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lack substance and real beauty and who are themselves being manipulated…Just who is being exploited?”
    Hmm. Not just an excuse to get a young girl to take her top off then? The model was an E. Andersen. Were Mr. and Mrs. Andersen proud, I wondered? Then I got fed up of being pious and thought whoever she was, she was more than capable of looking after herself, and if she was stupid enough to get her kit off to further her career that was her problem.
    Once Pete re-emerged, he quickly developed gallery fatigue and it wasn’t long before we were back out on the street. I switched my phone on again and it immediately buzzed with a new voicemail.
    It was Clare. Her breathless voice tumbled through the message; she was obviously hurrying somewhere when she left it.
    “Hi! I forgot to tell you that Mum’s gone on a two-week cruise to Miami. I was supposed to let you know. She’s gone bunty hunting with Auntie Joan. I tried to get her to take me but she wasn’t having a bar of it. I could do with a bit of fun at sea at the moment too, she’s such a selfish old cow. Except it would be all old men in banana hammocks. How sick is that? Anyway, sorry I forgot to tell you about Mum and that she forgot to tell you herself in the first place. She thought she had if that makes you feel any better. See you, chick.”
    I hung up. “My mum’s gone to Miami,” I said to Pete. “Bit random.”
    “Your mother is a bit random,” Pete said, glancing at his watch. “Shall we head home?”
    My phone buzzed again. Text message. It was from Patrick. “Today is International Good-Looking Day,” it read. “Send this text to someone you think is gorgeous. Don’t send it back to me, I’ve had hundreds.” I laughed.
    “Who’s that this time?” Pete nodded at the phone.
    “Patrick,” I said simply and Pete rolled his eyes, muttering, “Say hi from me.”
    I’d ignored that. Pete doesn’t like Patrick. He’s deeply skeptical that we can have been mates since school and not once has anything happened between us. I did toy with the idea briefly, but Patrick was always with someone else, or I was. The moment didn’t so much pass as never really arrived and we happily settled into being friends, which is where we’ve been ever since.
    “So what do you want to do now?” I asked cheerily, putting my phone back in my lovely designer bag.
    “We need to get back for the dog, really,” Pete said. It had started to rain lightly, getting steadily heavier. People around us were starting to look for shelter. There was a cozy little café to our right and I suddenly fancied diving in there to drink a hot chocolate, watch the windows steam up and listen to the hiss of the cappuccino makers until the rain passed. “Quick hot choc?” I suggested hopefully.
    He looked at the coffee shop and wrinkled his nose. “Nah. It’s really busy. Anyway, it’s a rip-off. I can make you a hot chocolate at home. Come on.”
    On the train home I was happily flicking through the Sunday papers, as Pete gazed out of the wetly streaked window.
    “Do you remember that day we went to the beach with the dog?” he said suddenly. “We were trying to hit that big rock withthe pebbles and you nearly took out that old couple’s corgi? The one with the really saggy tummy?”
    I looked up at him in surprise. “What made you think of that?”
    “No particular reason. It was just a nice day. That’s all.”
    I smiled and reached for his hand. I gave it a quick squeeze then returned back to the papers.
    “Actually we were trying to get the stones in the sea.” He looked thoughtful. “I remember now. You were rubbish.”
    I let the paper drop in my lap and shot him a deadpan look. “I think you’ll find I was not rubbish. My throw had velocity—it just lacked distance. I could have had a very promising cricket career, thank you very much.”
    He snorted and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to reposition his long legs under the table. “And you