I know that if I shower as soon as I finish my shift, dry my hair quickly, and then put on my makeup, I'll have time to take a selfie for Instagram before the sun sets, while the lighting is still good.

But when I get upstairs the bathroom door is locked. Frank Ocean is playing loudly from inside. I sit on my bed, scrolling through Instagram, feeling antsy. I haven't posted a good selfie in a while, and I feel a growing need to remind everyone - my old friends, my followers - that I still exist. It's unhealthy, and I know this, so I purposely leave my phone on my bed and walk into the kitchen.

As I boil the kettle, I strain to hear sounds of Sylvie finishing up in the shower. I flick through the mail on the counter - although I know there will be nothing for me. There are a few bills in Ed's name, a very late Christmas card for Sylvie, and a letter addressed to Matthew Lyndon-Reed. It's a plain white envelope with a stamped address, probably a bill, and yet I'm curious. I hold it up to the light, but I can't see through to the letter. The kettle boils, and I make tea and take it the sofa. The novel I'm reading is on the coffee table, and I flick to the page I was up to and try to read it. Finally Sylvie emerges from the bathroom, with one towel wrapped around her head and one around her body.

'Oh, hey,' she says. When she adjusts her towel, her sharp nails make a striking contrast against the pale blue. Sylvie without her hair and makeup is so incredibly different to the Sylvie in the bar. So much so that I've almost been thinking of Sylvie as two people. This Sylvie waters plants and reads poetry anthologies, while Sylvie with makeup has eyeliner so sharp it looks tattooed on, and lips painted in dark, matte colours like Kylie Jenner.

'Hi,' I say brightly, but she's already turned away from me, looking at the mail on the kitchen surface.

She picks up the Christmas card, but I see her linger on the letter to Matt.

'Do we need to forward Matt's mail somewhere?' I ask her.

Sylvie waves her Christmas card like it's a fan, and then says, more to the kitchen than to me, 'No, it's fine. Ed can take it for his brother.'

'Is Ed going to see him soon?' I ask.

'No.' She leaves the room, and I hear her walk up the stairs to her bedroom.

I leave my book on the coffee table and take a shower. When I get out, I can hear someone in the kitchen cooking. It takes me ages to get dressed. I want an outfit that suits a comedy night in Camden. It's still winter, so I need to be warm, but I also want to look cute. And I'm worried that my usual choices - girly pinks and pastels - don't suit the crowd that I'm going out with. I don't want to look like a fluffy pink marshmallow beside Sylvie and Charlotte.

I end up choosing a grey skirt which I pair with black tights, a pastel blue top, and a brown suede jacket. I curl the ends of my blonde hair, which makes it even shorter, and apply makeup. The sun has already set, but there's still a bit of light, so I sit on my bed facing the window to get a selfie. I know almost immediately that I am not going to get a good one, even with an Instagram filter. I don't like the lighting in this room.

In the kitchen, Ed's making pasta. He's wearing a button up shirt with a bright yellow floral pattern over it that clashes horrendously - and yet somehow works - with his red hair.

'Hey,' he says when he sees me, and I see a flicker of surprise in his face. 'You look nice.'

'Oh, thanks,' I say, surprised. 'That smells good.'

Ed shrugs. 'It's just bolognese. Do you want some?'

'Yeah, if you have enough,' I say.

'Can you put some music on?' Ed asks.

I link my phone to Ed's speakers, but as I'm looking through my party playlist, I start to see my music through Ed's eyes. It's all pop music, and I imagine Ed is the kind of guy who refuses to listen to the charts. I scroll through Spotify and find a playlist and put it on, praying that none of it is too cheesy. Maybe I can ask Kitty for music advice. She's collected vinyl for years and always seems to know what's cool.

'What are we listening to?' Will says as he walks into the room. He's wearing black skinny jeans, and he's clutching a David Sedaris book to his chest.

'Erm, I don't know,' I admit, as Will takes my phone off me. He scrolls through for a while, and then puts on Madonna.

Ed turns around, and says firmly, 'No, not this.'

'I'm playing it.'

'Don't like Madonna?' I say, grinning up at Ed.

Ed glares at Will, ignoring me. 'Will, don't.'

The boys stare at each other, Will holding my phone against his chest.

'What's wrong with Madonna?' I ask, trying to break the tension.

Ed glances down at me, as if just realising I'm there. 'Matt loves Madonna,' he says, half-heartedly.

'Definitely didn't expect that,' I joke, thinking of the photos I've seen of Matt - muscular and bearded. 'Oh, by the way, there's a letter for Matt,' I say. 'Do you want it?'

Ed glances over at the mail. 'Just leave it there for now,' he says. 'Will, please, can we listen to anything else?'

'Only if I can have some bolognese,' says Will teasingly.

'Yeah, whatever,' Ed sighs.

Will changes the song to a dance track, and Ed settles.

• Author's Note •

Thanks for reading!

What's your favourite song, right now, this second?

I can't wait to hear your responses!

elle xx