I never thought I’d write in here again. This beautiful, deliciously smelling notebook would be wasted forever. But today everything has changed.

The morning began dull and overcast. You couldn’t believe spring would ever come. The chemist’s was dark when I arrived. John was in the back eating a bacon sandwich and reading the newspaper. He only has a microwave at home, he told me, and crispy bacon’s apparently one thing you miss when you only have a microwave at home. He gets his bacon sandwiches from the cafe at the station. Sometimes he has one for lunch too.

‘You all right?’ he said. But he obviously didn’t know anything was up because he didn’t leave enough space for me to answer before saying, ‘Start on the shampoos, would you?’

The boxes were just by his feet, so I crouched down next to him with the price gun. He was wearing his jeans and a pair of worn brown shoes that he had only half shoved on over bare feet so his heels were squashing down the leather at the back. I started with the Neutrogenas. When I got to the anti-dandruff ones I wondered whether to say anything (you know, like, ‘My mother’s favourite, this’), but the click of the price gun seemed loud in the silence and I felt too self-conscious.

After a bit he folded up his newspaper. ‘Ah, Connie,’ he said. ‘You’re making me feel guilty. Time to open up.’

He spun the sign and beep-beeped the till. Then he came back into the pharmacy section and put his white coat on over his jeans. He’s so dark – dark bristly hair, dark knitted eyebrows, dark deep-set eyes – the white coat makes him look like a rook pretending to be a seagull. A few people came in and I went through to serve them. Gail was going to be late because her mother was in hospital with her hip. John seemed distracted. He sorted out some antibiotics for someone, but didn’t say much. I never know how much he notices me. I wonder if I was older – I mean really older, like twenty or something – he’d be aware of the silences and feel socially obliged to fill them. It must be something to do with the professional nature of our relationship, but oddly for me I don’t feel I can ask questions or volunteer information unless encouraged.

So it was a relief when a bit later he said, ‘You’re looking very solemn today.’

I told him I was just tired.

‘Hard night?’

I suspect he meant out at the pub like any normal sixteen-year-old, not lying awake worrying about the disastrous marriage she may have arranged for her only parent.

I said I was fine. After a bit I said, ‘By the way, do you remember what you said about not having met anybody who supported the war?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I have now.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yep. My mother’s boyfriend says the build-up has had a knock-on effect on merchandising or something, that you can’t beat a show of might. He says demonstrations are “troublemaking”.’

‘Takes all sorts.’

I’ve noticed when people say ‘takes all sorts’, a phrase which supposedly celebrates the different opinions that make up the world, they’re actually being critical. I felt an internal shiver of satisfaction, but also dread, when he said this. It was lovely to hear someone say something against Bert – and it’s made me see, if he’s pro-war, he can’t be nice, can he? But it was also scary to have my feelings confirmed. I’m in so deep. What if I can’t undo what we’ve done?

More customers came in. And while I was working through the queue, Gail arrived, looking flustered and matronly at the same time.

‘You’re looking a bit peaky, Connie,’ she said once she’d talked a young mother through the tinned baby-food range. ‘Are you working too hard at school? When are your AS levels again?’ She peeled off the lid of the cup of takeaway coffee she’d bought with her and took a sip. Her face cleared. ‘Hmmm. Heaven,’ she said. ‘I love a mocha.’

I feel easier when she’s in the shop, which is funny because John is so nice and doesn’t ask about AS levels. It’s just having more people around, I suppose. I told her I was working quite hard at school, exams not for a bit (NB for confessional purposes: that’s evasion, not deceit), but that I was a bit miserable because I’d fallen out with a friend. I’m so glad I did. John was sorting other people’s photographs into envelopes – he’s quite strict about us not seeing for privacy reasons – and had his back to us. Her face contracted. ‘Oh no. Have you? Oh. What was that over, then?’ I couldn’t answer because we had a rash of parents and children to deal with, small hands reaching for the diabetic chocolate; long debate over Calpol with sugar versus Calpol without. John sidled into the back when this was going on. He’s not great with mothers, and Gail tends to give either too much advice or not enough. As usual I found myself talking about my little brother and sister; personal recommendations seem to be what customers like. Anyway, they all trooped out at last.

I said, ‘I think I offended her.’

‘Who, dear?’

‘My friend. I’ve upset her somehow.’

‘Her? Not a boy friend, then?’

‘No!’

‘So what happened? What did you do to offend her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, you should ask her and then you will know.’

I felt a fat tear welling out of my eye. Sympathy is always a killer.

She had time to say, ‘Oh dear,’ before dealing with another customer. Back at the till, she whispered, ‘Why don’t you give her a ring? Sort it out. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

I blew my nose and nodded.

I didn’t do it immediately. I waited until John went to the bank at lunchtime. Then I went to the phone at the back. I felt nervous, but Gail was looking at me and nodding encouragement.

She wasn’t at her mum’s. So I tried her at her dad’s. Alison answered. She said, ‘Oh, hello, Carmen. I’ll just get her,’ and I almost hung up. I only managed to fit in, ‘It’s Connie,’ before she was yelling up the stairs.

Julie took a few minutes to come. ‘Hello,’ she said, without expression.

‘Julie. It’s Connie,’ I said unnecessarily.

She said, ‘Hello,’ again, this time with artificial brightness.

I said, ‘Why are you being funny with me?’

‘I’m not being funny with you.’

I said, ‘Why aren’t you talking to me, then?’

Still in the same false tone, she said, ‘I am talking to you. I’m talking to you now.’

‘Yes, but not properly.’

‘Yes, I am,’ she said. Long silence.

‘See?’ I said.

Gail was making further gestures with her hands. Eventually I asked if Julie would meet me and she said, ‘When?’

I said, ‘Some time today?’

She said, ‘Maybe I’ll drop in if I’m passing.’

And then we both hung up and that was that. I stayed out the back for a bit, staring at the boxes of shampoos. Friendship is so hard and painful. I can’t imagine ever being able to deal with love.

But then John got back from the bank and Gail was busy at the till, so I carried on with my shampoos. I think Gail might have told him I was down, because he went out again and bought us a sandwich platter to share from Marks & Spencer. We ate them in a huddle. I wouldn’t eat the prawn or the tuna ones because of fish-overload. ‘Sorry to look a seahorse in the mouth,’ I said, and explained about Jack. John seemed to find it very funny. I even told him about the Newcastle accent Jack sometimes puts on when he goes door to door, which I haven’t told anyone. John laughed as if I’d really tickled him and I felt a warm glow inside.

Julie came at three o’clock. Later I discovered she wasn’t passing at all. She was supposed to be going to the cinema with Carmen and she’d cancelled. Sometimes one can get people so wrong.

She stood by the nail varnishes with a funny expression on her face. John said I could nip out for half an hour if I liked. Gail said, ‘Go on.’

Julie and I walked in silence to the cafe by the station and sat a table in the window. I ordered a Coke; she ordered a Diet Coke. It was hot in there. My can was warm; her can, from further back in the fridge, had pearls of condensation on the outside. I should have got a Diet one too. But I hate aspartame. I hate all artificial sweetness.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I said.

She said, ‘I was passing anyway.’

I told her I liked her new top. It was pale blue and cap-sleeved and had a picture of a girl surfing a large wave on it. She looked down at it, as if noticing it for the first time, and said, ‘Oh.’

‘So here we are,’ I said.

‘Here we are,’ she replied woodenly.

Irritation spurred me on. ‘Oh, come on, Julie. What have I done? Please tell me. This is ridiculous.’

She pretended for a while, all hoity-toity, that I hadn’t done anything, that it was all fine, but I kept on and finally – finally – in a rush, she said, ‘OK. I was really offended when you didn’t walk down the hill with me.’

When?’

‘On Tuesday. On the march.’

I was confused because this wasn’t like her and also it didn’t seem to tally with the timing – wasn’t she already funny on the phone on Sunday? – but I didn’t want to lose the moment, so I said, ‘I’m really sorry. It was obviously a misunderstanding. I did look for you, but I thought you’d gone ahead.’

She gave a small smile.

‘Can we be friends now, then?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Yeah. OK. So how’ve you been?’

We chatted, but we didn’t look at each other. Or we did, but in an odd way If I was talking – telling her about Mr Spence and the flat roof – I looked at her, but she kept her eyes on the table. And when she was talking – telling me about the kind of dye she’d used for her hair last weekend – I found my eyes going elsewhere. (I did an experiment on this at home later. When people are relaxed, it’s the other way round; the person who’s talking looks around, but the person who’s listening keeps their eyes on them.) We’d finished our Cokes and had begun walking back to the chemist’s when tentatively I mentioned the graffiti about Delilah. She laughed knowingly, ‘Oh yeah.’

I said, ‘Do you think Toyah Benton really is “out to get her”?’

She said, ‘I don’t know. The problem is she knows where Delilah lives.’

‘How?’

‘How do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘She’s got an invitation to her party.’

I stopped in my tracks to take in a sharp breath. Julie looked at me and raised her eyebrows. We stared at each other and then we both burst out laughing.

By the time we reached the door to the chemist’s, and had discussed Delilah’s behaviour in minute detail (how far exactly had she gone with Toyah Benton’s boyfriend? Would Toyah come to Delilah’s party to seek revenge?), things seemed to be back to normal.

‘See you on Monday,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry about the march. I guess I just got… swept up in the moment.’

‘Bye,’ she answered. I made as if to go in, but as she didn’t move, I turned again.

‘Bye,’ I said.

She was still standing there. ‘Connie?’

I had my hand on the door. ‘Yes?’

‘Look, about the march –’

‘Yes?’

She sighed. ‘I’ve been a cow.’

I had to step back out of the doorway on to the pavement to make room for a middle-aged woman exiting in a hurry.

Julie was frowning and twisting her thumb in the top buttonhole of her denim jacket. ‘I lied. I wasn’t cross with you about that.’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘No. I wasn’t really cross with you about anything. It was nothing you did. It’s just…’

‘It’s just what?’

She looked down at the pavement. ‘Nothing.’

‘No. Tell me.’

She pulled me to one side, into the doorway that leads to the flat above the chemist’s. ‘It’s Uncle Bert.’

‘Uncle Bert?’

‘I think we made a mistake –’

‘Do you?’ I felt the flickerings of hope. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just… Do you think they’re right for each other?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe not.’ I was still being careful.

‘It’s just… I know we engineered it. That we did it. But it was just a game. Wasn’t it? I never thought it would work.’ Her eyes darted this way and that. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I mean, did you? It was just a game. And now he’s round your house all the time, and taking you lot out for Chinese and… It’s just he’s my uncle…’

It was taking a while for it to sink in. I said, ‘Is this because you don’t think they’re right for each other, or because you don’t really want him seeing Mother?’

She twisted her lip with her teeth. ‘Um…’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You can tell the truth. I don’t mind.’

She looked at me, directly in the eyes. ‘If they’re in love with each other and everything, then that’s fine, but if they’re not… It’s just he’s not bored any more, he doesn’t drop in at our house all the time, and he doesn’t feel like he belongs to me any more.’ She shook her head. ‘But that’s fine, if they’re happy. I’m not a little girl. I’m too old to be jealous. I’ll just have to come and see him at your house…’

All sorts of things were racing through my mind: happiness that we were friends, but also relief about something else. It was like being at the bottom of the water and seeing light glimmering on the surface and realizing it only needed a few pushes to get there. I said, ‘He’s not round our house all the time.’

‘Isn’t he?’

‘No. He toots in the street.’

Julie, who had been looking like she might be about to cry (which is very unlike her), gave a little laugh. ‘Does he leave the engine running?’ she asked.

‘And the door open,’ I said.

We smiled at each other. I put my hand on her shoulder and told her that I understood everything and that we should meet to talk about it more. I said, ‘I just wish you’d told me, that’s all. Not ignored me.’

She said, ‘Sorry,’ in a very small voice, and gave me a hug.

I kept my own anxieties concerning Uncle Bert’s status as stepfather material to myself. There was no point upsetting her. I suggested she came round this evening to talk about the next step – splitting them up.

She grimaced. ‘Can’t. Not tonight. Sorry. Going to Dan Curtis’s sixteenth.’

‘Who is Dan Curtis?’ I said. ‘Why does everyone else know him and I don’t?’

‘You never go out, that’s why,’ she said, but there was affection in her voice.

She’s coming round tomorrow instead.

Julie and I have done a terrible, dangerous thing.

But what we have done, we can undo.