Because standing by the sink, probably fixing her already flawless make-up, is Darcy Pemberley. She’s with Caroline Hurst, who exists purely to justify the dumb blonde stereotype. And she is talking about me.

“I can’t believe they came with us,” Darcy says, and I hear the sound of a lip gloss being opened. She has ridiculously gorgeous lips.

“Gosh, I know!” Caroline fawns. Darcy only started at West Hartford High this year – apparently she got kicked out of whatever fancy boarding school she was attending – but she’s already the centre of the social world for people like Caroline. They’ve all known each other since birth or something.

“It was all Lizzie’s mother’s idea – she’s my mother’s aromatherapist, and you know how suggestible my mother is when she’s with service people.”

The scorn that drips from Darcy’s words is almost liquid. Caroline coos in a ‘go on’ type of way.

“Her mother wanted Lizzie and her friends to come with us and I guess my mom thought it was like, the charitable thing to do. Seems like her mother is obsessed with the idea of Lizzie hanging out with the ‘popular crowd’.” I can hear the air quotes.

“How sad.”

“Lizzie’s probably the same – with a mother like that! And her friends! God, that Lydia. Did you see her on the dance floor with Adam? I thought her cleavage was going to suffocate him! And Jane!”

I am so angry that even if I wasn’t trying to be utterly silent, I wouldn’t be able to speak. How dare she! Granted, my mother is a little bit nuts – what with her wearing about seventeen chiffon scarves, and her obsessive use of Instagram. She tells herself it’s for her business, but let’s be real, she’s hungry for likes.

And, OK, Lydia got too drunk on the flask they were passing around in the limo and yes, her dress is a bit revealing, and she was doing some sort of cancan thing earlier. That’s just Lydia – she throws herself into everything. She’s probably having more fun than anyone here.

But Jane! What can Darcy possibly say about Jane? Everyone loves her. I know I would say that as her best friend, but it’s true. She is the kindest, sweetest, most considerate person I’ve ever met.

“She’s just so mousy. I don’t think I’ve heard her say one thing all night. Do you think she can even speak?”

Who does this girl think she is? Enough is enough.

I drop my dress. I guess I’m not peeing.

I bang open the stall door and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’m a mess. My careful updo is a thing of the past, my dark hair now in a knot at the nape of my neck, and my pale face is an angry red. I look like thunder. Good.

I focus on Darcy, which is a mistake because she remains utterly gorgeous. She is wearing a pantsuit with a corset top that makes it just feminine enough to be exactly my type. The white fabric contrasts perfectly against her brown skin, and the curls of her Mohawk fall just above her eyebrows. It’s like she stepped off a red carpet.