The Love Island: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer. Kerry Fisher

was impressed that Roberta was thinking positive. And slightly ashamed that I was more inclined to go if it wasn’t my £35 I was wasting. Because, as Jonathan never missed the chance to point out, there was no money to burn.

      ‘You would never have set up a holistic nursery if the rigidity of school hadn’t scarred you for life. It’s your opportunity to go back and show them what you achieved.’ Never mind interior design, Roberta should have carved out a career as a hostage negotiator.

      ‘True. Though that’s a perverse way to be thankful for years of detentions and lectures on being responsible,’ I said.

      ‘You did leave school over twenty years ago.’

      I hesitated, knowing that I was going to give in. Anything to keep Roberta from going back to Scott. ‘OK, then. I’m going to regret this.’

      Once I’d agreed to go, I brushed away any discussion or plans. Thinking about any of them – teachers or pupils – reminded me how stifled I’d felt through all my teenage years. Roberta saw my household as liberal compared with her dad’s strict rules of staying at the table until everyone had finished breakfast and not coming downstairs in your nightie. She loved learning how to dressmake with my mum or watching TV in our dressing gowns all day, legs dangling over the arm of the settee.

      But my parents weren’t liberal, they were good solid working-class stock, with ambitions for me, hence the pushing and prodding of their only daughter into a scholarship at a school for the posh and privileged. I wasn’t sure they could deem their experiment an unqualified success.

      On the night of the reunion, Roberta picked me up. She arrived all gussied-up with a cloud of dark hair, white palazzo pants, a lacy blouse and high heels that would have made me look like I’d just finished my pole-dancing shift. I’d meant to spend a bit of time titivating myself but Jonathan was sulking about me going out without him, cottering about how we didn’t have money to waste on ‘fripperies’ then still managing to be cross when I told him Roberta was paying.

      He’d decided his best use of time was to review our pensions that evening. Producing the relevant documents from my ‘bung-it-in-a-box’ filing system resulted in a mere fifteen minutes for a makeover, hampered by a missing eyeliner sharpener and my one decent top gone AWOL. In the end, I’d gone for a pair of black trousers I wore for work, spent a precious five minutes taming my hair so it didn’t stick out like a monkey puzzle tree, and chucked a dried-up mascara wand into my bag to do my make-up in the car.

      ‘I’m a bit nervous,’ Roberta said. ‘I thought I was OK talking about Scott, but now I’m not sure.’

      ‘Don’t be silly. They’ll all be looking at you and thinking what an idiot he was to let you get away. We’ll have a laugh.’ Which was ironic coming from me, given that my dread was increasing with every junction we clocked up towards our leafy Sussex school.

      Roberta seemed more excited than nervous. As we drew through the gates, she started pointing through the window. ‘Look, that’s Veronica. And Cinzia. Oh my God. Elfrida looks amazing. She’s really glamorous. I don’t remember her being like that at school.’

      I wanted to be interested. But I felt just like I had then. The dumpy poor girl who had to dye her hair a kaleidoscope of colours to get noticed.

      ‘How soon can we leave?’

      Roberta yanked up the handbrake. ‘What is it you say to your youngsters at nursery? The only difference between having a good time and a bad time is attitude?’