This Careless Life. Rachel McIntyre

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