Her new uniform consisted of white cycling shorts and a white hooded T-shirt, and around her neck hung a CND symbol the size of a small plate. Hooped earrings almost as large brushed her shoulders and she had pulled the tongues out of her trainers so that they lapped against her shins. She had stopped going to gigs and clubs in London and started going to raves in Essex. Essex! Elvira used to complain if she had to venture further east than Tottenham Court Road. The friendship had been based on shared passions; it was hard not to take Elvira’s rejection of their old lifestyle personally. She had even reverted to her old nickname, Ellie; Louisa refused to use it. She looked with dismay at the day-glo badges that littered her countertop like radioactive pebbles on black sand. Two dozen fluorescent smiley faces laughed back at her. She was trying to be open-minded but she couldn’t see what they had to do with essential oils. ‘Don’t you think this rather compromises the integrity of what we’re doing here?’ ‘It’s a market stall, not an altar,’ Elvira said.
