Once outside, she tucked herself into a café’s back doorway, letting out a pained, arrrrghhh! Brave? Brave?? Brave was what actors said to their friends after seeing them do a terrible performance. Either that, or great energy.

‘Frrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiggg!’ Simi hissed.

Why had she listened to Meagan?? Angry had been the most ridiculous suggestion she could have gone with. She’d have been better off playing it like a clown again or a psychopath. In fact, psychopath was probably what her performance looked like and why Cameron had escaped onto the balcony. And even though she’d managed to get a do-over, it was obviously too little, way too late. Oh, God, Simi whimpered as she crouched down into a ball. This whole thing was a disaster. Simi hadn’t wanted to audition in the first place and when she had she’d ruined it by listening to Meagan’s terrible advice. Why didn’t she trust herself and, worse, why didn’t Meagan trust her – about anything? Whatever she thought, people overrode or just dismissed it. The only important choice Oscar had let her make was which joint Christmas card to send! No one trusted her choices. Simi gasped as a realisation struck her. That’s exactly what the dating game was! She had basically given the girls power-of-attorney over her. She was telling them she didn’t trust herself and that they were better placed to choose a date for her than she was. What had Meagan once said? People treat you how you let them. Meagan had talked at length about boundaries but it hadn’t occurred to Simi that one of those boundaries might have to be between her and her girlfriends. Her stomach lurched at the notion. They were her backstops, her confidantes, her wingwomen. But even so, that didn’t mean they got to decide everything for her. She needed to start deciding for herself. Even if she got it wrong, she had to try. Tonight, when they meet up for another round of the game, Simi would bow out. She had to make some changes and perhaps this was the place to start. She stood up, confidently striding to the end of the block. As she reached the corner, she spied Sandra Scott trotting up the street towards Antonia De Silva’s office and darted back into the doorway.

‘Sandra-Flipping-Scott,’ she seethed, punctuating each word with a pathetic, flailing punch.

As she flung her arms about, a flurry of white flakes floated down in front of her. Snow? she thought, reaching out to let a flake settle in her hand. But instead of melting it disintegrated into a grey smudge. Simi looked skyward and saw where it had come from. Above her was Cameron, cigarette in hand, staring down between the metal stairs of the fire escape. Without a flicker of expression, she opened the window and slid back inside Antonia’s office. Simi listened as the old wooden window grazed shut.

‘Frig,’ she grizzled as she stomped off to the tube and the receptionist job she would probably have for the rest of her life.