Financial freedom is something I've read about in Self-Helps. It's the dream, and my desire for it is no doubt a consequence of growing up in a household on a tight budget. At the moment I'm way off target with ten thousand pounds worth of credit card debt to pay off on top of a hefty student loan. I just cannot wait to feel that burden slip off my shoulders.

Tweeting PR news for C-listers, many of whom will be famous for being famous, is not my ideal job. I don't follow r eality TV shows, I'm the type who complains that if everyone keeps watching them, they'll never make anything decent. Only when I'm really tired, I'll watch an episode and just from that one episode I'll usually work out everything that's happened in the whole series and everyone involved. However, I'm a practical girl, and right now it's the only job that's going to liberate me from my debts and get me on track to be more financially free than my parents ever were.

"We should go on holiday together," Emma says, suddenly. "When's everyone free?"

"When Hughie finishes school," Anna sighs, "so, eighteen years from now?"

I don't believe the self-pity in her voice for one minute. Anna's besotted with her new son and doesn't really want to consider anything else but him right now, especially not a trip away with a bunch of single girls who won't be watching their alcohol intake or worrying about nap time. She just worries we'll think less of her if she admits she's very happy staying at home with a crying, weeing, pooing machine.

"Give me a few months," I say. "I can hardly start a new job by asking for a holiday."

"But you can tweet from anywhere," Emma argues. "Your boss won't even know you're gone!"

"That's true," I laugh.

It's not true. I will have to show up at an office every day. At least for now, Craig said, hinting at flexible hours in the future. I'm determined to be really organised and use my time efficiently and schedule all my tweets for the evening so when I leave work, I really leave work. Not like in Belle Femme, where even though I was an unpaid intern, I was doing ridiculous amounts of overtime. The boss must have loved me. I was such a pushover.

"Wait!" I say, as Clare holds a knife above the blue surface of the spectacular Twitter cake. "One more photo, let's try to get us all in."

I'm really not one of those people who documents every second of their life, but this does feel like a special moment. A few more glasses of prosecco and I can see myself having a happy cry with these girls, and reflecting on how grown up we've all become.

There's a faint but distinct murmur of a baby waking up.

"Quick!" Anna says.

"We have to be quick because I'm running out of battery," I say.

We all squeeze in behind the cake and I hold out my phone as far as I can to take the picture. The images wobbles as I try to fit us all in. I get the giggles. Hughie starts to cry. Emma tells everyone to keep their eyes open.

"Hang on..." I say.

Emma turns her head to one side to get her best angle, her blonde hair draping over one shoulder. Chubby-cheeked Clare breaks out in dimples. Anna's nostrils tense as she smiles, her sharp green eyes daring the camera to take a bad photo.

"Hurry!" Anna growls through gritted teeth.

I push forward a few more of my red curls, tip my head up and to the side, because it's working for Emma, and I beam at the screen.

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