Page 29 of Audacity

The tent, bedecked and bedazzled way beyond anything Tabby asked for in her letter to Father Christmas, mysteriously showed up in their living area on Christmas morning. (In reality, I’d paid through the nose for a handyman to dress up as Father Christmas—just in case Tabby woke up—and put the tent up late on Christmas Eve). It’s now sitting pretty where it belongs, in Tabby’s bedroom, as are we. Marlowe and I are shoehorned into the tent alongside Tabby, a can of Sprite, two glasses ofchampagne, and a bowl of seriously tasty cheese and onion crisps. Good times.

When Marlowe mentioned that Tabby had asked Father Christmas for a tent and she was stumped as to how to make it super magical, I may have hijacked the operation slightly. Tabby had, to be clear, requested “a tent as cool as the one fromThe Holiday”which I, naturally, sniffed at.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s a cute tent and a stunningly well crafted scene, but why think small when you can create something extraordinary? Marlowe is far too linear, God bless her. Too constrained. She’s also skint, with every last penny of her savings ring-fenced for a cause far more critical than a tent.

Which is where godmothers come in.

I immediately contacted the personal shoppers at Harrods, who were happy to commission and furnish a bespoke four-sided but compact tent for Tabs. When Marlowe hit the roof which, predictably enough, she did, I had one rejoinder.

‘This isn’t about a tent, you realise. You could have gone to IKEA for that.’ Like everything else in her flat. ‘This is about ramming home averyimportant message to a sick little girl—that sometimes, in a world full of shitty disappointments, sometimes, just sometimes, life not only delivers but blows your fucking mind. It’s always worth believing. If nothing else, I want to help you teach her that.’

She hugged me then, and we both cried a little.

I know I can be overbearing, and I know a part of Marlowe disapproves of my irresponsible spending habits—especially when it comes to Tabby—but whatever I can do to help drum an abundance mindset into that fiercely intelligent little brain I’ll consider time and money well spent.

Not to mention, the tent is fucking amazing. It’s been crafted from a double layer of ivory cotton embroidered with gold stars. The fabric of its ceiling is gathered into a central point fromwhich hangs a battery operated rotating disco ball (no cutout paper stars for us). There’s even a beautifully carved, hot pink lacquered cabinet housing Tabby’s medication. It comes with a sturdy heart-shaped padlock, the key to which Marlowe is wearing around her neck.

But my favourite part of the whole setup is the child-sized sleeping bag-slash-camp bed inside the tent, made from palest pink faux fur with an integrated memory foam mattress, so she can camp out here in grand style.

‘Go into the living room,’ she orders now with an imperious wave of her hand. ‘I want to play doctors and nurses and you’re taking up all the space.’

‘Right you are,’ Marlowe tells her with a kiss to her forehead. ‘Call us on the walkie talkie if you want company.’

‘Don’t forget to take her temperature,’ I say, nodding at the doll who’s supposed to be incapacitated.

I clamber inelegantly out on my hands and knees and blow Tabs a kiss before following Marlowe through to the small kitchen-cum-living room. To her credit, she’s done as good a job as she can with the place. It’s pretty and homely and, most importantly, safe. Or as safe as it can be in New Cross, which is a total shithole.

Because I spent Christmas with my parents in Cologne and thence took a cheeky couple of days to myself at Baden-Baden, today’s been my first in-situ experience of the tent. I’m absolutely thrilled at how delirious Tabby is with her new home. All little girls deserve to dream big, especially the ones who’ve already had to endure shit most adults can’t imagine.

Hopefully, that tent will be a refuge for Tabs. She can dream big in there, but she can also make herself small and secure when she feels the need. She can rest there when she’s exhausted but she still feels like playing. It’s an investment in her joy,essentially, and I can’t think of a better way to spend my excess cash.

God knows, I understand better than a lot of people the power of having a sanctuary that’s all yours, a restorative haven where you can shut the door and heal from all the craziness.

As I told Tabby earlier, every princess needs her castle, and every great warrior needs her retreat.

‘Okay,’ Marlowe says, fiddling with her walkie talkie to ensure it won’t transmit anything indecent to her innocent, sleeping little girl, ‘spill the tea.’

We’re sitting curled up on her (IKEA) sofa, having eaten our body weight in nachos and switched to red wine. Tabby is out cold next door, so this is our window to have a good old gossip. Marlowe and I have been best friends since we met in the Sixth Form at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, to which she’d won a full choral scholarship.

I assess her with amusement. She’s perfectly lovely, a natural blonde thanks to her Dutch mother and who boasts what Anne Shirley would definitely have deemed analabaster brow.Honestly, given the crap she eats, it’s completely unfair, but given the rest of her life is a steaming pile of horseshit, I’ll let her have her great skin and her amazing daughter.

‘On what?’ I ask innocently. ‘Baden-Baden? Yes, I had a colonic. Yes, it was life-giving. No, I did not befriend or even see Victoria Beckham.’

She sighs. ‘On the new gig. The new guy.’

Now I grin. ‘Marlowe Winters. You can’t handle the tea, and you know it.’

She screws up her face like she’s bracing for impact. ‘I can. You can tell me. I won’t freak out. Have you slept with him? You have, I assume?’

‘Yes, I’ve “slept with” him.’

‘Mmm-hmm. And how was it?’

‘It was excellent, thanks for asking. Very, very promising, especially considering the guy used to be a priest.’

She giggles bashfully. ‘God, it’s so weird. You just, I dunno, turn up for dinner and then go upstairs and shag him? Isn’t it awkward?’

‘You are ridiculous. I wouldn’t even get dinner out of them if I went on Tinder.’

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