So I was. I was feeling a bit low because Mr Baker had handed me my French-exchange letter and I knew I’d have to hide it from Mother. But I cheered up when I saw Julie. She was on her haunches, crouched over her blusher compact reapplying her black eyeliner. She had her weekend coat on – a short white mac with a belt that pulls in tight at the waist – and her honey-coloured suede wedge boots. Even though ‘behind the science block’ means ‘in that damp, spidery old ditch between the school building and the fence’, and even though she was squatting, she looked sophisticated. At least sixteen.

She eyed me up and down. I was wearing my floral summer dress from The Notting Hill Housing Trust, with some warm tartan tights. ‘Hm,’ she said, and lurched towards me with her brush in her hand. Before I could move, she’d dabbed my cheeks and, holding my chin firmly, so I couldn’t move, applied some of her make-up to my eyes and lips. ‘Need you to look a bit more conventional,’ she said. ‘Bit less odd.’

I decided to ignore that and we set off, scrambling over the railings into Hillside Road. We stopped running when we got to Ashcroft Avenue, and leant, puffing, against a tree. Julie was carrying a big plastic bag and when she’d got her breath back she opened it. Inside were two clipboards. She handed one to me. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘We’ll pretend we’re doing a project on Shopping Distribution. We’re sixth-formers if anyone asks. Geography AS level. OK?’

The shop was empty when we got there. There was no sign of The Chemist. Behind the counter was a woman with wiry brown hair, flecked with grey, and pouchy eyes. I wanted to leave – we’d been giggling all the way down and it just felt like a laugh – but Julie marched straight up. ‘Hello. We’re from Woodvale Secondary,’ she said. ‘We’re doing an AS-level project on The Changing Face of the High Street. Could I speak to the owner, please?’

The woman had been reading OK! magazine. She said, ‘The owner?’

‘You know, the bloke who’s usually here? In the jeans?’

I cleared my throat. I was thinking about his bum and trying hard not to laugh. Julie jabbed me in the leg with her fingers.

‘Oh, John.’ The woman called through a door beyond the pharmacy section. ‘Jo-hn. Some girls to see you.’ To us, she said, ‘He’s developing.’

Under my breath I said, ‘Aren’t we all.’

Julie nudged me. ‘How interesting,’ she said. ‘Photos. Yes. We must remember – mustn’t we, Con? To bring our film here next time we’re back from our Club 18-30 holiday’

I took in a quick breath and held it. A gust of air blasted out of my nose. Julie put her head on one side and looked at me without blinking. I was working up to make her crack too. I was just by the pregnancy tests. Something wicked was building.

And then he came through the door, and we both turned. First thing: he wasn’t wearing jeans. He was pulling off a plastic apron and hanging it on the door and underneath he was all in black: black T-shirt, black trousers, black brows. He was frowning slightly and I suddenly felt rather nervous. He looked nothing like a traveller or an artist and everything like a handsome beetle. Or a rather cross chemist.

He came to the counter and Julie, who I could tell was also finding this slightly less funny now because she was gripping my dress between her finger and thumb, ran through her thing again, more nervously this time.

He said, ‘I see,’ when she’d finished. ‘OK. Fire away.’

While she fumbled for her clipboard, he looked at his watch.

I rather thought he might take us out the back or something, but we just stood there, leaning over the Clarins. Julie ran through some questions. How long had he owned the shop? (Six months; he has taken it over from his uncle, Leakey senior.) What was his training? (A five-year sandwich course in pharmacology at De Montfort, Leicester.) Was it convenient in terms of locality vis-à-vis his living arrangements? (Yes.) Then she asked him a question about competition within the high-street environment. His eyes had been darting around the shop, checking customers, keeping a note on the wire-haired woman’s response to them. But now he looked keenly at us and, as Julie had her head down writing, that meant me. His eyes, I noticed, were very dark. I feel cringingly embarrassed remembering this now, because I just stood there with a gormless smile on my face while he talked about sharks and minnows, my head nodding, occasionally glancing at the suppositories to the left of his ear to escape his glare. ‘So basically, if deregulation goes ahead, it’s undercutting on price versus personal service,’ he concluded. ‘You’re not going to find anyone from the big chains nipping round with Mrs Jones’s prescription when she can’t get out of bed.’

Julie looked up. ‘And where does this Mrs Jones live? Does she live within the high-street environment?’

He frowned.

I cleared my throat. ‘You’re making a general point,’ I said. ‘Using a mythical Mrs Jones as an example. We quite see that, don’t we, Julie?’

For a moment Julie looked lost, but then she remembered her notes. ‘And what about hours?’ she said, referring to her clipboard again. ‘Weekends, some Sundays, late opening, goodness, you were even open on Christmas Day this year, weren’t you – how does that work with domestic arrangements?’

He frowned again. ‘Sorry, is this relevant?’ He was looking over our heads. I realized a few people had come into the shop. The assistant with the pouchy eyes had begun serving, but a small queue was forming.

‘All she means,’ I added quickly, ‘is it must dissuade some people from running small businesses, particularly one of this nature. Um – you know, when you’re married and have children.’

He said, ‘I suppose so.’

Julie said, ‘So does it?’

He darted a nervous look at the woman with the pouchy eyes. She was bending down at the shelves just behind her – where the things called Benzadrille and Optak are – flicking through them in panic, humming quickly. The Chemist – John – said, ‘I’m sure it would. Now, if you’ve –’

I suddenly realized that the customer causing the problem was female and very attractive. She was wearing one of those long sheepskin coats which cost about a million pounds, and she was flicking her matching shoulder-length chestnut hair crossly. She looked like a racehorse refusing the water jump.

The Chemist Guy moved across. He rested his hand lightly on his assistant’s shoulder and asked what the problem was. The racehorse woman took a step back. She muttered something about orange flavour.

The Chemist Guy looked at the box on the counter. ‘I’m afraid Worvex is all we stock. Is it for the whole family?’

The racehorse woman said that no, it was just for her children.

‘Hm,’ he said. ‘It might be worth you taking a dose yourself. Most adults escape, but you can’t be too careful. It can be very… irritating.’ He had bent down and was now holding two packets out towards her. ‘Best to break the cycle.’

The woman was rearing back. She flicked her mane. ‘I’ve told HER I want orange-flavoured Threpsen, which is what I’ve always had before. And I only need one packet. I’m sure Boots can help.’ She turned to go.

Oh dear. And then this thing happened which I can hardly bear to recount. I think I had got caught up in imagining The Chemist taking some old lady’s tablets round to her, calling through the letter box, ‘It’s only me, Mrs Jones,’ being all caring and nice while the big chains ran his business over. I said, really quite loudly, shamefully loudly, ‘Oh, threadworm, that’s a nightmare. We’ve both had it, haven’t we, Julie? And the night itching. God. That’s when the female worm exits the anal passage to lay her eggs.’

Everybody stared at me, even a gentleman over by the vitamins, even Julie, whose clipboard was now hanging forgotten by her side. But do you know what? After a few agonizing moments, the horsey woman, who had also been staring at me, seemed to sort of weaken – she obviously liked being talked to like that – and she asked me if I really thought Worvex would do, and I told her that actually I thought it would do fine and that my younger brother and sister actually preferred the taste of Worvex, as long as you got them to swallow it quickly. ‘Don’t let them suck it,’ I said, ‘they kind of explode out if you do.’ And not only did she then buy one packet, she also bought a second – ‘to be on the safe side’. ‘You want to be on the safe side,’ I said. ‘That night itching. It’s a killer.’

Once the horsey woman had left, all friendly and pony-like now, John gave me a funny look. His eyebrows went up very slightly in the middle. And after that I decided perhaps he wasn’t as scary as I’d first thought.

We got out of there finally and walked slowly and maturely down the high street, saying things like, ‘So that’s interesting, isn’t it, about the Office of Fair Trading guidelines,’ and, ‘Well, Julie, I suppose really we ought to interview the manager of Boots next for a really rounded view,’ until we got to Chelverton Road, when we ran for a bit, tugging on each other’s coats until we were past the bus garage, and then collapsed in a heap of nervous giggles in the gutter. It seemed glorious for a moment to be fourteen, to be so mad and wicked and find each other so funny. But then Julie had to get home so we got up, dusted ourselves down, and walked to the bus stop. Once there, we ran through What We Had Learnt So Far.

‘What do you mean?’

I drew attention to the fact that our chemist hadn’t flirted at all, not one iota, not a glimmer, zilch, with the racehorse woman. ‘And she was attractive,’ I said. ‘Very.’

Julie said yes, but that she did have threadworm.

‘As far as he’s concerned,’ I pointed out, ‘everyone has. What our chemist sees is the inner ailment. “Oh, hello, top supermodel: how’s the stress incontinence?” Young Hollywood starlet: “What news on the piles?”’

Julie said she thought I was looking for trouble where there wasn’t any, but that it was worth covering ourselves. ‘We’ve started on The Chemist,’ she said. ‘Now for Plan B. Watch out, Uncle Bert.’

I’ve just got one more thing to write. When I got home after the chemist’s, there was William on the doorstep – again. He told me he was locked out, which sounded like an excuse. I was longing to think about today and make plans for Friday – I’ve told Julie I will go to see the Electric B’stards to suss out Uncle Bert – but I let William in anyway.

We went straight up to the roof, where I was hoping we could sit in companionable silence, but it turned out I was doomed to have my peace shattered because who should stick her curly head out of next-door’s window but Delilah, my next-door neighbour.

Delilah is one of those friends you have because of circumstances rather than choice. We’ve lived next door to each other all our lives – my mother used to child-mind her while her mum was at the hairdresser’s (about eight times a week) – so I’ve grown to love her. Well, sort of anyway. She’s going through a funny boy-mad phase and also she’s at the girls’ high, which is private, so even though we’re next-door neighbours (our houses couldn’t be more different – hers is like something out of Elle Decoration, mine out of Recycling Weekly), our lives are miles apart.

This evening she said, ‘Can you two stop yakking? Some of us have got Latin declensions to do.’ They do a lot of declenshing at the girls’ high.

William said, ‘What are you wearing?’ and she darted back in again. I knew what she was doing: getting out of her school gingham pinafore.

I was right. When she came back, she was wearing pinky eyeshadow that clashed with the blueness of her eyes, and a tight white top with can-can dancers prancing across the squishy outline of her padded bra. Delilah’s as bad as Mother when it comes to boys. She’s even got a Snog Log by her bed.

She said in a mock-Cockney voice she often uses when she talks to William, ‘So you two coming down the youth club on Friday? They’ve got a Valentine’s Pitch and Putt Special.’

William said, ‘Might.’ He can be quite laconic when it comes to Delilah.

She said teasingly, ‘Connie?’

I pretended to think about it for a moment. ‘Valentine’s Day, is it?’ I said. I haven’t been to the youth club since the summer disco when that boy from north London put his tongue in my throat and I thought I was going to gag. (I do not have a Snog Log and have no intention of EVER GETTING ONE.) I said, ‘Nah, I’m going to the Electric B’stards.’

Delilah and William both looked at me. Delilah was so surprised she forgot to stop sounding posh. ‘Really?’ (It came out like, ‘Rilly?’)

‘Yup. With Julie. Her Uncle Bert gets free tickets.’

Delilah said, ‘On Friday?’

William said, ‘With Julie?’

They were beginning to annoy me. I know I said I don’t go to the youth club, but am I so weird that the thought of me doing anything remotely ‘teenage’ is completely out of the question? I said, ‘A girl’s got to start somewhere.’

Delilah was leaning out so far I was worried she might topple, and that would be a shame. She said excitedly, ‘Ooh, can I do your make-up? What are you going to wear? Hang on.’ Her curly head disappeared again and then reappeared along with an arm brandishing a magazine. Her voice got all squeaky. She said, ‘Can I do a Mates Makeover? There’s one in here. Look at her there, minging, and then look at her – lush. Oh, go on, Con. I’ve always wanted to do a Mates Makeover.’ She gave me one of her appealing gap-toothed smiles.

I became all dignified then and told her that I was happy as I was. William, laughing, said the polyester dress and thick stockings look was greatly underrated, so I had to dig him in the ribs.

He did lots of ‘Ow’ing and schoolboy doubling up, all feet and limbs.

Before she poked her head back in, Delilah said prettily, ‘See you on Friday, then, Will.’

Will? Who does she think she is?