‘To London,’ I continue, ‘we can all go together.’

‘She’s not coming,’ says Luke. His lips are as pale as his face.

I laugh. ‘Didn’t Rob tell you?’

Rob’s mouth hangs open, just like Shane’s. He blinks at me, at Luke, then at me again.

I reach up and cup a hand round his ear, breathing in L’Oreal. The icy smoothness of Rob’s gold sleeper is on my lip as I whisper to him. ‘Help me.’

Rob stares at me for a minute. I stare back and mouth the word please. He runs a hand through his gel-stiffened hair.

‘Rob?’ asks Luke.

After a minute, Rob speaks. ‘It’s OK. Maybe we can – you know, work something out.’ His eyebrows arch in apology and he attempts to give Luke a half-grin.

I sneak another look at Shane, who’s stopped plucking and is staring at the floor. His fists are clenched, hanging in big bunches by his sides.

‘We can all go together, Luke,’ I say.

‘And I suppose the spacky’s coming too?’ says Luke. He sticks his chin out of his white scarf and shoves his hands into the pockets of his bright blue Adidas jacket, pulling it down over his little hips. He faces Rob. ‘I suppose she’s bringing her spacky boyfriend? Why not just invite everyone, Rob?’

‘He’s not her boyfriend.’ Rob’s voice is soft. He touches Luke on the shoulder and smiles his full Smash Hits smile.

‘It’s OK. Really.’

Luke huffs over his turkey.

For the next fifteen minutes, everything seems to go quiet. There’s just the ripping sound of feathers being pulled. I try not to look in Shane’s direction. Luke sulks and Rob frowns.

Then I notice Shane unhooking his bird. He takes time to arrange its bald wings and bloody neck so it’s all neatly packed in his basket and he carries the whole thing to the end of the shed. Sheepskin Coat pats him on the shoulder and digs in his big pocket for some coins.

On his way out, Shane stops and stands very close behind me. ‘I’m going,’ he says. ‘You coming?’

His breath is hot on my ears.

‘You coming?’

Shane’s knees touch the insides of mine. Through the gash in my tights, I can feel the stiffness of his jeans. I fix my eyes on my turkey’s half-plucked wing.

‘You coming?’

His chest heaves at my shoulders.

I begin to wrench the stubborn feathers from round my bird’s neck. Its feet groan on the hook as I go in, twist, pull, go in again.