Saturday 3 September, later

Last year the formal was the big thing. Our first proper formal. All we talked about. Who was wearing what. Who was partnering up. Who was going solo. Both okay options because we were a group, a happy unit at the centre of the universe. Me and m’ gals. The best pre-s, the best afterparty. Hair. Make-up. The most enviable selfies. The most ridiculous rumours on PSST about the group sex that, of course, didn’t happen. We did play Twister while pissed, and Bec sprained her little finger.

This year I’m waiting on the wide marble doorstep of Tash’s house, alone. Max needs to get some study done, so no pre-s for her.

Last year I was in purpose-bought Scanlan Theodore. This year I’m in altered vintage.

If it hadn’t been for the kind-but-fake rallying that followed the latest big PSST outing, I could have huffily ignored this part of the night.

Tash’s mum, Sherry, answers the door, head immediately on the side and sympathetic smile applied. ‘Your poor, poor mother. How is she?’

‘She seems okay, thanks Sherry.’

‘Let’s hope things pick up.’

Stepping inside I see a lot of my friends’ parents have been invited for drinks, too.

‘I didn’t ask your mother, Ady. I thought she had enough on her plate.’ That’s true, and she does not need a giant helping of insincere sympathy dumped next to it. But still, it seems rude not to have asked her.

I look at Sherry, remembering my mother’s report to my father after she first picked me up from this very house, soon after Tash’s family moved here in Year 7. Your daughter’s friend Tash lives in the most comically vulgar faux-Georgian house in Toorak, and that’s saying something.

And my father, always vague, asked: Which ones are they again?

The social climber and the nose droner with hair implants. And they both laughed.

They have a way of being mean together that seems bonding. When I told them not to be so judgemental, my mother said, Sorry, darling, very naughty, you’re right. And they both laughed again.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She does have rather a lot on her plate.’

Inside, most people have already arrived. Everything looks the way it always does, but doesn’t feel like my world anymore. My head and heart are with Kate, who is right this minute trying to work out the best way to smackdown PSST.

The boys are drinking beer and the girls prosecco and Aperol with a mint leaf in each glass, which will be the only thing that some of them eat tonight. The boys are in suits, and the girls are zippered and dieted and taped into some pricey and very bare evening wear, and I’m a bit one of these things definitely doesn’t belong, but happily so.

I’m wearing an evening jumpsuit from Gram – a wild geometric pattern – that she bought at Biba in London in the late 1960s. It’s sleeveless with a diamond shape cut out at the back and the front, and has a high, bead-encrusted collar. I’ve got a big, messy-teased down do, Jean Shrimpton smoky eyes and nude lips.

‘What are you wearing, babe?’ Tash’s routine am I safe to ridicule it? question.

‘Vintage Pucci.’ Hard burn.

Tash is forced to admire it. ‘Amazing.’

‘I love it,’ says Bec.

I sip my (colour-coordinated – there’s orange in the jumpsuit pattern) drink and wander into a group talking about the PSST post. Everyone becomes awkwardly quiet.

‘Don’t stop because I’m here. It’s not just me they hate – they disparage girls every single week. I mean, who are these misogynists? Is this the actual Stone Age?’ It’s quite a relief to be coming on super feminist, thanks to listening to Clare and my mother, but still, I one hundred percent believe it.

Nick Fergusson says, ‘Oh, come on, Ady, where’s your sense of humour? My father says we’re letting political correctness rule us.’

‘Political correctness is not a pejorative,’ I counter. (Clare again.) ‘It’s just people being switched on enough not to further vilify groups that are already under attack.’

‘What? Like girls? You all look okay to me.’ It’s delivered like a joke-sleazy compliment. And there’s a general sense that the boys are agreeing with him.

‘Don’t be a douche, Nick,’ Rupert says. ‘You only have to look at domestic violence stats to know there’s a massive gender problem, and things like PSST contribute to it.’

Rupert’s mother is a social worker. He gets the lowdown from her like I get it from Clare. He gives me a half-wink and I smile back, feeling that he and I can maybe be friends again one of these days.

The guys claim they don’t know who PSST is, and I believe them, hugging to myself that I do know, at least a couple of them. The trouble is, these guys are on the fence. They’ll laugh at some of the misogynist crap, but get defensive if you have a go at them about it because they didn’t actually say it or write it.

Malik says the standard you walk past is the one you accept.

My phone vibrates with the text from Kate that I’ve been waiting for, and I step away to text back what she needs.