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I’m wondering why someone with bucketloads of cash
doesn’t
just get an event planner. Georgia smiles, but I don’t risk a laugh after my epic fail in the common room earlier.
    “But I hate talking about it. Like, my world changed overnight, whoop-di-doo. It’s cool but I was fine before… I’m the same person, but now people see me and think,
Look, the girl with the money.
”
    “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”
    “Doesn’t a massive party scream money?” Georgia sighs. “I didn’t actually
want
a big party, but it’s what people expect … and it’ll be fun. I want to give something back. I could have left this hole and gone to private school, but why leave and have to make friends all over again? That would be
horrible
. My friends are what’s important. And they, like, deserve a good time.”
    I think about expectations: Georgia, throwing a party because it’s what she thinks people want from her; and me, changing my hair, such a little thing, just to be liked. I think about my assumptions about what makes us worth something – personality, hair, clothes, self-belief – things I wish were different about me, but who am I reinventing myself for? My head’s spinning. I just want to be
better
than I am.
    I look at Georgia, surprised by her honesty. “What? Have I got something on my face? I knew this was a shade too far,” she says, rubbing at her lips.
    “No, nothing like that. I guess, I just wasn’t expecting you to be so” –
nice? normal? unbitchy? –
“open about stuff.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s just the way I am. I probably talk too much. Can’t help but let it all out.” And true to form, she moves from topic to topic: “Your hair’s different.”
    “Yeah. Hairband snapped. Going freeform.”
    “Oh,” she says.
Is that a good “oh” or a bad “oh”?
“So it’s not a warehouse but under the railway arches. There’s this huge space, usually used for performance art, installations or whatever.”
    I nod along.
    “We could have fairy lights along here.” Georgia runs a manicured finger down one edge of the building plan. “And the bar here.”
    “Maybe a seating area in this bit outside,” I add.
    “Yeah, a chill-out area.”
    “What about laying down some fake grass and making it like a magical garden type thing.”
    “I love that idea.”
    “And theme-wise, I don’t know what you think of this, but – I mean, not, like, in a five-year-old-princess kind of way, but sort of neons and more stylized shapes, even just taking the pattern as a starting point – maybe it could work,” I venture, and open my sketchbook to the bright Cairns Birdwing.
    “Yes! Butterflies. You’re a genius! Loads of shimmering fabrics draped around, and dancing butterflies projected on the walls. Like this one, really strong colours. Nothing pink. I hate pink.”
    I’m flooded, overflowing, with good feelings.
    “Noted. No pink. What about an acrobatic show? You know, like, circus performers on hoops and ribbons, dancing, flying? Made up to look like butterflies? Cool, macho, non-pink butterflies.”
    Georgia moves her chair closer, nodding.
    “Yes, yes, yes. This is all good stuff. Get drawing.”
    I sketch out some costumes, stylized butterfly shapes and patterns. We mark where the DJ might go, and then it hits me.
    “What if the DJ was in a cage, a birdcage, like this, suspended above the dance floor? Can you do that?”
    “I don’t know but I’ll find out!”
    The ideas come fast and furious; before long I’ve filled several pages with notes and sketches.
    “Can you copy this stuff so I can give it to the planner? He’s got no clue what he’s doing.” She widens her eyes. “This will
really
help.”
    So, there
is
a planner. I’m just the ideas monkey. I check the time on my phone. Almost four. I don’t want to keep Lauren and Sienna waiting much longer… “Yeah, of course. But—”
    “Want a lift home? Mum’s got the Merc outside,” Georgia asks.
    “Er,