Sally Rodgers has a face full of stars. The first thing you notice about her is the smattering of freckles she hides behind. She could be standing right beside you, but she’s a galaxy away. That’s the second thing you notice about her. The distance.
She’s working on that.
After falling off my radar last week, she’s shown up on my doorstep with the promise of an adventure.
‘A small one,’ she clarifies, a glint in her eye. ‘Couple of hours, tops.’
The neighbours have been complaining about doe-eyed religious men with pressed shirts and pamphlets showing up at all hours, so when the doorbell rang during dinner, Mum called dibs on not answering it. She poured herself a glass of wine to make crystal clear the fact that she had no intention of leaving the dining table. I dragged myself through the house, braced for an aggressive pitch about sins and saviours, and instead . . . Sally in jeans and a grey T-shirt.
She’s never come over before. She’s a meet-at-a-neutral location kind of friend…

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