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at his . . .”
    “No! He wouldn’t let me near it!”
    “But could you feel it? Was it tiny?” Suze’s eyes gleam wickedly. “I bet it’s teeny. He’s hoping to kid some poor girl into marrying him and being stuck with a teeny todger all her life. Narrow escape, Bex!” She reaches for her packet of Silk Cut and lights up.
    “Stay away!” I say. “I don’t want my scarf smelling of smoke!”
    “So what
are
you doing this weekend?” she asks, taking a drag. “Will you be OK? Do you want to come down to the country?”
    This is how Suze always refers to her family’s second home in Hampshire.
The Country
. As though her parents own some small, independent nation that nobody else knows about.
    “No, ‘s’OK,” I say, morosely picking up the TV guide. “I’m going to Surrey. Visit my parents.”
    “Oh well,” says Suze. “Give your mum my love.”
    “I will,” I say. “And you give my love to Pepper.”
    Pepper is Suze’s horse. She rides him about three times a year, if that, but whenever her parents suggest selling him she gets all hysterical. Apparently he costs £15,000 a year to run. Fifteen thousand pounds. And what does he do for his money? Just stands in a stable and eats apples. I wouldn’t mind being a horse.
    “Oh yeah, that reminds me,” says Suze. “The council tax bill came in. It’s three hundred each.”
    “Three hundred pounds?” I look at her in dismay. “What, straight away?”
    “Yeah. Actually, it’s late. Just write me a check or something.”
    “Fine,” I say airily. “Three hundred quid coming up.”
    I reach for my bag and write a check out straight away. Suze is so generous about the rent, I always pay my share of the bills, and sometimes add a bit extra. But still, I’m feeling cold as I hand it over. Three hundred pounds gone, just like that. And I’ve still got that bloody VISA bill to think of. Not a great month.
    “Oh, and someone called,” adds Suze, and squints at a piece of paper. “Erica Parsnip. Is that right?”
    “Erica
Parsnip
?” Sometimes I think Suze’s mind has been expanded just a little too often.
    “Parnell. Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank. Can you call her.”
    I stare at Suze, frozen in horror.
    “She called here? She called this number?”
    “Yes. This afternoon.”
    “Oh shit.” My heart starts to thump. “What did you say? Did you say I’ve got glandular fever?”
    “What?” It’s Suze’s turn to stare. “Of course I didn’t say you’ve got bloody glandular fever!”
    “Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?”
    “No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—”
    “Suze!” I wail in dismay.
    “Well, what was I
supposed
to say?”
    “You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!”
    “Well, thanks for the warning!” Suze gazes at me, eyes narrowed, and crosses her legs back into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I’ve ever known. When she’s wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says. “Are you overdrawn?”
    Am I overdrawn?
    I smile back as reassuringly as I can. If Suze had any idea of my real situation, she’d need more than yoga to calm her down.
    “Just a tad.” I give a careless shrug. “But I’m sure it’ll work itself out. No need to worry!”
    There’s silence, and I look up to see Suze tearing up my check. For a moment I’m completely silenced, then I stutter, “Suze! Don’t be stupid!”
    “Pay me back when you’re in the black,” she says firmly.
    “Thanks, Suze,” I say in a suddenly thickened voice—and as I give her a big hug I can feel tears jumping into my eyes. Suze has got to be the best friend I’ve ever had.
     
     
    But there’s a tense feeling in my stomach, which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morning. A feeling I can’t even shift by thinking about my Denny and George