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

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       Octavia

      I sat on the bench watching Roberta sign for her stuff. I was reeling from the idea that my friend, my funny, gorgeous friend, now had a police record. I had no doubt that a week from now she’d be blaming herself and make out that Scott landing her in the clink was no big deal, simply the inevitable downside of a passionate relationship. God knows why a woman like her put up with a man like him. This was the girl who got a new boater and lacrosse stick every year while us scholarship girls were fannying about in grey gym kit and blazers several sizes too big. The girl who carried off her posh name with such ease, whereas I still cursed my working-class parents for landing me with the cumbersome ‘Octavia’ in the hope that I’d be ‘someone’, someone who’d require a name that stood out. Roberta was the girl who never had to sit out at school dances, who should have glided into the perfect life, bubble-wrapped from care, struggle and worry. But she could never pick the easy option.

      I watched her talking to DC Smithfield and another policeman. The faint sense of guilt I always felt surfaced again. At heart Roberta was a goody-goody, all dainty teacups, poncey art exhibitions and god-awful obscure authors. But she’d been desperate to be my friend at school, joining me on my shoplifting jaunts, though never stealing herself, hanging out with me while I smoked my dad’s fags at the park, helping me pierce my ears with a needle we’d sterilised in some hot Ribena. The fact that my dragon tattoo was on my arse rather than my shoulder was down to Roberta taking charge in the tattoo parlour.

      If she hadn’t met me, she’d probably think that taking back her library books late was a walk on the wild side. I’d introduced her to the joys of rebellion and that had led her straight into the arms of Scott, the biggest rebellion of all. I wondered, not for the first time, if I could have done more to stop her marrying him. On the few occasions I’d broached the subject, she’d made it quite clear that if we were to stay friends it was a case of ‘Love me, love my feckless, repugnant choice of husband’.

      I looked at my watch. Nearly three o’clock. I was going to be knackered for open day at work the next morning. I needed to be firing on all cylinders to convince sceptical parents that my outdoor nursery with its dens and mud kitchens would inspire their toddlers far more than plastic saucepans and dolls’ prams. Bed would be good right now. The dark-haired police officer was emptying a plastic bag and passing things to Roberta. I strained my ears to hear what he was saying and managed to catch, ‘Is there somewhere you can stay for the time being until you get things sorted out?’

      I wondered if he’d be so bothered about a chubby, brown-haired woman with the beginnings of a double chin and no ankles – just feet stuck onto legs.

      Roberta flicked her long black hair over her shoulder. The gesture was familiar. I knew she’d be dropping her head and raising her eyes, those dark brown eyes that whistled men to her. She had no idea how attractive she was. Yet another thing Scott had squashed out of her.

      ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. My friend is going to take me home,’ Roberta said.

      He handed Roberta a leaflet. ‘Don’t forget about the domestic abuse helpline. You don’t have to put up with it, but we can’t help you unless you report it.’

      The words ‘domestic abuse’ shocked me. We’d both dismissed Scott’s outbursts as him ‘having a short fuse’. Roberta’s catchphrase was, ‘You know what he’s like.’ But the policeman was right.

      I walked up to the desk and tried again. ‘Please come back with me. You can text Alicia from mine.’

      ‘No, it’s OK. I’d better get home and check on her.’

      I glanced at the police officer. I wanted him to forbid her to go back. For him to have the argument with her so that I didn’t have to. His eyes flicked to Roberta, then to me, in a way that was more than just a casual taking-in of scenery. The pressure had somehow switched to me to prove I could make Roberta see sense. I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint the Plod. ‘Robbie, Alicia will be asleep by now. You can talk to Scott in the morning when everyone’s calm.’

      I glanced over at Plod. He was nodding. I looked at him expectantly. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘Come on, mate, you get your shoulder behind the elephant and give it a shove uphill. I’ve been pushing for over a decade now, so a bit of a hand any time soon would be a right old bonus.’

      Roberta had that set face on. She managed to look tear-stained, fragile and defiant. I was quite sure that I would have looked like a lump of defeated corned beef had the tables been reversed.

      Plod finally waded in with a feeble, ‘It’s sometimes better to let the dust settle, Mrs Green. Why don’t you go with your friend?’

      Roberta smiled warmly and thanked him, without actually answering. DC Smithfield led her into a side room to get changed, carrying her boots for her. Everyone wanted to look after Roberta.

      Except the bloke she married.