‘Can’t remember. Not much,’ she lied. It had been Michelle’s birthday last month and she hadn’t received any gifts apart from the bubblegum-flavoured lip gloss Bessie had bought her. Her best friend’s family, she knew, had no spare money for presents. They had no spare money for anything much. To relay the long list of all the lovely bits and bobs now nestling in a pile on the table would seem a little mean.

‘Some Maltesers,’ she offered casually.

‘Save me some!’

‘I will,’ she promised.

Nothing was half as much fun if Bessie didn’t share it with Michelle. They had sayings, quotes and comments known only to the two of them and heavy with hidden meaning. For example, if something was lame or not up to scratch, they said it was a bit ‘Ronnie’, cruelly inspired by Ronald Booker, a boy in their year whose name, they figured, neither of them would recall when they looked at school photos in years to come. He was a walking underachiever, bland, vanilla, forgettable. If they liked a boy, however, and wanted to subtly announce this, they would say they were hungry and use his initials related to food, a basic code but one they thought was foolproof.

‘God, Michelle, I’m starving!’

‘Really? What do you fancy?’

‘Ooh, I’m thinking . . . Liquorice and Popcorn . . .’

Lawrence Paulson . . .

‘Ah, yes, liquorice and popcorn sounds good!’

It was almost like having their own language. They so loved each other’s company, they often laughed until they cried or needed a pee. The two events were not always mutually exclusive. And these fits of laughter could happen anywhere: in school, on the sofa, at the cinema, at the school carol concert – or even at an ice rink, where Bessie had collapsed on the grubby grey slush as Christmas skaters whizzed past her head and she, weak with laughter, lay crying and close to hysteria on the cold wet surface, powerless to stand, despite the shouts and moans of all of those whose path she blocked. She and Michelle made plans for all the things they would do when age and funds allowed: travel, live in a flat together (one with a balcony and a fantastic view), get their hair dyed professionally, and go out with and possibly marry different members of Duran Duran.

‘Results day!’ Michelle took a sharp intake of breath. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m freaking out a bit.’

‘I’m not,’ Bessie answered truthfully. ‘I mean, there’s not a lot we can do about it now, is there?’

‘I s’pose not. Plus, you’re smart. I worked a zillion times harder than you and I bet you still beat me.’

‘It’s not a competition,’ Bessie reasoned, although secretly she quite liked the idea of getting good grades and using her brains.

‘So you reckon you’re going to do it with Lawrence tonight?’ Michelle whispered.