The following morning when Friday emerged for breakfast, Ingrid was already sitting at the kitchen counter eating toast and reading the paper.

‘Friday, should I be worried?’ asked Ingrid.

Friday’s brain panicked. Her first thought was that somehow Ingrid knew that Binky had asked for her help. She didn’t want to get in trouble with Binky for blabbing.

‘Um . . .’ she began, totally unable to think what she should say.

‘Good morning,’ said Melanie as she joined them for breakfast. Melanie took in Friday’s guilty look and Ingrid’s accusing stare. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Friday has made the papers,’ said Ingrid.

‘What?!’ exclaimed Friday.

Ingrid turned the paper to show Melanie.

‘Friday!’ exclaimed Melanie. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t think.’ She was actually starting to have a real panic attack now. Being wrongly accused was all too real to her. Her mind rushed through all the irrational possibilities. Was she going to be accused of terrorism – again? Would she be locked up? Had she been lured to Norway so the Norwegian government could prosecute her for crimes she didn’t even know she had committed?

Melanie slid the paper across the counter to show her.

The image on the front was too much for Friday’s brain to comprehend. At first, she thought it was a fabulously handsome man, most likely a movie star, passionately kissing his girlfriend. Then she realised that the fabulously handsome man was Binky. She still thought of him as the gangly high schooler she had first met. It was hard to comprehend he was a really good-looking man now. Then her brain noticed that the girl he was kissing was wearing a very familiar cardigan. A brown cardigan. Her brown cardigan. Her green pork pie hat was on the ground near her feet, which were dangling a couple of inches above the ground. Finally, Friday realised – the girl in the picture was her!

‘It’s not what it looks like!’ said Friday.

‘Photoshop?’ asked Ingrid.

‘No,’ admitted Friday. ‘It happened. But it wasn’t like it looks. He was just saying thank you.’

‘What had you done to make him that grateful?’ asked Ingrid.

Friday looked at Ingrid. She wanted to tell the truth, if for no other reason than she was terrible at lying. Besides, Melanie could always tell if someone was lying, no matter how good they were at it. But she had promised Binky. ‘I can’t say,’ she said.

For a dreadful moment, Friday thought she was about to be thrown out of the country, or thrown in jail or both.

Then Ingrid burst out laughing. ‘It’s okay,’ said Ingrid. ‘I know it can’t have been how it looks. I know Binky. And I know you.’

‘You’re not angry?’ said Friday.

‘I’ll have to have a talk with Binky about being less passionate with his thank yous,’ said Ingrid. ‘The paparazzi are not kind to the exuberantly warm-hearted.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Friday. ‘He got me by surprise. I didn’t see it coming.’

‘I know,’ said Ingrid. ‘And there’s no need for me to be angry with you. This will be punishment enough.’ She tapped the newspaper.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Friday.

‘Now you’re going to be hounded by the paparazzi every waking moment,’ said Ingrid. ‘Probably just for a couple of weeks, but it will feel endless and it will make your life a living hell.’

‘But no one ever notices me,’ said Friday. ‘That’s the whole point of the brown cardigan.’

‘Friday, that brown cardigan is one of the most ugly garments I’ve ever seen,’ said Ingrid. ‘It’s not that people don’t notice it, it’s that they dismiss the person who would choose to wear something that ugly. But now you are front-page news, everyone will be deeply intrigued by the girl who would choose to wear something that unsightly.’

‘What am I going to do?’ asked Friday.

‘We’ll have to disguise you,’ said Ingrid.

Friday imagined herself wearing a fake moustache.

‘I’ll lend you some of my clothes,’ said Ingrid.

‘Yay,’ said Melanie, clapping excitedly. ‘Makeover!’

‘I can’t let you lend me your clothes,’ said Friday. ‘You’re a princess!’

‘Well, you can’t come to a white-tie royal ball dressed in jeans and a brown cardigan,’ said Melanie. ‘And they’re the only clothes you’ve got.’

Something in Melanie’s tone made Friday suspicious.

‘Melanie, did you bribe a baggage handler to lose my suitcase?’ asked Friday.

‘No, of course not,’ said Melanie. ‘I bribed a baggage handler to ship your suitcase back to Highcrest Academy. It’ll be perfectly safe there, so long as no one throws it in the swamp.’

‘How could you?!’ wailed Friday.

‘It was for your own good!’ said Melanie. ‘You’re not the eleven-year-old I first met. You’ve got a super-hot, brilliant, emotionally unstable boyfriend who is perfect for you. You need to stop dressing like a vagrant.’

‘But I don’t want to,’ pleaded Friday.

‘You have to,’ said Melanie. ‘You’re in Europe now. This is the realm of European socialites – trust-fund babies with all the money in the world to spend on looking good. You’ve got to up your game. You don’t want any of those looks-diggers turning Ian’s head!’

‘What’s a looks-digger?’ asked Friday. Her brain had stalled on this idea.

‘If a gold-digger is someone who is good-looking and seduces a man for his money,’ explained Melanie, ‘a looks-digger is someone who is already rich and after a man for being handsome.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Friday. ‘It’s weird, but it makes sense.’

‘Then you agree to a makeover!’ said Melanie.

‘I didn’t say that!’ complained Friday.

‘Of course you do,’ said Ingrid. ‘You don’t want to be rude to your hostess. Not when you’ve been caught kissing her boyfriend in the street.’

Friday sighed. She realised she was not going to win when both her friends ganged up on her.