It’s more than a year since Leonie made that phone call and Vee didn’t come. She obviously felt bad afterwards. There were flowers, a phone call the next day that Leonie ignored, a dog-eared letter that arrived, weeks later, having been posted somewhere way out east, where Vee had been sent for some assignment straight afterwards. But she wasn’t there when she needed to be there. OK, so it was all done, then – the baby handed over, life back to normal – but maybe that’s why Leonie had needed her friend so badly. Vee chose prizes. She chose herself. And Leonie hasn’t seen her since. When Vee called and asked if she’d like to work on this article together, the discomfort in her voice was priceless.

She’d almost said no, but her column is coming to an end, so she needs to keep her name out there. The occasional piece for Spare Rib isn’t enough for her, and anyway, Leonie is sick of preaching to the choir.

The journey has been an hour and a half of Vee chattering about anything and everything except that night. Leonie sat in silence, letting her talk, giving her nothing. She was going to explain to Vee that there is a difference between being ambitious and being blatantly, hurtfully selfish – say what you like about Vee, she would always listen, learn. But first Vee talked and talked about all the things she’s been doing. (‘I took a bunch of photos’ would have been enough, and anyway, Leonie knows, because she collects everything Vee has published. One day, she will tell her friend how proud she is of all that she’s achieved. Even the photographs of the fucking idiot entitled men, and the women who are only famous because they let men think women are only about tits and arse, because she manages to make them look a little less confident and up themselves than they usually do.)

And Leonie is fine, now – has been fine all the time, really, that night was a glitch, a little moment where the patriarchy got under her skin with all of its ridiculous messages, and she was too tired to stop it. Vee isn’t to know that, though. And that still hurts.

Vee pulls over and switches off the engine, turns to face her. Although Leonie is secure in all of her choices – although she believes, absolutely, that she should fill her body, stretch its boundaries with food and thought and pleasure – the ease with which Vee moves makes her envious.

Vee has tears in her eyes. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I know I was wrong, Leonie. I made the wrong call.’

‘Oh yeah?’ She doesn’t get away with it that easily.