This Careless Life. Rachel McIntyre

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