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think of something better.’
    Imogen didn ’t look too comfortable but Beth smiled.
    ‘ There you go. That’s your dare.’
    ‘ But –’
    ‘ But what? You wanted a dare and that’s it. Come on, Imogen. It’s not like it’s so hard. I’ve been to Smith’s heaps of times.’
    Imogen ’s smile looked forced.
    ‘ OK, I’ll do it.’

Chapter 6:                        Imogen
    My amazing, and seemingly foolproof, plan had been to get to Smith ’s Beach early and beat the crowds. Right. Like I’d be that lucky – it was 30 degrees already and the car park was packed. Who knew people went to the beach at 9.00 am?
    I parked the car and sat awhile, counting seagulls and thinking maybe Sunday wasn ’t the best day to do this. Technically, no one had specified when the dare had to be done so I could come back before work or even at night, late at night.
    A carload of bimbos pulled up beside me, blaring the latest generic boy band. Blerk. Blonde, tanned bimbos with bones perturbing from weird places on their bodies. I lit a cigarette and turned on the stereo. Nick Cave sang another song about braining some innocent girl with a rock. I envied her.
    My fingers hesitated on the keys in the ignition. If I could think of three good reasons for doing this, I ’d get out of the car.
    One: the chances of getting up early enough to drive down here before work were nil. I don ’t like mornings much.
    Two: better to be an anonymous lump of flesh merging into a beach crowded with bodies than to stand out like whale amongst a few. I mean no one notices a single body in a Spencer Tunick photo, do they?
    Three: it was damn hot in the car.
    OK. No more excuses. I popped the hatch on the Mazda and grabbed my bag of beach props and diversions.
    A steep, sandy path twisted down to the beach. I had to grab the handrail to stop myself from sliding down onto my arse and sand critters nipped at my ankles. I hate sand. I hate the sun. I hate the beach. Maybe, with any luck, a cyclone or a giant tidal wave would wipe everyone out.
    Shit, it was sweltering – my skirt stuck to the sweat on the backs of my thighs. The ocean, sparkling up ahead, started to look tempting. Sand filled my shoes and my shirt flapped in the breeze. Damn the wind – it couldn ’t be cool and refreshing – no – it had to be hot and yucky so it could threaten my hat and twist my clothes and blow grit in my eyes. I hate the beach.
    The strap of my straw bag cut into my shoulder like you ’d think my bag was full of bricks, but I only had the essentials – sunscreen SPF 50, towels, a couple of books, a report I had to check over for work, some sandwiches, an orange, a bottle of Diet Coke and Jack’s kindle that I’d nicked from his room when he and his boyfriend left for the movies. I could be at the movies with them, cool and air-conditioned instead of this beastly beach.
    I rested my bag on the rail for a minute when, out of nowhere, two bimbos ran past, almost knocking me down. My bag flew off the rail – the papers and sandwiches soaring through the air and landing on a prickly bush while the kindle fell – splat – on the ground. My orange rolled a little way down the path then over the edge, plummeting to the sand below.
    The bimbos looked back and giggled.
    I hate the stupid, goddamn, motherfucking beach.
    What was I doing here anyway? In a few minutes, once the glare of the sun hit my flabby, white flesh, the whole beach would be laughing. Shrieks of laughter rolling down the beach like a Mexican wave.
    I scrounged around for my stuff, praying I hadn ’t fucked up Jack’s kindle. I was so frigging useless. This was a sign to forget the whole stupid idea and get home where I belonged.
    But the Bad Girls – how would it look if I failed my first dare when I had been all bravado and talk at the meeting? I hadn ’t expected the others to even turn up. A crazy prank when you are half-pissed is one thing, but to keep going takes