First published in Great Britain in 2017

by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2017 by Rachel McIntyre

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2017

ISBN 978 1 4052 7368 8

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1644 4

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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For Tim

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1 LIV

2 LIV

3 LIV

4 LIV

5 HETTY

6 HETTY

7 HETTY

8 HETTY

9 JEZ

10 JEZ

11 DUFF

12 DUFF

13 LIV

14 LIV

15 LIV

16 EVANGELINA

17 LIV

18 CASSANDRA

1 LIV

1 July, 10 a.m.

When Olivia Dawson-Hill opened the front door she had no idea what she was letting herself in for.

‘I’m Cass,’ the woman on the step said. She held out a business card between elegantly manicured fingers. ‘And you must be Liv.’

Liv took the card. Read it. Frowned.

Cassandra Verity

Assistant Director

Pretty Vacant Productions

‘But I spoke to Tony last night. He said we were all fixed for this afternoon.’

‘There’s been a change of plan. He’s going to call you later.’

The woman smiled.

Liv assessed the visitor with an expert eye: flawless skin, discreet make-up, glossy deep brown hair. White linen dress, understated but expensive. High-end high street? Leather sandals, definitely designer, and by them a large black and silver case.

The woman pulled her handbag higher on her shoulder and Liv’s mouth, poised to utter, What change of plan? dropped open at the sight of the distinctive gold P dangling from the strap.

‘Oh. My. God. Is that a genuine Pandora?’ she said in hushed tones, reaching out a tentative hand. ‘I mean, I’ve been on the waiting list since it opened, but even so, they said at least Christmas. How did you . . .?’

‘Beautiful, isn’t it? I guess you could say I’ve got friends in high places.’ The woman held the soft tan leather up as though it were some holy artefact. ‘Now is it OK if I bring this inside?’

‘This’ was the large black case. Plastered in wasp-striped stickers that read Fragile Audio-visual Equipment. A dizzying flare of excitement shot through Liv.

This was it!

Right now, waiting inside that black vinyl box was The Future.

Tucking the business card in the pocket of her jumpsuit, Liv paused, holding it there for one . . . two . . . in an attempt to disguise the sudden trembling in her fingers.

Deep breath.

Smile.

‘Of course. Come in.’

Cass stepped forward, bringing with her a drift of some ultra-subtle fragrance Liv recognised. Like wild herbs and sea air and sunshine mixed up together. So familiar. What was it called?

But the answer dangled stubbornly out of reach, vanishing entirely as Liv caught sight of Jez’s precision parked BMW, and behind it . . .

Bloody Jez! He knew not to leave the gates open. She tutted, flipping the security panel open to key in the code. The gate mechanism groaned; two Rottweilers hurtled across the walled courtyard, clattering their long chains over the cobbles.

Beyond the high wall, glinting tractors and tiny stooping figures dotted the endless fields. Squinting against the sun, she could just make out a horse going round the training ring and a smaller dot that must be Mum. Good job she hadn’t seen the open gates. Liv waited until they clanged shut, cutting High Acres off from the surrounding farmland, then raised her voice above the ferocious barking.

‘Sorry about that. My dad’s super security conscious.’

‘It’s fine,’ Cass said, lifting the case over the threshold. ‘Wow. I remember thinking what a lovely space when I saw your application footage, but it’s even more impressive in real life. Love, love, love the staircase.’

Pride mingled with Liv’s fizz of excitement, although if she wanted to be picky, ‘lovely’ didn’t quite do the hallway justice. Presiding over the entrance, the show-stopping stairs, designed to her own vague specifications (‘wooden steps with glass up the side’) had featured in two interiors magazines, attracting adjectives such as ‘stunning’ ‘dazzling’ and ‘sublime’.

‘Spectacular,’ Cass murmured, brushing her fingertips lightly along the wall.

Exposed brickwork lined the way to the lounge, and the ceiling, stripped back during the renovations, arched high above them in a skeleton of beams. And even though her mum had tried to put her foot down over the inset floor lights Liv flicked on now, Liv got her own way in the end. She always did.

Mind you, every time she pressed the switch, Mum’s mocking voice rattled in her head: ‘Low-level lighting will guide you to the nearest available exit.’

Hilarious.

Just after the door – the locked door – that separated Liv from her parents in the main house, Cass paused to examine a gallery of framed photos: Liv with other pearly-toothed girls, lifting champagne flutes outside a grand marquee. Sleek hair streaming behind them, the same friends captured mid-shriek on a waltzer. Liv, alone, in front of a glowing Ferris wheel. Liv posing, arms in the air, against a vivid blue sky. ‘Stunning pics. I take it they’re recent?’

Liv nodded. ‘That one’s my eighteenth in April. That’s Greece at Easter. Those ones are from the prom. We had this 1950s theme with a proper fairground. The photographer works for Vogue; all the prom pics were amazing.’

Cass nudged the corner of a frame slightly to straighten it. ‘Lucky you. Only July and you’ve already had an unforgettable year.’

Unforgettable? Well, that was one way of looking at it, but not entirely for reasons Liv cared to remember. She swallowed hard. Do not think about HIM now. ‘It’s been eventful,’ she agreed, careful to keep her tone light. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Green tea?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Thanks, but we don’t have much time. It’s better if we just get straight on with the casting.’

‘Yeah, sure. Follow me.’

But Cass had turned back towards the front door. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the stained-glass panels, throwing kaleidoscope patterns on the wooden floor.

‘What a truly lovely home you have,’ she said.

‘The windows came from a church that was being demolished. And the floor.’ Liv pointed her toe at the patinated boards, worn to a shine by decades of worshipping feet. ‘You can see if you look closely.’

‘Amazing,’ Cass said, gazing down.

As they reached the end of the passageway, a thumping beat joined the click-clack of Cass’s sandals. She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m guessing the others have already arrived.’

‘Yep. Everyone got here early.’

Liv twisted the circular handle on a carved door which, until the architect snapped it up, had apparently eavesdropped on a lifetime of confessions. She elbowed it open; the hinges gave a groan.

Tacky. That’s how Mum described the chandelier dangling from the beams, the aqua geometric print rug, white gloss furniture and huge L-shaped sofa Liv had chosen. Even the open-plan kitchen, with the sleek cupboards and cavernous pastel-pink fridge Liv literally worshipped, had only elicited a disparaging, ‘Not very practical, is it?’

On the rare occasions Mrs Dawson-Hill ventured through the door from the Land of Boring Bland, she screwed her face up like she’d accidentally stumbled into raw sewage.

Liv could have asked the designer for a Mum-friendly scheme: pine, flowery cushions and easy-to-clean flagstones.

But she didn’t.

With the door open, the wall-mounted TV was revealed as the source of the music. More specifically, the video of a suit-wearing male singer flanked by a flock of bikini-clad dancers.

Sprawling on the rug beneath, transfixed by the screen and tapping the remote control to the beat, was Declan Duffy.

‘Switch the telly off,’ Liv hissed at him.

‘What for?’

‘Just do it.’

Something of Liv’s irritation must have got through because he jerked upright, fumbling for the button. Although the music stopped, the dancers continued gyrating silently.

‘I said off, not down.’

Liv snatched up the remote control, killed the screen and stood in front of the TV.

‘OK, everyone, listen up. There’s been a change of plan. Tony can’t make it so he’s sent someone else. This is Cass.’

Three expectant faces gazed up and Liv, conscious of the woman’s presence, had the strange sensation she was seeing her friends for the first time.

Declan Duffy, stubble scuffing his chin and dark circles, almost bruises, ringing his currently red eyes. On most guys you’d think knackered. On Duff they weirdly added another dimension to his apparently irresistible bad-boy appeal. (Irresistible to other girls, that is. Not Liv, who’d known him since primary and therefore knew exactly what he was like.)

Perched on the edge of the sofa: Hetty Barraclough, brown hair tugged back in a ponytail, knuckles whitening around an iPhone. Hesitant smile hovering on her scrubbed face even as she shrank inside her baggy grey sweatshirt.

Liv suppressed a sigh. A sweatshirt. What exactly was Hetty thinking? Liv wouldn’t use that rag to clean the floor, let alone audition for a TV show in it.

Not that Liv had any intention of cleaning this or any floor.

Finally, Jeremiah Livingston, almost-but-not-quite touching Hetty. Not a crease wrinkling that immaculate shirt, not a smudge on those blinding trainers. Owlish behind Harry Potter glasses, with thick eyebrows that were currently lowered in a frown as he asked, ‘Sorry, what do you mean by a change of plan?’

Cass set the heavy-looking case down by the side of the coffee table. Taking the actual Pandora off her shoulder, she placed it on top then swept her gaze across the three seated friends.

‘Hello, Jeremiah – Jez, isn’t it? Nice to meet you. And Hetty too and . . . you must be Declan.’

‘Call me Duff.’

He unfurled himself up off the rug in a single fluid movement, stealing the opportunity to not-so-subtly check himself out in the oversized mantel mirror. ‘And you are . . .?’

Oh please. Liv raised her eyes to the ceiling. Like the dogs going mental over the screech of the gates, Duff ’s flirt offensive was so depressingly biological. Every interaction he had with a female started with that cool up-down once-over; the instinctive, preening hey hey hey.

But the woman fixed her attention not on him but on the retro clock above his head and the white digits that flipped to 10.08 before she replied in a neutral and distinctly non-flirty way.

‘Hello, everyone. Great to meet you all in the flesh; I’ve been hearing so much about you. My name is Cassandra Verity, but please call me Cass. I’ll be taking you through the casting for This Careless Life today.’

Duff didn’t even appear to register the slight; instead he rocked back on his heels, unselfconsciously watching the visitor snap the tabs on the black case, tip the lid and extract several smaller, squishier bags.

That was the thing about Duff. His ego was galactic. Like a constantly inflating ball of vanity expanding beyond the earth, beyond the solar system, it bounced through wormholes, emerging in parallel dimensions where billions of super-cocky identi-Duffs blatantly sized up anything woman-shaped.

As always, Liv felt torn between admiring his self-confidence and massively wanting to give him a slap.

A sharp intake of breath caught her attention. Hetty. Mouth open, about to speak and nervously turning the phone around in her hands.

‘What? ’ mouthed Liv.

Hetty positioned her lips into the determined smile Liv recognised from school functions. ‘Sorry, Cass. Hello. I, er, thought the audition wasn’t till two? Are we still going to have time to rehearse?’

Twist, twist, twist went the phone.

Cass rasped a Velcro strap and straightened up. ‘I’m sorry about the short notice. I’ve had to juggle the timing because I’ve got a plane to catch this afternoon. I know you’ve been dealing with Tony, but something urgent cropped up so I’m taking over. But if you really want Tony to fit you in after he’s seen the other candidates, I’m sure he would –’

‘No,’ Liv cut in before Hetty could. ‘Today, now, with you is fine. Totally fine. Beyond fine. Awesome.’

Cass grinned. Her teeth really were lovely: very straight, very white against her olive skin. Bending her shiny dark head over the table, she unzipped the various bags and set a selection of silver and black tech on the coffee table. Tripods, cameras, a fuzzy-headed microphone . . .

‘Fantastic. Does mean we’re on a super-tight schedule though, I’m afraid. We need to set the equipment up asap so we can make a start.’

‘Can we help?’ Jez asked.

Cass, expertly screwing a stand into one of the cameras, used her head to indicate the white gloss bookcase, crammed as always with an avalanche-in-waiting of fashion magazines.

‘Sure. Can you put this . . . there?’

‘Allow me,’ Duff said, leaping up to take the camera. Jez snorted softly and Liv bit back a tut. So predictable.

‘Thanks. And these two . . .’ The woman pointed first at the worktop of the (shiny, untouched) kitchen and then at the corner desk stacked with Liv’s (shiny, untouched) revision books. ‘There and there should do it. And camera number four. Let’s see . . .’ She scanned the room. ‘There.’

With a flash of irritation, Liv scooped the scattering of jewel-bright lip glosses, nail polishes and random earrings along the sideboard and into a drawer. What a total mess. She’d have to talk to Dad about . . . was it Martina or Marina? She couldn’t remember. Whatever the new cleaner’s name was, she was a joke.

Yesterday, Liv had caught her vacuuming around a pair of cerise Victoria’s Secret knickers in her bedroom. And when Liv suggested that maybe she could, you know, pick them up first? Martina/Marina had stared blankly at her with eyes ringed in glittery blue liner, then carried on.

Absolute joke.

‘Lens caps off and angled at the sofa, please,’ Cass continued. ‘Have a wiggle, check the tripod’s steady. Press the green button on the top. And don’t worry about not rehearsing, Hetty; spontaneity gives the best results. Makes the whole process more . . . honest.’

She placed her bag on the counter that divided the kitchen from the living space. The gold P chinked against the granite as Cass rifled through, pulling out first a mini laptop case and then a black gadget studded with tiny buttons. From her position by the door, Liv had a perfect view of the computer screen Cass was now adjusting to suit the light filtering in through the blinds.

‘Nearly there, guys. Duff, may I borrow you to check the angles?’

‘Sure, what do I need to do?’

‘Look pretty,’ Cass said, flicking her gaze between the sofa and the screen.

Liv’s eyes automatically followed, tracking across her friends. Jez’s watchful, relaxed expression giving nothing away, hands clasped in his lap.

Then Duff. Every inch of that six-foot-plus gym-toned, buffed and waxed body currently squeezed between Hetty and Jez radiated natural-born poser. Liv would not be at all surprised to learn that Mrs Duffy had an ultrasound image somewhere of foetal-stage Duff pouting like a pro.

Unlike acute photo-phobe Hetty who, even when she smiled, gave the impression she would rather be facing a machine gun than a lens. At the prom she had avoided the crush of the booth, ducked to the back for the group shots. And now, hugging a velvet cushion to her chest, she was playing the part of person most unlikely to audition for a TV show to perfection. Liv damped down a surge of exasperation. Hetty had promised she would go along with it.

‘Hets?’ she said in an undertone, miming dropping the cushion.

But if Cass noticed Hetty’s nerves, she didn’t seem bothered. One final tap on the keyboard and four LEDs blinked on; a red eye staring from each of the cameras placed around the room. Four Duffs materialised on the quartered screen, each fiddling with his phone from a slightly different angle.

‘Duff, can you say something so I can test the sound levels?’ Cass said, setting a microphone on the table.

‘Anything in particular you’d like me to say?’

A line spiked into jagged peaks in the top left of her screen.

‘That’ll do, thanks.’

She moved the microphone a few centimetres closer to the sofa and wagged a finger at Duff ’s phone.

‘Sorry, no devices. They interfere with the equipment. Disabled Wi-Fi or switched off, please.’

Duff swiped his thumb over the screen and placed it on the table. ‘No worries.’

Liv quickly slipped hers out of its case and touched the little aeroplane icon. Wi-Fi Off. When she looked back up, Jez’s domed forehead had loomed into shot. The light caught his glasses and the lenses flashed opaque white.

Lines zigzagged in the corner of the screen as he asked, ‘Do we need to sign anything? Contract? Disclaimer?’

Cass clicked her fingers and pointed her index finger at him. ‘Excellent question. Yes, I have paperwork. There’s always paperwork.’

She reached inside the Pandora, drawing out a document wallet containing a sheaf of A4 sheets attached to thin plastic clipboards, each with a printed label.

‘Here we are. Jeremiah . . . Henrietta . . . Olivia . . . Declan. These are the agreements you submitted with your initial applications. Legal tells me I have to read through the section marked “Audition” to make sure you know what you’re getting into.’

‘Sounds ominous,’ Liv said on her way to sit down. Then laughed to show she didn’t mean it.

She curled up next to Hetty, tucking her feet under her. Hetty grinned and flexed her eyebrows in a this-is-it! kind of way, which immediately made Liv feel like an evil bitch. But honestly, that sweatshirt! Liv had a photo of Hetty aged fourteen wearing the exact same garment on a school skiing trip. Which, in clothing years, made it older than the actual Pyrenees.

‘It’s just to make sure we’re all completely clear,’ Cass said.

Draping one arm along the leathery back of the sofa, Duff fanned himself with his copy. ‘No need. We trust you a hundred per cent, Cassandra.’

A lion on the scent of a zebra. That’s what he reminded Liv of. A lion too full of itself to realise this particular zebra was way, way out of its league.

‘That’s good to know but have a quick look to refamiliarise yourself,’ said Cass, her brown eyes trained on the laptop.

Jez curled his shoulder away from Duff ’s loosely dangling hand and studied the contract, one side, two sides before taking Hetty’s copy. He flapped his fingers, offering to do the same for Liv but she shook her head and pulled the contract to her chest.

Cass looked up expectantly. ‘Got a pen? Great. Any questions, fire away, otherwise please tick the boxes after each point.’

She began to read in a can’t-put-your-finger-on-it accent. Posh, yes, but with a hint of something under it. Something not entirely English?

‘I understand I am auditioning to take part in a vehicle for Pretty Vacant Productions with the working title: This Careless Life.

‘By agreeing to participate in the audition process, I confirm I am eighteen years of age.’

Tick.

‘I understand this audition will never be broadcast or made publicly available.’

Tick.

‘I give Pretty Vacant Productions permission to continue to obtain and research my online presence including accessing my social-media profiles.’

Tick.

‘I understand that participation could have a profound impact on my life and those around me.’

Tick.

Pause.

Bookcase. Kitchen. Sideboard. Desk.

‘One . . . two . . . three . . . four.’

Cass jabbed her pen at each camera in turn. ‘Audiences expect full disclosure, guys. In this job, festering skeletons have a nasty habit of tumbling out, sooner or later. And it will be much better for you if you’re transparent from the start. So think carefully now – is there anything you need to tell me?’

Duff spread his arms wide. ‘What you see is what you get with me. No skeletons, no secrets. Guaranteed.’

Cass laughed softly.

‘Everyone’s got secrets.’ Her deep brown eyes met Liv’s. ‘Everyone. ’

Then she raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow a tiny fraction and panic jolted through Liv.

Wait. Did she know about –?

No.

No way.

It was impossible. Apart from herself, only two other people knew: Hetty (who would never blab) and him, and he’d been careful to the point of paranoia. No names on texts, separate SIM cards, no likes on each other’s posts . . . literally nothing to give away that they were anything more than vague friends of friends.

A rustling interrupted her thoughts. Cass had turned to the next page in the contract, but her gaze still rested on Liv.

Liv’s heartbeat speeded up. Oh God. Please don’t.

But then Cass’s thoughtful face broke into a warm smile. ‘No one wants to unload their burning confessions? OK, so if we’re all happy with the Big Brother stuff, let’s move on.’

As Cass carried on reading, Liv’s nerves gradually unknotted. No. Absolutely no way Cass knew about him. Part of the test, wasn’t it? A lucky guess to put her on edge. Like those TV psychics who cast a million generalisations in the air and wait for the audience to bite.

Liv’s mind floated out of the room, up the stairs and into her dressing room to pull open a few drawers, rifle along the hangers . . . Oh dear. A terminal crisis loomed on the clothes front that a trip into Manchester couldn’t cure. Two, maybe three hardcore shopping days in London with Dad’s credit card would do the trick. Should she invite Hetty along? Persuade her to slip into something a little less comfortable for once? Maybe even brave a manicure?

Liv inspected her nails throughout the section on ‘disclaimers and exclusions’. Rubbed at a faint scuff mark on the side of her sandal during ‘investigative access’. Listened to Duff crick his neck from side to side while Cass droned on about ‘post-interview courses of action’. Whatever that meant. Duff yawned and tapped his finger against the plastic clipboard. The rhythm wormed its way into Liv’s brain: get on with it . . . get on with it . . . get on with –

‘This is the last one, I promise,’ Cass said, reeling Liv out of her trance. Caught mid-yawn, she coughed unconvincingly and pasted on her hanging-on-every-syllable expression, a look she’d recently perfected thanks to Hetty’s adoring-boyfriend-monologues.

‘I understand if I choose to withdraw from today’s audition process, the entire team will be disqualified.’

‘All in or all out,’ Jez murmured.

‘Exactly. So . . .’

Cass mimed ticking the box.

Next to Liv, Hetty stopped chewing the end of her pen and tilted her head to one side. ‘What if we do get chosen and then one of us wants to drop out later on?’

What?

Snapped out of her relaxed state, Liv cast her friend a shut up glare and quickly clarified. ‘I think what Hetty means is if someone is ill or has an accident.’

‘Still, it’s a valid question.’ Cass held up a finger. ‘Bear with me one second . . .’

There was a pause while Cass rummaged through her beautiful Pandora. Liv nudged Hetty, urgently mouthing, ‘Don’t say drop out. ’

Before Hetty could respond, Cass withdrew something with a flourish.

‘Aha. I knew it was in there somewhere. Hope you don’t mind, but I like to make some notes by hand. Helps me keep things straight in my mind.’

It was a notebook bound in battered red leather, somewhere between A4 and A5 in size and held together with a fraying ribbon. Cass pulled one end and, as the bow unravelled, the thick book crackled open.

Quirky. The yellowed pages reminded Liv of those junior-school projects where you recreated the Magna Carta by wiping ye olde wet teabag across ye olde history homework. Unexpected that this fashion-savvy woman with her sleek tech and leather Pandora would even possess such an ancient piece of tat. What next, a quill?

‘Kind of old school, I realise,’ Cass continued, ‘but I’d be lost without it; I’ve had it for years. Centuries even. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. Dropping out.’

She cracked the notebook’s spine, smoothing the pages flat with her long tanned fingers as though she were ironing it.

‘Once this process is underway, the last thing anyone needs is to chop and change. We need everyone fully on board, otherwise it just won’t work. Honestly, there’d be no shame in calling it quits at this stage, Hetty.’

Oh God. Liv could have sworn her heart actually stopped beating. Please, please, please don’t bail. I need this so bad.

‘We’re all committed, one million per cent, honestly. I swear. She just –’

Liv hadn’t got to the end of the sentence before the sofa creaked at Jez’s sudden movement.

Bracing his hands on his knees, he said, ‘Liv, Hetty is entirely capable of speaking for herself, if only you’d give her the opportunity to –’

‘Thanks, guys, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m not going to quit,’ Hetty interrupted quietly, but with an unmistakeable undercurrent of determination.

‘Fantastic. So glad to hear it,’ Cass said, drumming on the notepad, rat-a-tat-tat, with a glance up at the clock. ‘Two seconds more while I jot this down.’

Liv exchanged an anxious glance with Hetty who gave an almost imperceptible shrug in return. Well, I can ask, can’t I? it seemed to say.

What was Cass writing? From across the room, it was impossible to decipher the tiny black squiggles crawling across the page. Was she ‘jotting down’ Hetty is a flake ?

Whatever it was, Het’s question had tapped right into the nagging she can’t hack this that had been buzzing round Liv’s skull for the last three weeks like a wasp. Much as Liv loved her friend, she had to admit that when she first read the Pretty Vacant pop-up, Hetty’s name hadn’t exactly leapt to mind. To be brutally honest, it hadn’t even crawled.

It had been the day after her History A-level exam (her last ever exam). A day that dawned on a clear sky of limitless future possibilities . . . for everyone else anyway. For Liv, it reverberated with the slam of a thousand doors.

She’d tried.

And as Results Day would undoubtedly prove, she’d quite spectacularly failed.

Liv woke to the sound of hailstones hitting her bedroom skylight like ping-pong balls shot from a celestial cannon. Bleary-eyed, she stared up at the grey-black clouds pressing themselves against the glass, billowing portents of doom.

Summer holidays. Ha ha ha.

With a sigh, she fired up her Mac, rolling her finger over the touchpad to open the footage she’d been editing and re-editing until the early hours. Crucial stuff, this: her final video before the National Beauty Blogger Awards.

And it was absolutely vital she nailed the pitch. Last year, she’d lost out on Most Inspirational Newcomer to that suck-up extraordinaire, Sonya Sunshine. A thought that almost twelve months later still made her want to puke. Or punch something. Preferably Sonya.

The Cinderella Project was Sonya’s baby: sourcing prom dresses to donate to teenagers living in poverty. Or as Liv preferred to call it, a pathetically transparent attempt to win votes.

Seriously, how dumb would you have to be not to get that?

As dumb as a National Beauty Blogger Awards judge apparently.

Well, this year Liv had been nominated again, and this year she was coming home with it. No way could she politely clap again while Sonya delivered a vomit-inducing speech accessorised with fake tan, fake nails and even faker tears.

She’d rather die.

But with her crossed fingers about to press upload, the screen flashed and a pop-up appeared.

CASTING CALL

If you’re over 18 and you’ve just left school, Pretty Vacant Productions could be about to offer YOU the opportunity of a lifetime!

Visit www.pvp.tv.org to find out more!

Liv’s heart pounded as she clicked on the link.

Well, hello!

Your A levels are history, you’ve kicked the dust of the schoolyard from your shoes and left your cares at the gates. Results Day, uni places . . . they’re just specks on your horizon. We’re talking freedom, baby. The freedom to live your life without a care. Freedom you’ll never experience again. This summer is YOUR summer.

The lowdown: we need FOUR friends to be the stars of This Careless Life, Pretty Vacant Productions’ new six-week special. PERSONALITY plus, that’s top of our wishlist.

Before you apply, remember we have some PRETTY strict guidelines. So if every individual can answer a massive Yeah, baby! to the following questions, then PLEASE drop a 60-second video HERE explaining WHY we should choose YOU.

Are you 18?

Have you just finished A levels?

Are you in the UK between July 1st and August 31st?

And above all: will the nation’s 16- to 25-year-olds LOVE you or love to HATE you?

So if you’d LOVE to share your outrageous, uber-exciting or totally ridiculously INCREDIBLE post-school/pre-uni summer . . . get in touch now!

‘Yes, I’m 18! Yes, A Levels! Yes, I am in the UK!’ Liv murmured to the screen. ‘And love me, they will all love me.’

And just like that a whole new door, one she hadn’t known even existed, had flown open.

Choosing three friends? That was a no-brainer. Or at least it would have been, except with the exams done, Freyja, Scarlett and Touko had departed St Benedict’s and jetted home to Brazil, Russia and Japan. Meaning Liv had to fish from a much smaller pond solely stocked with weekly boarders, and local ones at that.

Liv frowned, tapping her forefinger against her lips. Only two days until the closing date for entries. Who was still around? Who would inspire both love and hate?

Jeremiah Livingston? Head boy and all-round good guy. He’d be up for anything to promote his charity stuff for Connecting Together. And Declan Duffy, naturally. With his plus-size ego a-gogo, he’d do anything to promote himself. That left one more . . .

Letting the nation analyse six weeks of your life? Really, Liv only mentioned it because she thought Hetty might be able to suggest someone. So when – unbelievably – Hets had shrugged the suggestion, ‘How about me?’ Liv’s jaw dropped so fast it bruised her kneecaps.

‘You serious?’ she said, failing to hide her shock.

‘I’ll have to check with Duncan,’ Hetty replied, ‘but I’m sure he’ll say it’s a brilliant idea.’

What’s it got to do with him?

Liv hid the retort behind a beaming smile.

In gaining a boyfriend, Hetty had apparently excised her decision-making lobe. Ever since she hooked up with him, all you got from her was Let me check with Duncan. I’ll have to ask Duncan.

Still, His Royal Duncan-ness graciously granted his permission, and with Duff, Jez and Hetty on board, Team Liv was ready to roll.

Amazing how the pieces just fell into place. Perhaps if Liv were the kind of girl who believed in horoscopes and all that destiny crap, she might have called it fate.

But waiting to find out if they’d got through? Well, that was every childhood Christmas Eve squished into one tortured ball of anticipation, frustration and panic. Come on. Come ON.

Until finally, on a day she’d planned to spend wrapped in a cocoon of duvet and misery trying to forget she’d ever even met him . . . the phone rang and on the other end was Tony from Pretty Vacant Productions saying congratulations, they’d reached the final three and were they all still up for it?

Liv had immediately flung back the duvet, palmed a night’s worth of tears from her cheeks and assured him that yes, she wanted this so bad. In fact, she literally could not want this more. Yes, they were free for the casting on July 1st. And yes, her friends would be literally ecstatic to be through to the next stage.

When the phone call ended, she flopped back down on the bed, gripping the phone like a lucky charm while Tony’s question bounced round her head.

Was she up for it?

Liv was up for many things.

She was up for not obsessing over her A-level results.

She was up for making her parents realise uni was not the only option.

And she was definitely up for being a TV star.

But on the day of Tony’s phone call, she was mainly up for never, ever shedding a single tear over a man for as long as she lived.

Things were about to change. She knew it.

‘Your whole life is about to change. ’

She felt the whisper of breath; sensed a light grip on her shoulder; a body close to hers. A drift of Eau de Expensive Whatever-it-was enveloped her.

Except . . .

Liv blinked.

How did –?

Cass hadn’t moved. Definitely not. There she was, immaculate in white, still leaning over the worktop with the now deflated Pandora sagging by her elbow. Notebook completely open; mouth completely shut.

Liv wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing at the sudden ripple of goosebumps.

What the –?

Her mind frantically scrabbled to latch on to any explanation other than I am cracking up, but then Cass put her pen down and looked directly at her.

‘Exciting, isn’t it? Knowing today could be life-changing.’

Liv nodded. Stunned.

‘Yes.’ Jez put on his mature I-am-leader voice. ‘And on behalf of all of us, I’d like to say thank you for this incredible opportunity.’

‘My pleasure,’ Cass said. ‘I’ve got a great feeling about you guys.’ The dark curtain of her hair swayed as she turned her head towards the wall clock. ‘Let’s push on. Now I’m going to focus on one person at a time; show your application video followed by a group conversation.’

She stepped forward and with a collective wriggle they all straightened against the button-backed sofa. Attentive. Ready. Even Duff slouched marginally less.

From where Liv sat, still dazed, some proportional illusion made it seem as though Cass were towering over them. When she spoke, far from a whisper, her voice filled the room.

‘With that in mind, what I need you to understand is this process is tougher than you might think. There’ll be questions you may not want to answer and answers you certainly won’t like. By the end, you’ll feel drained, emotionally and mentally. Maybe you’ll decide you’re not up to it. Maybe you’ll decide you’re happy the way you are now. But if you go ahead, you’ll be rewarded with an opportunity to change your lives forever.’

Your whole life is about to change.

The mysterious whisper echoed in Liv’s mind. Too much caffeine, too little sleep. That was it. And stress. Exam stress, prom stress, HIM stress. Who wouldn’t lose the plot with all that going on?

Her ears were playing tricks on her, that was all. Liv shook her head slightly as though fending off a mosquito and focused her attention on Cass, who was holding a printout of the contract up in front of her chest.

‘Pep talk over. Now it’s time for you all to sign on the dotted line, which you will find in this box . . .’ She pointed a beautifully polished fingernail at the space in the bottom left corner. ‘Here.’

Liv complied, capping her pen almost before Cass finished her sentence. She kept her hands occupied by unfastening and re-knotting the belt on her silk jumpsuit, tying it in a floppy bow on her left hip.

Next to her, Duff scrawled his signature, the pen scratching as it looped extravagantly across the bottom of the page, refusing to be constrained by the box. Hetty’s ponytail bobbed as she wrote tidy, blocky letters in the allotted space.

What was Jez playing at?

With a dismayed glance, Liv noticed him hesitate, the groove in his forehead deepening while his hand hovered.

Get on with it . . .

‘Jez?’ Cass prompted gently.

He frowned. ‘I need clarification on a few points before I can commit.’

Liv’s heart sank. Oh God, what now? Jez Livingston. Undoubtedly the loveliest of guys in a multitude of ways, but very, very occasionally (like now) so pedantic he made her want to claw his smug face off.

‘Fire away,’ Cass said, glancing down at her book.

‘I understand the audition won’t be made public, but how much control do we have over what happens next?’

For a start, that wasn’t even Jez’s own voice. Too deep. He’d borrowed it off his dad, trying his courtroom act on for size.

‘Complete control of what you say and do,’ Cass answered.

‘But do we have the right to veto?’ Judge Jez continued, pompously. ‘If the footage is edited to present us . . . unsympathetically?’

Liv’s toes clenched in her sandals.

Shut up!

Cass raised her palms in a conciliatory gesture.

‘Look, I promise no one is going to judge or humiliate you. My sole remit is to get you to show yourselves and what you’re about within these four rather lovely walls. After that it’s your call: you can take this opportunity forward or you can pretend I was never here. No one will be forcing you to do anything.’

Jez pursed his lips and continued channelling his inner Yoda.

Most monumental arse I am.

Liv twisted her hair into a ponytail then let it fan over one shoulder. Duff dragged his palms down his face with an exaggerated sigh, drum-drum-drumming his heels on the floor.

And then – finally! – Jez signed his name.

‘You’d better get used to autographs.’ Cass said, plucking the form from his hands.

The tension popped like a balloon. Liv’s laughter bordered on hysteria.

‘Anything else before we start?’

‘Yes,’ Liv said, delving down the side of the sofa. She brandished her selfie stick. ‘One tiny thing. Please could we take a team selfie?’

‘If you make it very quick,’ Cass replied.

Jez shook his head and gave a disapproving tut.

‘Honestly, you’re addicted. Olivia Dawson-Hill and The Stick of Narcissus. Cass, I apologise, I realise you don’t have time for this.’

Cheek! Liv was about to tell Jez where he could shove both the stick and his comments when Cass burst in to a melodic peal of laughter.

‘Stick of Narcissus. Very good. I love that. Very appropriate.’

She was still grinning broadly when Liv took the picture. Four friends with their glamorous visitor beaming in the middle. Cass turned to click-clack back to the laptop and Liv quickly uploaded the image.

#topsecret #fingerscrossed #ohmygodohmygod #lifechanging

‘Phone off now, please,’ Cass said, glancing at the notebook. ‘And we really need to make a start. You’re first, Liv.’

Liv’s heart gave a tight squeeze. Show time!

‘One sec.’

She smoothed the ends of her shiny dark hair down en route to the mirror. Grimacing at her reflection, she ran her tongue over her teeth and a practised finger over both immaculately threaded eyebrows.

‘Ready?’

Liv nodded, cleared her throat. ‘I’m ready.’

2 LIV

1 July, 10.28 a.m.

‘Eeek. Cringe.’ Liv peeped at the TV through splayed fingers. ‘What an absolute hound.’

The image showed her frozen in the act of kissing a red-soled shoe; the exposed brick of the coach-house wall visible behind her.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Hetty said, reaching over to pull Liv’s hands away from her face. ‘You look beautiful, just like always.’

Truthfully? Hetty was right. OK, Dad’s nose loomed large (so unfair he refused to let her have surgery), but the rest of it . . . skin, hair, eyes. Perfect.

‘This is the video from the start, guys,’ came Cass’s voice from the corner. ‘I’ve got high hopes for you, Liv.’

She pressed a button and the caption Olivia Dawson-Hill Pretty Vacant Productions #1 appeared on the screen. Liv swished her silky hair to the other side and leaned forward, propelled by anticipation. The atmosphere reminded her of the opening night of a play or a film premiere, that same tension crackling like static in the air. The expectant expressions.

Then they were all looking at her face on the TV (hair, good; make-up, great). No trace of her dad’s flat, northern vowels in the voice that filtered through the speakers.

Olivia Dawson-Hill Pretty Vacant Productions #1

Hi, everyone [waves]. My name is Olivia Dawson-Hill, but my friends call me Liv. This is my application for This Careless Life.

OK, so I’ll start with my favourite topic: me! I’ve just left school, finished my A levels [pulls face] and waiting for the results in August [closes eyes, sighs noisily]. Don’t ask. But the things you really need to know about me are: I literally live for fashion and beauty. I swear, without shopping, I would die. Look. [Camera turns to film room and image jerks through into another.]

This is my bedroom [camera pans over white walls, oak beams] and this [flings door open, automatic spotlights shine on rails of clothing] isn’t all of it either; I’ve got another wardrobe in my old room over in my parents’ side of the house.

And of course ta-daaaa! Shoes . . . [Camera zooms up and down on tiered storage. Liv’s hand appears to take a pair, lifts the still-attached price tag] £200. [Laughs.] Not even been worn. I can’t help it; I’m a shoe-aholic.

[Buries her face in the shoes, inhales deeply] Aaah, happiness is . . . the smell of new shoes. And new lipsticks, new clothes, new handbags . . . [laughs]

[Camera POV returns to Liv.] So why should you pick me? That’s easy! You want personality plus and I can give you that. I’m great on camera. I’ve got my own beauty vlog . . . maybe you’ve heard of it? Miss Olivia Loves? I’m on target for a million subscribers across my channels by the end of this month. Crazy, isn’t it? All the major brands are contacting me, sending me samples. It literally is a full-time commitment; I’ve worked so hard. And I got nominated at the Beauty Blogger Awards last year for Most Inspirational Newcomer. I didn’t win [laughs] but the party was In. Cred. Ible. One of the best nights of my life. I’ll remember it as long as I live.

What else? [Looks at ceiling.] Oh yeah. Money. We’re, like, seriously minted. My dad has an agricultural business and my mum breeds racehorses of the Grand-National-winning kind. We’ve got this place [pans camera round]. Well, this is all mine. Mum and Dad have got the big house next door. Then we’ve got one in the South of France, where I’ll be going in a few weeks, unless you pick me for the show [laughs].

So [camera back on Liv, counts off points on fingers] I look good, I sound good and my life is outrageous so please please pretty please, Pretty Vacant, put me and my team through to the next round. You won’t regret it. Mwah! [Blows kiss at screen.] Sorry if that was more than sixty seconds! [Leaning forward.] Mwah!

Cass pressed pause, leaving Liv’s cherry-red lips suspended mid-pucker on the screen.

Just out of shot were the lamps fitted with diffusing bulbs she’d bought from a theatrical accessories website. Insanely expensive, but judging by the results, worth it. The slight golden tone cast a filter-free I-just-got-back-from-St-Tropez glow on her skin and popped her green eyes; added a glossy sheen to her long dark hair.

Totally worth it.

The air fluttered around her: Duff had risen to his knees and was flapping both hands in mock-hysteria.

There were times when Duff made Liv laugh until her lungs ached and tears poured down her cheeks. Now was not one of them.

‘Fashion is my life,’ he squeaked breathlessly.

‘Shut up.’

‘Shoes! Handbags! Make-up!’

‘Shut up !’

Liv rammed a velvet cushion in his face, not quite muffling his falsetto cries.

‘Cut me and I bleed lip gloss!’ Fending her off he emerged red-faced, choking on stray feathers and his own hilarious words. He wrestled the cushion from her, threw it along the sofa, narrowly missing Jez, and strolled up to the mirror.

‘Cass, don’t be fooled by this vapid display. Liv’s not dumb. And she’s not that shallow.’ He dragged his fingers through his mussed-up hair and continued thoughtfully. ‘Well, obviously she is shallow, but she’s not that shallow, if you get my drift.’

Liv blew out her cheeks. ‘Cass, everyone, please ignore Idiot Boy,’ she said, more harshly than she’d intended.

‘Hey, I’m defending you here,’ Duff protested, tucking in then re-tucking his shirt.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jez said, handing her the cushion. ‘You can get your own back when it’s his turn.’

‘She loves me really. She just can’t admit it. Can you, Liv?’

‘Yeah, sure I do. Totally,’ she deadpanned in return, crossing her legs.

Duff slumped back on the sofa, putting an arm around her. ‘I’ve known Liv since she was four years old, Cass. And I can tell you she’s got hidden depths. Very secret depths.’

What?

She recoiled, pushing him away. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Take no notice of him,’ Hetty said quietly, placing a gentle hand on her knee. ‘He’s winding you up.’

‘You know what I mean. Hidden depths.’ He straightened himself, tipping her an overblown wink. ‘Or hidden shallows at least.’

Liv paused a beat to steady her voice. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Cass quirked her lip, placing her pen on top of her notebook, and Liv cringed. What she must think of them, this bunch of so-called young adults bickering like kids in a playground? But Cass remained apparently unfazed by the commotion. Positively enthused in fact.

‘Great banter. Sparky. Gives a flavour of your personality, Liv. Passion, conviction . . . qualities I love to see. If you can channel that, I think we’ll have a fantastic result today.’

Really?

‘Thank you.’ Liv masked her surprise behind a neutral expression. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear she wedged the cushion back on the sofa, hoping her posture suggested a professional attitude. And a more camera-loving nose.

‘Right then, the next thing is the individual interview, so you guys . . .’ Cass’s eyes swept across the sofa. ‘Can you sit on the floor or find a chair out of shot, please? Liv, can you sit closer to the middle?’

Shoulders back and down. Don’t fidget. Liv shifted along the sofa and placed her not-at-all-shaky hands under her thighs while the others relocated. Duff back to sprawl across the rug; Hetty and Jez neatly propped either side of the floor lamp, a pair of human bookends. When Hetty crossed her legs at the ankles, Jez did the same.

‘You’re certainly entertaining to watch,’ Cass murmured, adjusting the laptop. ‘Perfect. OK. Liv, remember to keep your head up so the cameras have you the whole time. Ready?’

Deep breath. Swish back hair. Nod.

‘Great. So my first question is: there are hundreds of TV shows available, why would watching your life grab the audience?’

Yes!

Over the last three weeks, Liv had absorbed Louis the acting coach’s advice: pitch, pace, intonation, gesture, eye contact, preparing and polishing every pause, every giggle, every expression for maximum impact. And yes, Dad would probably have a fit if he saw the final bill, but the sessions had been worth every penny. Because along with his years of TV audition experience, Louis had brought a list of possible questions.

And Why you ? had been right at the top.

Liv’s shoulders softened and she set her mouth to automatic, starting the well-rehearsed monologue to rave about the outrageous nights with friends, the exclusive clubs, crazy shopping sprees, glamorous beauty launches, amazing holidays . . .

And yet . . . she couldn’t shake off that wink. Secret depths, and now, propped up on his elbows on the rug, why the hell was Duff still smirking?

What did he know?

Halfway through gushing over her insane clothes allowance (‘I’m such a Daddy’s girl, he can’t say no! It must be more than some people earn in a year!’) she faltered before tailing off into an apology.

‘Don’t worry, you’re doing great,’ Cass said, pressing the tips of her fingers together. ‘Let’s try a different tack. Your beauty channel . . .’

‘Miss Olivia Loves.’

‘Fab name,’ Cass commented, jotting on her notepad. ‘Miss. Olivia. Loves. What are you most proud of with that?’

Liv faked a confident smile and twisted her torso slightly to avoid catching Duff ’s eye again.

‘I’m so grateful to the subscribers. Even when it was just me waffling on about a few products I’d bought in Selfridges, the feedback was phenomenal. And then, when brands started putting me on their mailing lists, it snowballed. The audience figures kept rising and so did the positive comments. Then, after the blog was featured in Grazia . . .’

Louis’ advice echoed: Don’t forget to pause when you name-drop the mag.

Right on cue, Cass looked up. ‘Grazia ? Impressive.’

Liv grinned. ‘Yeah, it went mad after that. I got nominated for the National Beauty Blogger Awards; went to the ceremony in London nearly a year ago. It was surreal, you know? Actresses, models . . . all famous people. And I got to meet loads of other bloggers and the goodie bag was to die for. Chanel. Dior. Tom Ford . . .’

‘It certainly sounds like a night to remember.’

‘It was.’

But thinking about it now, the standout memory wasn’t rubbing shoulders with celebrities, or the food, or the pulse-racing thrill of being part of a major industry event. No, it was the moment when she’d looked up to see HIM leaning against the bar, watching her with those blue, blue eyes.

Instant heat had rushed up in a wave from her feet. She’d forced herself to count the foil stars sprinkled on the table. Don’t look.

When he strolled over and placed a bottle of champagne in front of her, her heart almost tore through her dress. She watched beads of condensation slide down the sides of the glass.

Up on the podium, the award for most life-enhancing lip product was accepted by a company representative whose lively speech contained enough witty one-liners to ramp the atmosphere from cheerful to hysterical.

But Liv barely noticed. Pulling up a spare chair to the table, he’d wedged himself closely between Liv and her neighbour, his thigh deliberately pressed against hers. He still didn’t speak. She could hardly breathe.

To loud cheers and applause, the speaker descended the steps. Some sombre music started and behind the equally sombre presenter, a slideshow lit the screen. The audience hushed and Liv stared straight ahead, barely registering the miserable grey girls who, frankly, had no business being the focus of a beauty industry award.

He was running his fingertip up and down her arm, and even though she continued staring at the montage of misery, her subconscious had hopped in a cab and raced through the busy streets back to the hotel. Only unlike when she’d checked in two hours earlier, she wasn’t alone.

She imagined her staccato heels ringing through the marble lobby. She imagined the door to her sumptuous room soundlessly closing behind them. Onstage, the presenter droned on about someone fleeing from somewhere; a single suitcase; fitting into a new country, a new school; struggling to pay for the essentials. Absent parents.

Blah-blah-blah.

Well, tonight there would be no parents getting in Liv’s way either.

Tonight there would be no clingy girlfriend expecting him.

Tonight there would be just the two of them. Alone.

She shivered.

Would this gloom-fest never end? Droning on in that uber-worthy tone about the Cinderella Project, the presenter tapped the screen and the same girls appeared, smiling in a selection of tacky prom dresses. The audience cheered. Liv didn’t.

Her mind was busily compiling a dramatic montage of its own, complete with bridesmaids’ dresses abandoned, cakes left unbaked, cancelled venues, guests apologised to, honeymoon plans forever shelved . . .

And right at the heart of it, him breaking the news to his fiancée: I’m sorry. It’s over. I’ve fallen in love with a girl named Liv.

He poured another glass of champagne and leaned so close his breath tickled her neck. ‘I shouldn’t be here, you know. I really shouldn’t be here.’

By the time Sonya Sunshine climbed the steps to a standing ovation, Liv had forgotten about the award.

‘And are you single at the moment?’

Lost in the memory of that night, it took a second for Liv to take in Cass’s question.

The woman smiled, adding, ‘Only you haven’t mentioned a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anyone special.’

Liv clasped her hands between her knees. ‘No, I’m not with anyone right now.’ Pause. ‘I mean, there was someone, but we broke up.’

‘Someone?’ Cass prompted.

On the rug, Duff kicked his legs out straight and flung himself on to his back with a theatrical groan.

‘Seriously, Cass, please do not bring up the whole Olivia’s mystery man thing. We’ve had a whole year of it and I can’t take any more.’

Hetty prodded him. ‘Not now, Duff.’

Sparks of panic darted through Liv. Bring it back to the blog. She opened her mouth, but the words stalled in her throat.

Duff had shot upright and fixed his attention on Cass.

‘Actually, you know what? This would be the perfect time for her to finally tell us who he is. Get her skeletons out.’ He mimed air quotes. ‘Do the “Big Reveal”.’

‘Except there isn’t anything to “Reveal”,’ Liv mimed back and pressed her lips in a tight line.

Anyone, any normal person, would quit it. Not Duff though.

Instead, he turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘I am trying to help. He put you through hell for months, Olivia. Whoever he is – was – I’d love to know. I’d like to, you know.’ He punched his open palm. ‘Have a chat with him.’

‘No!’

‘He’s right,’ Cass said. ‘It’s far better to get your secrets out in the open now.’

Liv’s mind snagged on the s-word. No. No no no no no.

‘Liv?’ Cass’s deep brown eyes were boring holes into Liv’s head. Her throat, suddenly as dry as sawdust, made a clicking sound and she swallowed.

‘Did I mention my blog has a quite a number of male followers?’ she said, turning desperately to Cass. ‘I’ve been totally blown away.’

The woman gestured for Liv to look straight ahead. ‘A secret boyfriend. Now that’s interesting. Tell me more.’

‘We should never have got together.’ The words took her by surprise, blurting out before she even realised she’d opened her mouth. What was going on? She never talked about this now, not even with Hetty. Full stop, period, on pain of death never.

‘Let me guess,’ Duff said, jumping to his feet. He ticked a list off on his fingers. ‘Your golf coach? Tennis coach? Personal trainer? The guy who cleans your swimming pool? Or maybe it’s not a man at all . . .’ He waggled his eyebrows. Liv stayed silent and he made a noise like a talent-show buzzer. ‘Nuh-uuuh. No? OK then, it’s –’

‘No one,’ insisted Liv, too high and panicky even to her own ears. Cass was still staring at her. Oh God. She felt the words bubbling up. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks and battled the overwhelming compulsion to blurt it out.

‘It was –’

Ping.

All eyes immediately swivelled in the direction of the sound.

‘Hetty Barraclough,’ Duff said, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Was that your mobile telephone?’

Like the flick of a switch, the urge to confess was gone. Liv felt herself go limp.

‘Sorry,’ Hetty said, her finger swiping across the screen. ‘I only got it yesterday. I haven’t worked out how to use it properly yet.’

‘Hetty! ’ Liv said, fake-scandalised. ‘Cass said no devices.’

‘It’s Duncan,’ Hetty said as though that explained everything.

‘So what?’ Jez said.

‘No problem,’ Cass said, smiling. ‘Duncan’s your boyfriend, isn’t he? I think you mentioned him once or twice in your application.’

No man of mystery jibes for Hetty. And knowing her obsession with Duncan, ‘once or twice’ was probably a polite understatement.

Hetty nodded, eyes glued to the illuminated display. ‘He wants to know what time you think we’ll be finished.’

Liv’s irritation grew less fake. ‘Hetty! This is our audition.’

But Cass didn’t seem too offended. ‘If everything goes according to plan, you should all be on your way around half past one.’

One final flourish of taps and Hetty put the phone on the coffee table. Jez put his glasses back on.

‘All done? Let’s try something else,’ Cass said, turning her attention back to Liv. ‘How about if one day, bang,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘everything vanished. The houses, the shopping, the money . . . everything. What would you do?’

Liv’s heartbeat steadied. No more talk of secrets. OK, she hadn’t rehearsed this exact one, but Louis had warned her they’d throw a few curveballs her way.

‘That’s a tough one! Erm, I suppose we’d cope. People do. I mean, we’ve got friends and family. But I really can’t see it happening. My dad’s far too careful for that.’

‘And has your family always been well-off ?’

‘As far as I can remember,’ Liv said.

Cass unbent a folded corner and ran her finger down the page. ‘Interesting. My notes say Frank Dawson . . . left school at fifteen. Let’s see . . . went from running the family fruit and veg stall to owning the UK’s largest agribusiness. Is that right?’

Liv held in a sigh. They’d got the riches, why did people insist on bringing up the rags? Seriously. Why was that humble beginnings stuff always such a big deal?

She forced her smile a little wider. ‘Yes, I’m very proud of him. But my mum’s family, the Hills. All this . . .’ She waved her arm towards the window. ‘The farm, the stables, the land . . . it’s been in Mum’s family for years.’

‘Interesting.’ Cass pursed her lips and scribbled something down. Turning her attention away from Liv, she said, ‘Your turn, guys. You know Liv better than anyone, right? How do you think she’d change without money?’

The other three looked at each other.

‘I’m sure she’d be OK,’ Hetty said slowly. ‘You know, it’d be different from what she’s used to, but she’d adapt. Get a job; she’s got a lot of talents. I’m sure she’d be fine.’

Duff rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘I can’t really see that. Sorry, but I think you’d fall apart in the real world.’

‘For your information, I do live in the real world.’

Duff laughed, ‘I love this girl! You think this –’ he waved vaguely round the room ‘is the real world?’

‘And how are we defining the “real world”?’ Cass said.

Jez put his dad’s voice on. ‘Debt. Wondering how you’ll pay the bills or buy food. Lack of opportunities. Poor housing. Being stuck in a cycle of –’

Duff clicked his tongue in disagreement. ‘Nah. If you’re poor, you go get a job and work at making money, same as everyone else. You can’t expect it on a plate. That’s the real world. Life’s what you make it, right?’

‘No!’ Jez’s head snapped up. ‘That’s a complete myth. Poverty is –’

Cass held up a hand for silence, releasing a fresh wave of familiar summer perfume.

‘Guys, this is fascinating stuff, but time is not on our side. We can debate it later. Liv, remember to keep in camera shot, please.’

Realising she had slumped deep in the sofa, Liv pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

‘As I said at the start, you need to be prepared for some difficult questions.’ Cass put her hand to her chest. ‘Devil’s advocate here. You don’t need me to tell you there are plenty of small-minded people ready to spill their vitriol across social media. Imagine I’m the nastier side of the internet calling you out for being selfish or a spoilt rich kid, what would you say?’

Liv chewed her lip. Of course, Miss Olivia Loves attracted random nasties; that went with the territory. But her subscribers usually slayed the trolls before she even read their comments. And, not that she’d admit this to anyone, least of all Cass, she actually enjoyed watching these strangers froth at the mouth on her behalf.

‘I’d say it’s not true,’ she replied carefully. ‘I mean, I know I’m lucky, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care about other people. I’d tell them all the things I’ve done for charity, like donating stuff. Clothes and things.’

‘Speaking for myself,’ Jez chimed in. ‘I am committed to using my good fortune to help others and I’m sure Liv feels the same.’

Duff rolled his eyes so hard they were in danger of getting stuck round the back of his head and Liv suppressed a smile.

‘That’s right,’ Hetty added. ‘And we did fundraising at the prom, didn’t we? That was your idea.’

‘Yeah.’ Liv warmed to the theme now. ‘And I gave a genuine Hermès handbag for the raffle at Jez’s Valentine Auction.’

Ouch. She plastered on a happy smile and rode the pang of regret that struck whenever she thought about that beautiful bag. Jez had whipped her into a state without giving her the opportunity to reconsider. And now her Hermès bag was gone forever, a victim of emotional blackmail.

‘And the fashion show last summer,’ Jez was saying in Cass’s direction. ‘I set up a charitable foundation with my parents, Connecting Together. We empower young people who find themselves in challenging circumstances, providing financial assistance as well as –’

‘I remember from your application,’ Cass cut in. She’d taken her phone out of the bag and was swiping at the screen. ‘Most of the applicants only talked about raising their own profile, but yours really stood out. It’s so . . . refreshing. One of the reasons we wanted to see more of you.’

Jez shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, but Liv could practically see his head expanding.

‘If we get accusations about not caring about people less fortunate, then we have evidence to prove that’s not the case.’

‘Well, I’m very pleased to hear that,’ Cass said, ‘and I’m sure it’ll be really interesting for the audience, challenging their perceptions of privileged young people. But like I said, you need to be prepared for some difficult moments. And on that note, Liv, I’ve got a photo I’d like to show you.’

Photo?

The panic returned. Bigger, harder and sharpened into actual terror.

Blood whooshed in Liv’s ears. How could Cass have the photo?

‘Photo?’ she said, only the slightest catch betraying her emotions.

She reached out a shaking hand, but Cass pulled the phone out of reach, angling the screen in her eyeline.

Almost sick with dread, Liv obeyed.

At first she couldn’t quite tell what it was, but that really didn’t matter because it wasn’t the photo she’d taken almost a year ago. The photo he’d persuaded her to send him. The photo he’d promised he’d deleted. The photo he’d used to buy her silence.

She breathed out slowly, dizzy with relief.

Liv couldn’t quite fathom what she actually was seeing. The dim image showed a hump of something fabric. Bedclothes?

‘There’s a girl, lying down . . .’ she said.

‘And?’

‘She’s got her back to the camera, so I can’t see much. She’s got long dark hair. She’s wearing a pale dressing gown with stars on it. Looks skinny, really skinny. Erm . . . room’s quite dark. Messy. It’s really dark.’

Cass flicked her thumb and index finger at the screen. ‘Let’s zoom in.’

‘Um,’ Liv said. Her eyes narrowed, trying to focus, then widened. ‘Oh.’

‘What is it?’ said Hetty.

‘The girl, I think . . .’

‘What?’ Jez said.

Liv peered at the screen. The clothes piled on a chair. The red lights of a radio alarm clock. The hump on the bed. The dark shape of the head with its long, long tail of hair. Something tugged at the back of her mind and then was gone.

‘Do we know her?’ said Duff.

Liv shook her head. ‘It’s not that. Just . . . Cass, is she dead ?’

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