But it’s August!” said Carmen into the phone, putting down her book. “August! It’s almost sunny outside! I have sandals on! Ice- cream vans patrol the land! I put sunblock on last week and almost needed it! How can I possibly get my head round what you’re asking me?” “I’m just saying,” her mother’s soft voice came again, and Car-men sighed. They had the same tussle every year. “It’s just useful to know early, that’s all. And of course Sofia . . .” Carmen screwed up her face. “Yes, she’s popping out yet an-other sprog and overpopulating the world, blah blah blah, I know.” “Carmen June Hogan. Be nice.” “Come on, Mum. She’s already got three. She’s just being greedy. Anyway, I don’t know what I might be doing at Christmas. I might be going away.” Who with?” Her mother sounded skeptical. “I could meet someone between now and Christmas! And he could whisk me off to Barbados! Or LA!” Her mother smiled. “So you’re not coming home for Christmas because you’ll be in LA.” “I could be in LA.” Carmen couldn’t, she thought, be the only person in the world who was both nearly thirty and who still turned into a stroppy…