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tried to get in, but she’s booked out for months.’

      ‘What? Not you too! What is this fascination with my loopy mother lately? Everyone’s on the bandwagon.’

      ‘You mean, you don’t know? She’s fantastic! Everyone is raving about her. Her Reiki is second to none. I’ve never felt better.’

      ‘God, Reiki schmaki, it’s all a crock. I mean, really, holding her hands ten centimetres above your body is meant to heal everything?’

      Gemma narrowed her eyes at me and said, ‘You can be kind of hard on people, you know that? I think you need to see your mum yourself for some kind of therapy. She has this thing called “Bach flower treatment” that’s great for depression, anxiety and stress.’

      ‘Are you implying I have some kind of medical condition?’

      ‘I’m just saying, it’s a natural alternative for relaxation.

      Everyone needs an escape now and then when life gets hard. A few bottles of red wine and a packet of ciggies is really not the answer.’

      Can you believe this blue-haired monster? Seriously, was she giving me a lecture?

      ‘Gemma, I hardly ever drink red wine and I definitely don’t smoke, so whoever you’re getting your information from is totally barking up the wrong tree.’

      ‘Kylie told me she had an emergency call from you last night to fix your hair, because it caught on fire when you tried to light a smoke off the stove while you were plastered.’

      ‘Wow, who are you suddenly? Oprah? Is Dr Phil gonna run in with a film crew and do an intervention? My mother, too? Clutching a handwritten letter I can take off to rehab with me for my darkest moments?’

      I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right. She has multiple personalities. I mean, where the hell did that come from? I remember now why we didn’t stay friends long in high school.

      I lowered my voice, not wanting to make a spectacle out of myself and said, ‘I’ll have you know that Kylie is one of the worst exaggerators I’ve ever met. We aren’t talking at the moment, so I guess she has to make up these ridiculous lies to feel better about herself or something.’

      ‘She has photos of last night. You, totally wild-eyed, smoking, your hair a charred mess on one side.’ She had the nerve at this point to start laughing. ‘Oh, and your apartment! What a pigsty! How can you live like that?’

      Well, I can tell you right now I was shocked at her utter rudeness. I mean, who says things like that? As for Kylie, oh man, was she going to cop it tonight when she came over. I had some nasty photos of her hidden away for times like this. It was war.

      Hoang had just finished my toenails and was clearly feeling the angry vibe we had going on. He made himself scarce.

      ‘Obviously my mother’s “releasing negative energy tea” has done nothing for you! This has been great but, unfortunately for you, I have other obligations today. You know, with nice people.’

      I stood up as daintily as I could so I didn’t smudge my nail polish and walked to the counter to say my goodbyes to Hoang and cancel my French tips. Really, I only had so many hours each day, I should be a little bit fussier about who I dole them out to. Blue-haired band freaks were a big NO from now on. What was I thinking?

      Hoang snatched my money and secreted it away like I’d just performed a sexual act for him. He winked at me while I air-kissed him, allowing me to walk out with my head held high. I immediately rooted around my bag for my phone. I was still pissed I wasn’t going to drop a kilo or two by getting my false nails applied.

      It took all my might to walk slowly down the street. I suddenly felt like I was living in a parallel universe. It was unheard of for people to speak to me like that. First Kylie, now Gemma, of all people. Even my mum would usually intuit something was wrong, bring me dark chocolate and give me a foot massage. Had the world gone mad? I thought back to my mother’s warning about the kimono, but it was just too preposterous to believe. There was no way a piece of antique silk could be causing my friends to be so mean-spirited. Something was going on and I was going to figure it out, just as soon as I’d organised lunch. I can’t think when I’m hungry.

       Chapter 4

      Beer Belly Bob

      I walked along the busy street, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back, scrolling through my phone looking for a new BFF candidate. Slim pickings, really. I decided to text Sharona.

      She was a part-time make-up girl for Clinique, so it was pretty much guaranteed she wouldn’t show up with a freak show hairstyle. She was fairly ditzy, you know the type, laughs at everything, vacant look in her eyes, cute little nose. Her hair was brown, even though she totally acted blonde, and she was short with a big bum. I’m not being bitchy, I’m just trying to describe her for you. Oh, her good points? Well, she laughs at your jokes, and she’s a good listener.

      ‘Hey, Sharona! Want meet for lunch? Tapas?’

      Her reply came instantly like the total slave to technology that she was. I think it’s something about being needed and wanted for some people. Like their phone is glued to their hand so they don’t miss a thing. Sad, really.

      ‘Hey! Love to but I’m at home recovering. You wanna come here?’

      Recovering? Oh God, I’d have to listen to the whole sob story, get drinks for her, possibly spoonfeed her. Forget it. I didn’t do nursemaid for anyone.

      ‘Recovering. From what?’ I sent back.

      ‘Tyson just paid for me to have a boob job! Look out! DD all the way!’

      Well, cross another off the list. How tacky. Her boyfriend of one month obviously didn’t like the fact he got her shoulder blades mixed up with her boobs and paid for her to have them done. It was practically prostitution, if you ask me.

      ‘Would love to, but I’m allergic to the smell of desperation, so maybe another time.’

      ‘Aww shame, you should feel them!’

      Eww. See what I mean? It doesn’t take a person long to fall into that hooker-ish behaviour. Looks like I have another potential stalker on the way. Note to self: steer clear of Sharona until the anaesthetic has worn off.

      Just when I’m feeling super-despondent, my phone rings and it’s JJ. He’s a flirtatious gay guy who is hardly ever around because he travels a lot. A funky artist type who spends a lot of time in Paris living ‘like a leper’, he says, because it’s the only way a true artist learns.

      What he really means is he sucks everyone into paying for everything for him. It’s cool though, because it’s good to be seen with him. His art sort of went global a few years ago and he was semi-famous for a while there, even though he lost all the money he earned by falling into a serious drug habit.

      He says he did it on purpose because he needed an edge, something dark with a violent tendency because his work was becoming too commercial. He said he felt like a sell-out. Anyway, so now he’s back and broke.

      ‘Sexy Samantha, I’m in Perth!’

      ‘Hey, JJ. I guess you want to meet for lunch?’

      ‘Babe, I’d love to, but you know how busy I am these days. I have exhibitions to arrange, paint that needs painting, brushes that need, umm, brushing, you know how it is. Why, what did you have in mind?’

      See. JJ is a consummate professional at the scam. Firstly he tells you he is very busy and important-like; thumbs-up for that. Next, he finds out what you’re prepared to offer before he even considers it. JJ is high-end. He only does restaurants that have linen tablecloths with wait staff that place the napkin over your lap (he has a real thing about doing it himself, he says that’s for buffets and truck stops). He usually manages a top-notch lunch with fabulous wine, then a small spot of shopping.

      He’s

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