The last time Harry Milton saw Florence Carr, she was a spotty, frizzy-haired skinny little thing, youngest daughter of the family three huts down whom everyone tried to avoid because they were total trainspotters. And now? Now she was quite simply stunning. The ginger frizz had morphed into copper ringlets, her eyes were green flecked with gold, the Everdene sun had kissed her skin palest bronze. She took his breath away. Harry had groaned when his grandmother had told him the Carrs had invited them down for a barbecue. ‘Oh no,’ he protested. ‘The Boring Family. They are so massively uncool.’ The Carrs looked like something out of the nineteen fifties, with their badly knitted jumpers, cagoules and thick-rimmed glasses. Nerds, the lot of them. They were always striding about with binoculars, or one of those laminated maps on a piece of string round their necks. ‘We’ve got to go, darling,’ his grandmother chided him. ‘Mr Carr’s been giving me lots of professional advice.
