I don’t believe it. She’s fired me. I haven’t even worked there for a day, and I’ve been kicked out. I was so shocked when she told me, I almost became tearful. I mean, apart from the incident with the zebra-print jeans, I thought I was doing really well. But apparently hiding stuff from customers is one of those automatic-firing things. (Which is really unfair, because she never told me that at the interview.)

As I get changed out of my gray trousers and T-shirt, there’s a heavy feeling in my heart. My retail career is over before it’s even begun. I was only given twenty quid for the hours I’ve done today—and Danielle said that was being generous. And when I asked if I could quickly buy some clothes using my staff discount, she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me.

It’s all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—

“Rebecca!” My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .

“Tom!” I exclaim in the nick of time. “Hi there! What a surprise!”

Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. He’s just as tall and gangly as ever—but somehow looking slightly cooler with it than usual. He’s wearing a thin blue sweater over a T-shirt and . . . are those really Armani jeans? This doesn’t make sense. What’s he doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be in Reigate, grouting his Mediterranean tiles or something?

“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying. Surely she didn’t mean . . .

“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”

“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”

But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.

And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!

“Hi,” says Lucy.

“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Childhood friend. All that.”

“Oh, you’re Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.

What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.

“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.

“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully—and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”

“No!” I say, a little too sharply.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”