OK, full disclosure: I keep imagining a lot of different scenarios.

So life would pretty much be perfect right now…if it weren’t for the bad-dreamy stuff. More precisely, the fact that my laptop died on Thursday and I had to buy a new one and it’s given me this huge great well of fear, which I’m trying my hardest to ignore.

I still can’t believe it broke. The IT people at work couldn’t fix it, nor could the guy in the shop. He tried for an hour, then shrugged and said, “That’s fucked. Well, you needed an upgrade, anyway,” and my stomach went all gnarly with panic.

I need a laptop for all my design projects; I couldn’t not replace it. But I didn’t have that money. I’m on a really tight, planned-out budget; every pound matters—and a broken laptop is like a financial hurricane. It’s made a huge hole in my finances, and whenever I contemplate it, I feel cold with terror. I’ve been so careful with money. So careful. And then this comes along….It’s just not fair.

Anyway. I won’t think about it. I’ll have a great day with Flora and browse all the market stalls, and obviously I won’t be able to buy anything but that’s OK, because that’s not what it’s about, is it? It’s about the atmosphere. The vibe. The friendship.

Flora has suggested we meet at her house, and as I walk along the road, I feel my jaw sagging. If I thought Demeter’s house was impressive, it’s nothing on these mansions. The steps are twice the size of her steps. They all have front gardens and white stucco like wedding cakes. I find number 32 and survey it cautiously. This can’t be Flora’s house, surely. Is this…her parents’ house?

“Hi!” The door is flung open and I see Flora framed in the massive doorway, still in her dressing gown. “I saw you walking along. I’ve totally overslept, sorry! D’you want some breakfast?”

She ushers me into a hall filled with marble and lilies and a housekeeper polishing the banisters, then down an underlit glass staircase to an enormous kitchen with concrete work surfaces. Flora’s parents are seriously rich, I realize. And seriously cool.

“So…this is your parents’ house?” I say, to be sure. “It’s amazing.”

“Oh,” says Flora, without interest. “Yes, I suppose. D’you want a smoothie?” She starts throwing fruit into a NutriBullet, followed by chia seeds, organic ginger, and some special seaweed extract which I’ve seen in health shops and costs about three quid a shot.

“Here!” She hands me a glass and I devour it hungrily. My own breakfast was a cup of tea and oats with milk: total cost about 30p. Then Flora grabs a paper bag full of croissants and ushers me out again. “Come on. Help me get dressed.”

Her room is at the top of the house and has its own bathroom and dressing room. The wallpaper is a sheeny silver design of birds, and there are Diptyque candles everywhere and built-in cupboards and an antique desk. Everywhere you look, there’s something gorgeous. But Flora doesn’t even seem to notice her surroundings—she’s pulling jeans out of her wardrobe and cursing because she can’t find the ones she wants.

“So you’ve just lived here since uni?” I ask. “You’ve never moved out?”

Flora’s eyebrows rise in horror. “Move out? God, no. I mean, I could never afford to. Like, the rent and the food and everything…Who can do that? None of my friends have moved out! We’re all going to live at home till we’re thirty!”

I feel a tiny swell of some emotion I don’t want to admit to, like envy, or possibly even—just for a nanosecond—hatred.

No. Take that back. I don’t hate Flora; of course I don’t. But she does have everything so easy.

“Well, I don’t have parents who live in London.” I force a cheerful smile. “So. You know. I have to rent.”

“Oh, that’s right,” says Flora. “Aren’t you from the Midlands or somewhere? You don’t have an accent, though.”

“Actuall—” I begin, but Flora has disappeared into her dressing room again. I don’t think she’s that interested in where I come from, to be honest.

I wait patiently as Flora does her eyeliner about five times, then she grabs her bag and says, “Right! Let’s go shopping!” with an infectious beam. She’s got her blond hair piled on top of her head, and a boho sheepskin coat, and glittery eye shadow, and if you gave her a caption it would read Totally Up For Some Fun. We run down the stairs, both giggling, and a door opens on the second floor.

“Children! You’ll disturb Daddy!”

“Mummy, we’re not children,” pouts Flora, as an elegant woman appears on the landing. She looks just like an older Flora but even skinnier. She’s wearing Chanel pumps and tight jeans and smells amazing. “This is Cat.”

“Cat!” Flora’s mother puts a cool hand in mine, then turns back to Flora. “Are you off to Portobello?”

“Yes, we’re Christmas shopping! Only I’m a bit broke.” Flora looks wheedlingly at her mother. “And I need to find something for Granny….”

“Sweetheart.” Flora’s mum rolls her eyes. “All right, look in my bag. Take a hundred. No more,” she adds sternly. “You’re always cleaning me out of cash.”

“Thanks, Mummy!” Flora pecks her mother on the cheek and dances down the rest of the stairs. “Come on, Cat!”

My mind is reeling. A hundred quid? Just like that? I haven’t asked Dad for money for years. And I never would, even if he did have a load of spare cash, which he doesn’t.

I watch as Flora helps herself from her mum’s purse, then follow her down the palatial white steps of her house. If Demeter has steps fit for a princess, these are steps fit for a queen. I want to take a picture, but that would be uncool. Maybe when I’ve got to know Flora better.

The air is crisp, and as we stride along, I feel buoyant. This is such a cool area of London. The rows of pastel houses are adorable, like something from a storybook, and I keep stopping to take pictures for Instagram.

“So, what d’you want to get?” asks Flora as we round the corner to Portobello, slightly battling the crowds of tourists.

“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Nothing much. I’ll just browse.”

My eyes are drinking in the sight of endless market stalls stretching ahead of us, with everything from necklaces to Kashmiri scarves, vintage cameras to antique plates. I’ve been to Portobello before, but not at Christmas, and it has an extra-fun vibe today. There are decorations up on the lampposts, and a group of guys in hipster hats are singing a cappella carols, while a CD stall blasts out Christmas songs in competition. There are mulled-wine stalls and a mince-pie stall and the delicious scent of freshly made crepes in the air.

I have a sudden flashback to sipping mulled wine with Alex, and find myself thinking, Ooh, will that be “our drink”? before I wrench my thoughts away, like a needle off a vinyl record. Get a grip, Katie. Mulled wine? “Our drink”? I might as well say that Santa hats will be “our headwear.”

Flora finds a china elephant for her granny and then drags me into a designer shop to buy a sequined dress for the office party. I wasn’t intending to get anything, but it turns out that some of the prices aren’t too scary. I see a woolly hat for Dad, only £8, and then a rack of £1 clothes, which Flora thinks is hilarious. Especially when I actually buy a crochet cardigan. At another stall we both try on crazy felt hats and I take loads of photos and I’m exhilarated. This is the quirky London life I always wanted to have.

Flora has been texting throughout the morning, and as we pause by a stall of mirrors she scowls at her phone.

“Something up?” I ask, and she makes a huffing noise.

“No. Yes.” She shoves her phone away. “Men.”

“Oh, men,” I agree, even though I don’t know exactly what she means.

“Anyone in your life at the moment?” she asks, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. I mean, the answer is no. But my mind is roaming back to that moment on the merry-go-round, the feel of Alex’s fingers in my hair.

“No. At least, there’s this guy…”As I meet Flora’s eyes I laugh, partly out of relief at having someone to talk to. “I’m sure he isn’t interested, but…”

“I bet he is! What’s he like?”

“Oh, you know. Gorgeous. Dark hair. Tattoo,” I add, with a little grin.

There. That’s vague enough. It could be anyone.

“A tattoo!” Flora’s eyes widen. “Wow. And where did you meet him?”

“Through other people,” I say vaguely. “You know. It was a bit random.”

“So, has anything happened?” She makes such a comical face that I laugh again.

“Nothing real. Just flirting. Wishing,” I add, with sudden honesty. “And what about you?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be seeing this guy called Ant, only I think he’s going off me.” She looks disconsolate. “He never replies to my texts….”

“They don’t.”

“I know, right? What’s so hard about sending a text?”

“They think sending a text makes them lose part of their soul,” I say, and Flora giggles.

“You’re funny,” she says, and links her arm in mine. “I’m so glad you’ve joined the office, Cat.”

We walk on for a few seconds, and I take a photo of a stall selling only vintage car horns. Then Flora turns to me, looking thoughtful.

“Listen, Cat, there’s something I need to ask you. Did you know we meet for regular drinks at Wednesday lunchtime? Me, Rosa, and Sarah. At the Blue Bear. Every week.”

“Oh, right. No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, we keep it a bit quiet. We don’t want Demeter gate-crashing.” Flora pulls a face. “Can you imagine?”

“Ah.” I nod. “I get that.”

“So the point is, this isn’t an open thing. It’s like…” She hesitates. “It’s like a gang. A club. A special little club.”