Jem’s snort of laughter shot straight out of her nose. Now beyond any sense of modesty, she used her soggy T-shirt to wipe the snot from her face, peeling off the shirt when she was finished and dropping it onto the plastic.

Giving it a wide berth, Rosie headed for one of the lockers and returned with a pair of oversized hooded tops.

“Here, I keep a couple of emergency spares.” She rubbed her hands, all business again, and ushered Jem toward the bathroom. “There’s shower gel and shampoo in there, and fresh towels. Come on, hop to it, or you’ll catch your death.”

Jem hopped to it, stripping off completely and then standing beneath the water for a while, letting her fingers and toes thaw as the force of the spray eased the stiffness from her muscles. Feeling less decrepit, and mindful of Rosie waiting in the locker room, she washed and dried quickly, throwing on her borrowed outfit to preserve any residual warmth. She propped each foot in turn on a low stool, folding up the overlong cuffs of her jogging bottoms and scowling at her hair in the foggy mirror. She couldn’t do a thing to tame it without a brush.

“Rosie? Have you got a comb?” she shouted from the safety of the bathroom, too embarrassed to stick her head out of the door.

“Yeah, hang on. You decent?”

“Yes, but—”

Rosie was in before Jem could finish the sentence, brush in one hand and a choice of combs in the other.

“Ahhh,” she said, drawing out the sound. She surveyed the disaster in front of her with a speculative eye rather than the derision Jem had feared, and then set down the brush and one of the combs. “Do you want me to…Look, my mam’s a hairdresser, and she’s taught me a few tricks. C’mere.” She pulled up the stool and ushered Jem onto it.

“I can manage,” Jem protested, entirely without conviction. Half expecting Rosie to whip out a pair of scissors, she relaxed when Rosie stuck to teasing out the tangles with the comb.

“If you take it this way, it follows the natural parting, see?” Rosie said. “And then your fringe falls like so, which complements the shape of your face.”

Jem peeked up to see whether Rosie was taking the piss, but she seemed quite serious.

“Think it’d be better a bit shorter?” Jem asked. Rosie had achieved a minor miracle with her fringe in less time than it usually took Jem to swear at it.

“Definitely. If I were you, I’d get rid of most of the length. Go for a bold pixie cut, with a splash of colour. Auburn highlights would bring out the hazel in your eyes.”

“‘A bold pixie,’” Jem said. “My regular hairdresser would probably translate that as ‘gormless goblin.’”

“In which case, Ms. Pardon, book in at Salon Chez Croquembouche—”