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Miranda turned back to the waiter. ‘What time are the models required backstage for the show?’ she asked.

‘In about an hour,’ replied the waiter.

Miranda nodded. ‘See, Pepita?’ she said. ‘Plenty of time.’

After the waiter had gone I started laughing. ‘
Pepita
? Where did that come from?’

Miranda giggled like a naughty kid. ‘It was the first thing I thought of. I think he actually believed you were a model! I do know a Pepita in real life, though. Well, I
did
,’
she corrected. ‘It’s ironic really. Poor Pepita hardly ever ate anything, then she choked to death on a carrot stick.’

I froze. ‘Miranda. That’s horrible.’

Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘You moron,’ she said, gulping her drink. ‘I just made it up.’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling stupid. ‘Right.’

Alcohol didn’t mix well with my meds, so the champagne was growing warm in my hands, untouched. But Miranda downed hers and accepted another. Two pink spots had appeared on her cheeks.
‘All right. I’m ready to try stuff on now,’ she said, scooping up a couple of items, soft and light as clouds.

I looked around, waiting for someone to rush over and go nuts at her. ‘Are you allowed?’

‘It’s a
shop
,’ said Miranda. ‘Of course I’m allowed. Come on. You’re trying something on too.’

The change rooms were down the back and had been made to look like soup cans, each with a different label. Miranda handed me a black dress and pushed me into the tomato soup can.
‘Don’t come out until you’ve got it on. I’m going to try on the same one!’

The dress had looked pretty nothingy when Miranda had handed it to me. But once it was filled with a body – my body – it took on a form that was surprisingly beautiful. The material
draped easily around my curvy silhouette, holding me together, looping my waist, feeling softer than anything I’d ever worn before. It also felt about a thousand times more expensive.

After a few moments there was a knock on my can. ‘No hiding in there!’ called Miranda. ‘I want to compare.’

I came out self-consciously and joined Miranda in front of the large, ornate mirror. Miranda was wearing the same shimmery black dress, cinched at the waist and scooped at the back. She swished
it around.

It was impossible not to compare our bodies. Miranda was so light and delicate, moving around as lithely as a dancer, openly admiring herself as she twisted to look at the back of the dress. My
own weight had begun to drop – as Dr Richter had predicted – now I was on the new meds, but it was happening slowly. Next to Miranda I looked frumpy and awful, the dress bulging in all
the wrong places. I couldn’t believe that a moment ago I’d actually thought it looked good.

I saw Miranda looking at my reflection doubtfully. ‘Ew, that dress is not right, is it?’ she said. ‘If you were a bit … Well, never mind. It was fun trying it on anyway,
wasn’t it? So, be honest. What do you think of it on me?’

‘It makes you look amazing,’ I said, edging back towards the soup can. I couldn’t wait to get back into my uniform.

Miranda stopped twirling. ‘No. I make
it
look amazing. Without me it’d just be a shapeless piece of material.’ She twirled. ‘Do you think Dallas will like
it?’

I knew what my Magic 8 Ball would’ve said. ‘Nothing is surer.’

‘Right then. I’ll take it,’ said Miranda.

‘You’re kidding right? It’ll cost a fortune.’

‘I’ve got money,’ said Miranda. ‘Oona’s always leaving her purse lying around.’

I looked at her carefully. Another joke? I couldn’t tell.

‘I’ll get one for you too,’ she added. ‘It might motivate you to get into shape.’

‘No thanks,’ I said quickly. ‘I’d never wear it.’

But Miranda had already started dancing back into her changing can by then. I wasn’t sure if she’d even heard me. I got back inside my own can.

Once I’d changed I wandered out into the shop, doing my best to rearrange the dress properly on the hanger. Then I looked around. Miranda was standing with her back to me, watching the
birds in the aviary. She was back in her uniform and there was no sign of the black dress. Some of the birds were on the floor of the cage, pecking at seeds, but most of them were huddled together
on a branch, feathers fluffed up miserably. Several of them were tugging with their beaks or claws at the ribbons around their necks.

‘It must suck being stuck in there with a big stupid bow around your neck,’ said Miranda as I came up beside her. She sounded sad. ‘Would
you
want to be in there?’
she said. ‘For a bunch of people to gawp at?’

I shook my head. ‘Nope.’

‘Me neither,’ said Miranda. She glanced around the room with a look that I was beginning to recognise. The one that meant she was up to something. ‘When I say
run
,’ she murmured, ‘Run. OK?’

‘Run where?’ I said.

But Miranda’s hand was already on the handle of the aviary door, twisting it sharply. The next thing I knew, the cage door had swung open and the air around us whirled with grey and silver
streaks and the sound of beating wings. It was so loud that it completely drowned out everything else – the sudden surprise and alarm of the other guests, the DJ’s beats. Somehow,
though, Miranda’s voice managed to penetrate the chaos.

‘Run!’

We took off out the door and pushed our way through the crowd in the street until we were around the corner. I was pretty sure no-one had followed us, but Miranda kept running and so I ran too.
I felt strong suddenly, like I could run forever. We raced along the streets, dodging pedestrians, ignoring red lights, weaving between the cars.

‘Stop!’ I finally gasped, leaning against a wall.

Miranda wasn’t even puffed. She started laughing. ‘That was so freakin great!’

I laughed too – almost uncontrollably. I was stuffed but I felt elated too.
Do something that scares you. Because it scares you.
I’d thought that was the biggest cliché
ever when Dr Richter had said that. But I was starting to understand what she meant.

‘Imagine what it looks like in the shop right now,’ said Miranda. ‘Imagine that guard stomping around, trying to catch doves. All those beautiful people trying to avoid being
shat on.’

I giggled. Then Miranda giggled. And that was it. We were gone again – laughing like we’d never stop.

We spent the rest of the day exploring, trying to go to as many places as we could before heading home. It might sound weird to explore a place you already know, but the city
suddenly felt foreign to me. Not in a bad way though. I felt light and sort of fizzy as we wandered around, pointing things out to each other, chatting. The only time we stopped talking was when we
were laughing – which we did a lot. All it took was Miranda waddling after some birds to get us both cracking up, almost doubled over, clutching our stomachs.

‘Where’s somewhere you’ve always wanted to go to around here?’ Miranda suddenly asked me.

At first I couldn’t think of anywhere – all the places I wanted to visit were overseas. But as we walked around I started thinking of buildings I’d only seen from the outside.
Ones I’d passed by and wondered what they looked like inside.

I suggested the old ballroom in the dome of Central Station. I picked it because I was sure Miranda couldn’t get us in. The ballroom had been closed to the public for years because of
safety issues. But I’d underestimated Miranda. She convinced the stationmaster to let us in the dome by telling him we were doing a history assignment for school. She pulled out some crazy
facts about the station that I assumed were made up, until I saw the stationmaster nodding his head.
Yes, that’s right.
By the end of their chat I think he would’ve cut her a set
of keys to the ballroom if she’d asked.

After that, we wandered around again until we found ourselves in another alley filled with tiny art galleries – the sort I’d never normally go into for fear of crashing into some
million-dollar vase or something. Miranda stopped in front of one and looked through the window. It was empty except for a tall guy with dark, curly hair sitting at a desk, reading a book. From
what I could see the paintings on display were all almost identical: a young woman whose face was framed by short red hair, her eyes looking directly at you. There must have been a hundred of them
– some very small, some huge – taking up every centimetre of wall space.

‘Let’s go in,’ said Miranda, pushing open the door. ‘It’s probably rubbish but we’ll look anyway.’

It was unnerving standing in the gallery, surrounded by all those faces.

‘If I was that girl I’d be keeping away from the painter,’ I whispered to Miranda. ‘Seems a bit obsessed.’ I looked around. ‘Do you think that’s the
artist over there?’ He looked cute, but kind of intense.

‘Yes,’ said Miranda. ‘That’s him.’

The guy looked up from his book when Miranda spoke, and an expression of utter amazement appeared on his face.

‘He obviously hasn’t had many visitors so far,’ I joked.

Then the guy rose from his chair and ran over to us, wild-eyed and talking to Miranda rapidly in what sounded like Spanish.

Miranda stood there for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t understand you.’

The guy grabbed her hand, holding it to his chest and talking. Miranda pulled her hand away. ‘I don’t understand,’ she repeated. ‘You’ve mixed me up with someone
else.’

The guy crumpled then, his face confused.

Miranda glanced at me sideways. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. Outside, she exhaled loudly. ‘You would not
believe
how often things like that happen to me.’

‘He looked so crazy,’ I said, unable to hide my fascination. ‘I wonder what he was saying.’

‘He was saying that all the paintings were of me,’ said Miranda. ‘Every one of them was a “tribute to my beauty”.’ She laughed. ‘Pity they were
de
mierda
.’

‘You
understood
him?’ I exclaimed, trying and failing to hide how impressed I was.

‘Of course,’ said Miranda. ‘I lived in Spain with an uncle.’

The town-hall clock chimed two. ‘We should head home,’ I said. There was no way we were going to make it to any afternoon classes of course, but I needed to get back before Mum got
suspicious.

Miranda held up a finger. ‘One more place,’ she said.

She led me to this high-end hotel perched at the top of the city. It was a place I remember going past as a kid, desperately wishing I could go in. It had looked like a palace to me, with its
carved stonework and gleaming bronze door handles.

The doorman nodded politely and held open the door for us. We stepped into a corridor lined with framed photos. To the right was a room filled with tables and chairs made of dark wood with brass
claws on the end of each leg. A fire blazed. Except for an old man asleep in the corner, the place was deserted.

The waiter came over as we sat down. ‘I’ll have hot chocolate,’ I said, but Miranda frowned.

‘Don’t be dumb, Samantha,’ she said. ‘We always have coffee.’

‘Sorry, Penelope,’ I said with a straight face. ‘I forgot.’

‘Put it on my father’s tab,’ Miranda instructed. ‘Mr Kramer-Berkell.’

The waiter nodded. I managed to keep it together until after he’d disappeared.

‘Did you also once know a man called Mr Kramer-Berkell? Let me guess. He died from the malaria he contracted while on safari.’

‘No, I don’t know any Kramer-Berkells,’ grinned Miranda. ‘The name just sounded right.’

When the coffees arrived I took a sip, not wanting to look stupid in front of Miranda. It was bitter and milky and hot. I remembered something. ‘You didn’t get a date
outfit.’

Miranda sipped her coffee like an expert. ‘Yes I did.’

I saw something poking out of the corner of Miranda’s school bag then. Something black and shiny. ‘You bought the dress?’

Miranda lifted a hand and wiggled the fingers like a spider. ‘Nah, I used the old five-finger discount instead.’

‘You
stole
it?’

Miranda sighed and dumped the dress on the table. Like I’d just ruined something. ‘Don’t freak out, you big square,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. The head designer
at Silver – Leon – is a friend of mine. I modelled for him for free when the label was just starting out. He told me I could have whatever I liked as payment.’

I’d only had a tiny sip of coffee, but my head was already buzzing. Maybe Miranda
had
worked as a model. Maybe she
did
know the head designer at Silver. It didn’t seem
totally impossible. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew the designer while we were in the shop?’

Miranda pushed her coffee away. ‘Oh I don’t know,’ she said crossly. ‘Because it was more fun not to, I suppose. You do know about
fun
, don’t you, Olive?
It’s that thing everyone else is having. Everyone except you.’

That stung, and the pain stayed with me even as Miranda’s face softened. I had been having a good time with her – really. For several whole hours I’d been able to forget about
Ami and Katie and Lachlan and the mess that was my life.

Miranda shoved the dress back in her bag then did up the zip, pulling it so quickly that it snared the fabric.