'm just working it out.' She frowns at the page again. 'That makes 53 ... subtract 20 ... makes ... Oh my G.o.d!' She stares at the page in dismay. 'I only got 33!'

'Out of what?'

'A hundred! 33 out of a hundred!'

'Oh Lissy. That's c.r.a.p.'

'I know,' says Lissy seriously. 'I'm ugly. I knew it. You know, all my life I've kind of secretly known, but-'

'No!' I say, trying not to laugh. 'I meant the magazine's c.r.a.p! You can't measure beauty with some stupid index. Just look at you!' I gesture at Lissy, who has the biggest grey eyes in the world, and gorgeous clear pale skin and is frankly stunning, even if her last haircut was a bit severe. 'I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid mindless magazine article?'

'A stupid mindless magazine article,' says Lissy, as though it's perfectly obvious.

I know she's half joking. But ever since her boyfriend Simon chucked her, Lissy's had really low self-esteem. I'm actually a bit worried about her.

'Is that the golden proportion of beauty?' says our other flatmate Jemima, tapping into the room in her kitten heels. She's wearing pale pink jeans and a tight white top and as usual, she looks perfectly tanned and groomed. In theory, Jemima has a job, working in a sculpture gallery. But all she ever seems to do is have bits of her waxed and plucked and ma.s.saged, and go on dates with city bankers, whose salary she always checks out before she says yes.

I do get on with Jemima. Kind of. It's just that she tends to begin all her sentences 'If you want a rock on your finger,' and 'If you want an SW3 address,' and 'If you want to be known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess.'

I mean, I wouldn't mind being known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess. You know. It's just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.

Plus, Jemima's idea of being a seriously good dinner-party hostess is inviting lots of rich friends over, decorating the whole flat with twiggy things, getting caterers to cook loads of yummy food and telling everyone she made it herself, then sending her flatmates (me and Lissy) out to the cinema for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at midnight and make themselves a hot chocolate.

'I did that quiz,' she says now, picking up her pink Louis Vuitton bag. Her dad bought it for her as a present when she broke up with a guy after three dates. Like she was heartbroken.

Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heart-broken.

'What did you get?' says Lissy.

'Eighty-nine.' She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long blond hair back and smiles at herself in the mirror. 'So Emma, is it true you're moving in with Connor?' I gape at her.

'How did you know that?'

'Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.'

'Are you moving in with Connor?' says Lissy incredulously. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I was about to, honestly. Isn't it great?'

'Bad move, Emma.' Jemima shakes her head. 'Very bad tactics.'

'Tactics?' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'Tactics? Jemima, they're having a relationship, not playing chess!'

'A relationship is a game of chess,' retorts Jemima, brushing mascara onto her lashes. 'Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the wrong move, you've had it.'

'That's rubbish!' says Lissy defiantly. 'A relationship is about like minds. It's about soulmates finding each other.'

'Soulmates!' says Jemima dismissively, and looks at me. 'Just remember, Emma, if you want a rock on your finger, don't move in with Connor.'

Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting Prince William at a charity polo match.

'Still holding out for Royalty?' says Lissy. 'How much younger is he than you, again, Jemima?'

'Don't be stupid!' she snaps, colour tinging her cheeks. 'You're so immature sometimes, Lissy.'

'Anyway, I don't want a rock on my finger,' I retort.

Jemima raises her perfectly arched eyebrows as though to say, 'you poor, ignorant fool', and picks up her bag.

'Oh,' she suddenly adds, her eyes narrowing. 'Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?'

There's a tiny beat of silence.

'No,' I say innocently.

'I don't even know which one it is,' says Lissy, with a shrug.

I can't look at Lissy. I'm sure I saw her wearing it the other night.

Jemima's blue eyes are running over me and Lissy like some kind of radar scanners.

'Because I have very slender arms,' she says warningly, 'and I really don't want the sleeves stretched. And don't think I won't notice, because I will. Ciao.'

The minute she's gone Lissy and I look at each other.

's.h.i.t,' says Lissy. 'I think I left it at work. Oh well, I'll pick it up on Monday.' She shrugs and goes back to reading the magazine.

OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima's clothes. Without asking. But in our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Lissy, it's a basic human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others' clothes. She says it's practically part of the unwritten British const.i.tution.

'And anyway,' adds Lissy, 'she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you.' She looks up from an article on Nicole Kidman. 'So what are you doing later on? D'you want to see a film?'

'I can't,' I say reluctantly. 'I've got my mum's birthday lunch.'

'Oh yes, of course.' She pulls a sympathetic face. 'Good luck. I hope it's OK.'

Lissy is the only person in the world who has any idea how I feel about visiting home. And even she doesn't know it all.

FOUR.

But as I sit on the train down, I'm resolved that this time will be better. I was watching a Cindy Blaine show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost daughters with their mothers, and it was so moving I soon had tears running down my face. At the end, Cindy gave this little homily about how it's far too easy to take our families for granted and that they gave us life and we should cherish them. And suddenly I felt really chastened.

So these are my resolutions for today: I will not: Let my family stress me out.

Feel jealous of Kerry, or let Nev wind me up.

Look at my watch, wondering how soon I can leave.

I will: Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

(I got that from Cindy Blaine, too.) Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they've moved out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a village about five minutes' drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.

I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They've both got the same feather-cut hair although Kerry's is highlighted more strongly than Mum's they're both wearing brightly coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they're both laughing. On the counter, I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.

'Happy birthday!' I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I feel a little thrill of antic.i.p.ation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can't wait to give it to her!

'Hiya!' says Kerry, turning round in her ap.r.o.n. Her blue eyes are heavily made-up, and round her neck she's wearing a diamond cross which I haven't seen before. Every time I see Kerry she has a new piece of jewellery. 'Great to see you, Emma! We don't see enough of you. Do we, Aunty Rachel?'

'We certainly don't,' says Mum, giving me a hug.

'Shall I take your coat?' says Kerry, as I put the bottle of champagne I've brought into the fridge. 'And what about a drink?'