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she too was a sucker for a celebrity gossip magazine and a good lip gloss and somehow we ended up spending the rest of time there putting the world to rights – well, as much as you can when you’ve led a relatively wholesome sheltered life with few cares and are cheerfully living hand to mouth, knowing fully well your parents could bail you out at any point. We would sit on our balcony overlooking the street with fags in hand, drinking our way through some indescribably bad wine and reflect on everything that ever happened to us that led us to this point. Given half the chance, we would still be doing that, only that there is now the small matter of her being very pregnant indeed.
    When our time in Australia came to an end, we both went home to our respective countries and kept in touch sporadically, mainly by filling out those ‘round robin’ quizzes, the last question always being ‘who do you think is least likely to fill out this?’ – the answer inevitably being ‘Kate’ or ‘Liv’. Despite being able to email, writing letters added more gravitas to our friendship, exchanging news – news that went something like this. She, getting distinction in her MBE: Me, finding a job as a secretary and hating it as the office had no windows: She, getting onto the fast-track programme at a bank and seriously earning big bucks: Me, leaving that secretarial position for another secretarial position with windows: She, becoming the youngest ever director of a regional division: Me, taking a touch typing course in order to become a marginally better but still mediocre PA: She, getting a fiancé with a very American sounding name – Chip/Chad/Chuck or something: Me, still nursing a broken heart from an ill-fated holiday romance.
    Then a while ago, I got an email saying that Chip/Chad/Chuck or something was cheating on her, so she was leaving everything behind and travelling to Europe.
    The doorbell rang and there she stood with her Louis Vuitton suitcase looking fabulously blonde, dressed in skinny jeans and stiletto boots. ‘Jesus Christ, bitch, you could do with a makeover!’ was the first thing to come out of her mouth. She was right as I was spending my downtime wallowing in unlovable mode and had let it go a little, wearing my university sweater with old coffee stains on it, sporting eyebrows that were nearly joined in the middle and skin that could have done with a truckload of foundation. I hadn’t been particularly bothered, because as with all things, when it is only down to self-perception, I thought I looked okay. And besides, with no love life to speak of and no one to impress, what did it matter?
    My flatmate Claire immediately hated Liv for the simple fact that she was pretty and had one of those figures where you not only have boobs but a waist – as my brother would say, ‘a rare treat’. On the other hand, Claire was perfectly attractive to look at, but definitely had two separate ‘domestic’ and ‘nightclub’ looks. Like the rest of us, she had to work a little harder.
    During the time she lived with us, Liv showed us how it could be done if you had actually read the self-help book. Not only did she find work at the Globe, Paolo was so impressed with her business acumen that after a few weeks he made her a partner. Translated, this meant that he had found someone to work every weekend or any day when he fancied time out.
    After she found herself a business to run though, things went a bit wrong. She met someone who she should never have clapped eyes on – Claire’s ex-husband and my old classmate, Andy Happy. Back in the day, Mr Happy was ridiculously mature looking for a fourteen year old. I remember thinking he looked about thirty years old but that I must be missing something, as the girls seemed to love him. The night we met him at the pub on the corner, nothing much had changed, just that he had finally grown into that chest hair and had a tan line where a wedding ring used to be. I