At least she had the whole weekend ahead of her.

She dressed slowly and carefully. Getting dressed was like putting on armour; it was important not to leave any chinks for people to get at the core of you. Her skin was quite good today, just a couple of spots at her hairline. Make-up made them worse but she smoothed it on anyway, unconvinced by her skin’s ability to face the world naked. Why was she bothering? A few years ago she wouldn’t have cared. It was pointless, she looked how she looked, it would have to be good enough for everyone else.

She looked in the mirror and saw a fifteen-year-old girl staring back from behind a smooth beige mask, the eyeholes lined black.

“Shit,” she said, and rummaged beneath the sanitary towels for her diary.

I’m sick of trying to look how I think I ought to look. I’m sick of trying to act how I think ought to act. I’m sick of trying to sound like I think I ought to sound. From now on I’m writing this diary for ME. I’m writing about what’s real.

So. I might see him today. I don’t know. It depends on whether I can get away. My dad’s supposed to be going out, so…

Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn. Is that what love’s like? When your stomach won’t stop churning?

She chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully.

I wish it was still summer. I wish there was still a lifeguard on the beach. I wish I could go in the water.

Donald was down on his knees in the lounge-bar counting packets of crisps when he heard George’s voice out front. They weren’t open for another ten minutes, but George had never got the hang of opening hours. If the door was unlocked, that meant he was allowed to come in. And now here he was, wandering about the place and looking for someone to talk to.

“Hello, Mike.” George’s voice, loud and cheerful and slightly irritating, made Donald’s spine tense up. Some days he got on fine with George. Some days the man drove him insane. He already knew what sort of day today was going to be.

“All right, George.” (Mike was going to talk to him, thank God. Maybe when he’d finished counting crisps he could crawl to the lobby and escape upstairs.) “What you up to?”

“I was just passing so I thought I’d come in,” said George. (That was the hardest thing about George; when he got bored he’d just turn up and expect you to entertain him.)

“Anything doing?”

“Just those beach hut people,” said George. “I can’t understand what all the fuss is about, myself. It’s a good beach hut.”

(The way she’d smiled at him when she said he was her enemy. Why couldn’t he shake the memory? Two packets of Cheese and Onion. Six of Salt and Vinegar. Nineteen of Prawn Cocktail… )

“Heard you built it, mate.”