She led the way into a compact galley kitchen, flicking on an outside light that shone silver over a small sunken garden. Winter had left the beds Spartan, but the light caught blood-red branches of dogwood, wisps of ornamental grass, and the bowed white petals of a hellebore. A stone patio provided an elevated vantage point, and Jem pictured Rosie out there in the height of summer, shaking off the stress of a long day with a glass of wine she’d probably grown the grapes for.

“It’s beautiful.” Jem went up on her tiptoes to better admire the plot. She had crammed her own backyard with pots and planters, and she occasionally sunbathed on the air raid shelter, but it was a poor substitute for a proper garden.

Rosie stood shoulder to shoulder with her. “It’s piddly, but it’s big enough for me, and the patio’s a right suntrap. I can get tomatoes and cucumbers to grow there, no problem.” She knocked the back of her hand against the tap dripping persistently over the sink. “As you can see, the kitchen is a work in progress.”

“I rent with a bloke who conjures up a dozen new pie recipes a month,” Jem said. “It’s a miracle if I can get into our kitchen.”

Rosie whistled her appreciation, not at all sympathetic to Jem’s plight. “Really? Does he use you as his guinea pig?”

“All the time, hence—” Jem used both hands to slap her arse. “I was a size eight when I moved in.”

Rosie belly-laughed and linked Jem’s arm. “Super skinny girls always look bloody miserable, Jemima. No cheese, no chip butties, no chocolate. Ugh.”

“Two protein shakes a day and a superfood salad, if you please,” Jem said, managing a fair approximation of Sylvie’s infomercial pitch.

“Bloody hellfire. Was that your muscle-bound date? I’d rather eat my own toenails.” Rosie led Jem up the stairs, pushing open a door and stopping on the threshold. “Welcome to Salon Chez whatever the hell name I made up the other day. Grab that chair and get comfy while I find some towels.”

Jem did as instructed, parking herself in front of a tall mirror and trying not to let nerves get the better of her. If it all went to shit, as expected, she would go home and give herself a crew cut.

Rosie came up behind her and caught her eye in the mirror. “Don’t look so worried. Here, Fluffy wanted to say hello.” Without further ceremony, she plonked the bearded dragon onto Jem’s lap. “He likes having his head massaged.”

Jem cooed and stroked Fluffy on the spot Rosie indicated. He raised each front leg in turn, looking like a kitten kneading a blanket, and Jem was so entertained that she barely noticed the spray of warm water on her hair.