‘Ah, you’re a romantic,’ says the brunette. ‘I bet you believe in fate and all that crap.’ She elbows the woman sitting next to her. ‘Give her a reading, Caitlin.’

‘Caitlin is a psychic,’ she explains. ‘She’s very accurate.’

Caitlin doesn’t open her eyes. ‘Would you like it if I went around suggesting you give people a free haircut? If people want a reading they can make an appointment and see me at my offices.’

The sleek brunette is unfazed. ‘Oh don’t be a bitch. Give her a sample of your wares.’

‘It’s OK,’ says Sophie. ‘Thanks anyway.’

Caitlin groans and heaves herself up to squint at Sophie.

‘You’ve got a strong aura,’ she says irritably.

‘Oh well done, darling,’ says Gretel.

‘What colour is it?’ asks the sleek brunette.

The psychic squints. ‘Ah. It’s caramel.’

‘Oooh, a caramel-coloured aura!’ Gretel is enchanted. ‘That sounds delicious. What does it mean?’

‘Umm, well it generally means a positive career change.’

‘Oh.’ Gretel looks disappointed. ‘We’re not so interested in her career. What about her love life?’

The psychic sighs heavily and says, ‘Give me your palm.’

‘I’m really fine,’ says Sophie. ‘Perhaps I’ll get your number and make a proper appointment to see you.’

But Caitlin takes her hand in a firm, professional grasp. ‘OK,’ she says tiredly. ‘You’ve got an excellent life line. Very strong.’

‘Oh yes, she’s always been very healthy!’ says Gretel.

‘Now your fate line is strong too, but with lots of breaks–so in other words you’re overcoming barriers.’

‘That’s right, she’s overcome lots of barriers,’ says Gretel sagely, as though Sophie was paralysed and had to learn to walk again at one point in her life.

‘OK–your heart line, now that’s not so good. It’s all over the place. I’d say your love live is a real fiasco.’

‘Thanks,’ says Sophie.

‘What about kids?’ asks the brunette. ‘Is she going to have kids?’

The psychic pulls Sophie’s palm closer to her face and shakes her head regretfully. ‘Gosh, you know, I’ve never seen anything like it. See, under your pinkie, this is where you’re meant to have lines indicating your potential number of children. Well, you’ve just got completely smooth skin–’

‘OK, that’s enough!’ Gretel grabs Sophie’s hand. ‘You couldn’t possibly read her palm properly when it’s all pruney from the water. Come on, Sophie, it’s time for us to go.’

‘Typical. People only want to hear good news,’ shrugs the psychic, subsiding back against the side of the pool.

‘Charlatan!’ Gretel hops out of the pool, quivering with maternal indignation. ‘Come on, darling, it’s time for yum cha.’

Sophie meekly follows her mother to the changing rooms where her knees finally give way and she dissolves into helpless giggles, only made worse by her mother furiously muttering things like, ‘I’ll give her a caramel aura!’

Veronika is doing Boxercise for the Broken Hearted.

It’s an aerobics class at her local gym especially for people recovering from bad relationship break-ups. The room reeks of fresh, sweaty misery. Veronika loves it. Grim-faced men and women work out to angry, punch-the-air sorts of songs like ‘You Oughta Know’, ‘I Will Survive’ and ‘These Boots were Made for Walking’. The teacher yells ordinary instructions like ‘Lift those knees!’ interspersed with motivational comments like ‘It’s time to move on!’ They do boxing exercises where they are encouraged to imagine assaulting their ex-partners. ‘Left hook! Right hook! They hurt you! Hurt them back! Smash their skulls in! Jab, jab, kick!’ Afterwards, during the ‘cool down’, the teacher’s voice switches to tender. ‘Stretch your right hamstring and release your anger. Stretch your left hamstring and know that you are strong. Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s time for a new beginning.’ Often there is a piteous sob from the back of the classroom. Veronika normally leaves before this part. She doesn’t think it’s necessary to cool down.

She started doing the class two years ago after the morning her husband Jonas gave her a funny sad look and said, ‘Don’t you think we’d better get a divorce?’ He was handing her a cup of tea at the time. She slopped it all over her hand and burned herself. ‘I don’t know what you want, Veronika,’ he’d said. ‘But I know it’s not me.’

Most people only need to come to Boxercise for the Broken Hearted for a couple of months before that crazed look in their eyes starts to fade. Their jabs become less vicious and more comical. They start smiling instead of scowling, which isn’t nice for the newly broken-hearted. Eventually they stop coming and take their healed hearts back to the cheery classes like ‘Move ’n’ Groove’.

But Veronika still comes, week after week. Her broken heart may have healed but she can always find something or someone to be angry about.

She’s angry with that snooty market-research woman who told her last night she talked too much in the focus group about tinned tuna. (Wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that what she was being paid for? To give her opinions?) She’s angry with the man who swerved into her lane on the way to the gym and raised an apologetic hand, as if that made it OK! She’s angry with that Asian girl in the red and green top over there who consistently kicks with the opposite leg to the rest of the class and doesn’t seem to notice. She’s angry with Sophie for being so manipulative and cutesy, Grace for being so beautiful, Aunt Connie for being so patronising and now so dead, Aunt Rose for being so dippy, Grandma Enigma for being so cheery, Thomas for being so sappy, Mum for being so fat and tragic, Dad for being so cruel to Mum. She’s angry with her third-grade teacher and the woman who fitted her for her first bra.

She combines them all into one giant sumo wrestler of humanity and punches him again and again in his big flabby stomach.

‘HA!’ yells Veronika with the rest of the class, doing a jump kick followed by a slice to the neck. Her sumo wrestler flinches but doesn’t fall.