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flopped into the sofa beside me. I tried not to shy away. “Your friend said you were called Maggie,” he yelled, over the thump thump thump skree whinge thump .
    “It’s Meg, actually.”
    “What?”
    “Meg!”
    “What?”
    “Meg!”
    “Sure,” he nodded and smiled a blindingly white smile, as if he’d understood what I was saying, when we both knew he hadn’t. “My name’s John.”
    “ Meg ,” I said, under my breath. I gave him a tight smile. He seemed to expect me to say something else. I didn’t want to be rude – apart from the fact that he was obviously at least five years older than me, and he’d come up to a bunch of young girls in a bar for no reason except the obvious, and he was smiling at me like the Cheshire cat that got the cream, I had no reason to feel so wary of him.
    I just suck at this , I thought, miserably. I just don’t care about you, John, or about this music, or about this stupid drink. I just want to think if a guy’s chatting me up it’s because he’s interested in me as a person. Is that seriously too much to ask?
    I realised I’d gone silent and tried to think of something to say. “Nice shirt!” I managed eventually.
    It was a polo shirt with a graffiti motif coiling up around one arm – a bit cheap-looking, which probably meant he’d paid way too much for it, but I liked it.
    “Thanks. Nice top!” he grinned, staring at my boobs. I tried to sigh without encouraging him. It’d been a whole five minutes since I’d regretted letting Ameera talk me into the bright green lowcut Roberto Cavalli dress I had hidden in a drawer and hoped never to have to wear in public again. I almost didn’t blame him for staring at my chest: it was very much the star of the show.
    “How old are you?” I yelled.
    “Twenty,” he lied. “You’re at college together, right?”
    Yeah. Except you’re thinking Oxbridge and I’m thinking sixth form. “Uh huh,” I said, not wanting to ruin it for Jewel and Ameera. After all, they looked like they were having a good time. The boyband were buying them champagne cocktails with little fizzing stars at the bottom of the glass, and when one of them ran a hand over Ameera’s bottom she wriggled and laughed.
    I never wanted to be a prude. I didn’t wake up one day and think, From now on I shall be really uptight about boys and take myself way too seriously and not think any of this is fun .
    It’s just... not fun.
    John the Supposed Twenty Year-Old was saying something about boats. I nodded and smiled, my face forming a kind of frozen death-grin.
    Oh God, please don’t be telling me about your yacht. Oh my God, you’re telling me about your yacht.
    My parents had a yacht for a while. My friends’ parents had yachts. Jewel had one of her very own, it was called Tinkerbell . I was not impressed by his yacht.
    “Are you in college?” I asked, going along with his lie about his age – I don’t even know why.
    “No, I’m in politics,” he shouted. “I’m one of their, y’know, Senior Policy Wonks.”
    At twenty years old. You really must think I’m stupid.
    “I work with the Poverty Tsar,” he declared, looking pleased with himself.
    OK, that’s it, thank you and goodnight, it hasn’t been fun.
    I stood up.
    “I’m just going to… er…” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.
    “I’ll hold your drink,” said John the Yachting Poverty Wonk.
    “No!” I clutched it protectively to my unfortunate cleavage. “I’m good! Back soon.”
    I had to brush the traces of cocaine off the toilet lid as I sat down so they didn’t stain my dress, but at least it was quiet. The muted sounds of thump thump snort thump were practically restful by comparison with the bar.
    There was some graffiti on the toilet stall door, mostly just scrawled writing, names and dates.
    My purse was quite tiny, but it had room for the essentials – phone, mace, keys, Oystercard, and four fat marker pens. I untipped the black one and