Later, Steph and some of the others start drifting into the common room after their dawnies. I can’t wait to tell her about our invitation. I’ll tell her when we’re alone, though, or the other girls might get jealous.

We’re just settling in for a chat when our warden, Jasmine Nair, pops up behind us. We all freeze guiltily.

What have we done now?

Jasmine virtually never speaks to any of the first-years except to crap on us for breaking some bizarre rule or other. But today she’s wearing an unusual expression on her face. It almost looks like … a smile.

‘Tea and Chelsea buns in the common room at nine o’clock tonight, girls,’ she says, almost cheerfully. ‘Don’t forget!’

We smile and nod, but the moment she moves on to the next group, Steph clutches her head in her hands and groans as though her best friend has died.

Kealiboga looks completely blank. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ she mouths at me over the top of Steph’s head.

‘It’s her diet,’ I sigh. ‘Diets and Chelsea buns don’t exactly go together.’

A sound like a sob issues from Steph.

Okay – time for an intervention.

I put my arm around Steph’s shoulders and begin to speak in a low, careful voice.

‘Now listen to me,’ I say compellingly. ‘This doesn’t have to be the end. It really doesn’t. Look at me, Steph. Come on … look at me.’

She lifts her head out of her hands and raises red-rimmed eyes to mine. ‘It doesn’t?’ she asks hopefully.

‘Of course not!’

‘You mean … I can have a Chelsea bun? Just one?’

‘Well … no,’ I say, consideringly. ‘I don’t think I would really recommend a Chelsea bun to anyone on day-one of a diet. Especially not South Beach or the Zone. No, what I was going to say was this. I’ve got an emergency stash of protein bars in my room. I stocked up at Dischem before I left Joburg. There’s one that is actually called ‘Chocolate Chelsea Bun’ flavour. How amazing is that? It’s like it was meant to be. And it only contains two net carbs. You eat that with your tea tonight and it’ll be just like the real thing.’

‘Really? You’d do that for me?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ Kealiboga explodes. ‘Eat the bloody Chelsea bun and buy a bigger size in clothes. That’s what I do. And I don’t want to rub it in or anything, but I am the only one of us that has a boyfriend, remember?’

We stare at her in amazement, trying to get our heads around this alien philosophy.

‘Just think about it for a minute,’ she says. ‘The only one of our group who eats whatever she likes is the only one who is actually in a relationship. Doesn’t that tell you something? Guys don’t like skinny girls. They like girls with an appetite. For all sorts of things.’

There is a beat of silence. Then Steph turns back to me.

‘Only two net carbs you say? Which sugar alcohols does it contain?’

******

Okay. So maybe I wasn’t being completely honest with Steph.

Eating a Chocolate Chelsea Bun flavoured protein bar is not ‘just like the real thing.’ Not even close.

Protein bars promise a lot more than they deliver. What they promise is chocolate-flavoured bliss. What they deliver is flatulence-inducing cardboard.

It’s ten past nine in the evening and practically everyone in res has turned out for the Chelsea buns. Most of the girls are watching a Blind Date show on TV and totally slagging off the male contestants. The rest of us are sitting in a corner chatting. Steph is nibbling at her protein bar with an expression on her face that tells me it’s not quite living up to expectations. Still, it’s got to be better than sipping tea while the rest of us tuck into buns. Kealiboga is on her fourth bun and I’m just finishing off my first.

First and only.

Already the starving lion inside me is starting to stir irritably.

‘Is that it?’ he seems to be saying. ‘One measly bun? Why can’t I have four like Kealiboga? Go on a diet tomorrow, but give me another bun now.’

I’m thinking of giving him a name. Simba, perhaps. Anyway, I’m not listening to him.

‘I’ve been thinking about your baby-sitting dilemma,’ Kealiboga says through a huge mouthful of bun. ‘You’re asking people to pay a fortune for something they know nothing about. They need to see you in action. You need to prove to them that they’ll be getting value for money.’

‘Baby-sitting isn’t really something you can demonstrate,’ Soraya Govender points out. ‘I mean – it’s not like some new miracle vacuum cleaner, is it? Trinity can’t exactly go knocking on doors offering to clean people’s carpets for free.’

‘No … I suppose not.’ Kealiboga looks a bit downcast.

‘No wait!’ I say suddenly. ‘She’s right. I’ve been expecting people to take me on trust. And let’s face it – why should they? I need to think of some way of demonstrating my skills to the public.’

‘But how?’

‘I don’t know how. I just think it’s a good idea.’

The tiniest beginning of a plan is starting to form in my head. I don’t want to talk about it yet in case I jinx it. It’s either the dumbest idea I’ve ever had (and I’ve had some really dumb ideas) or one of the cleverest. I just need to think it through.

There’s some kind of commotion happening on the other side of the common room. We all turn to look.

The Blind Date show has finished and the girls have moved on to the controversial subject of the vacant room on our floor. It’s turning into a real point of contention.

Just over a month ago, one of the second-year girls suddenly decided that varsity was for the birds and ran off to Israel. Apparently she had a boyfriend who was picking fruit on a kibbutz. She decided she couldn’t live without him another moment and went over to join him.

No great loss.

But the really interesting part was that her room suddenly became vacant. Her large, north-facing, corner room. These are normally only given to second- and third-year girls because they’re so much nicer than the ordinary rooms. They’re bigger, warmer and lighter. The ceilings are higher, and they have a lot more cupboard space.

Well, you can just imagine how some of the girls behaved when they realised that this room was up for grabs. Sneaking into the warden’s flat at all hours for private little chats. Bringing her cups of tea while she was studying. Plying her with goodies from home.

I happen to know that Tyler Valkin even tried to bribe her with a spa day in East London. And if she claims that she saw me going into Jasmine’s flat with a Crabtree & Evelyn gift basket, it’s a total lie. I just happened to get the date of her birthday wrong, that’s all.

By four months.

And, okay, maybe I did send her a three-page letter of motivation setting out all the reasons why the room should rightfully go to me, but so what? I can’t help it if I’ve got more stuff than the other girls. It just makes sense that I need the bigger room.

The commotion has died down now, but I can still see girls chattering excitedly. Jasmine must finally have made up her mind. She must have decided who gets the room.

‘Oh, God,’ Steph groans.

‘What?’

‘Look over there.’

I follow the direction of her gaze and see Tyler making her way towards us. She is wearing a huge, smug smile on her face. She looks like the cat that got the cream.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Steph mutters. ‘Jasmine gave her the room. But why? Why her?’

Tyler comes to stand in front of us, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Well … none of us got it!’ she announces happily.

‘None of us?’ I echo. ‘So what are you looking so pleased about then?’

‘I can handle not getting it myself – just as long as they didn’t give it to one of you guys.’

‘So who did get it?’ Steph asks.

We all lean forward avidly. This has been hanging over us for weeks.

‘Some new girl,’ Tyler shrugs. ‘I think she’s from Joburg. Jasmine says she’s moving in tonight.’

‘Oh, right. That must be what all the noise is about.’

We’ve been vaguely aware of some kind of uproar going on in the background for a while now. Someone has been clattering up and down the back stairs, with lots of shouting and heavy dragging noises. The new girl must be moving in already.

‘Hey, Trinity,’ Steph says, nudging me. ‘If she’s from Joburg, maybe you know her.’

‘Yes … maybe,’ I agree kindly. ‘You never know.’

Mentally I’m rolling my eyes. Honestly! Just because she grew up in some one-horse dorp in KZN, Steph thinks I should know every single person who comes from Joburg. I’ve tried to explain the concept of three million people to her, but it doesn’t seem to sink in. And the funny thing is I do know a lot of the Joburg people on campus, which Steph thinks just proves her right.

There’s one of those lulls in the conversation where everyone pauses for breath at the same time. Now we can hear the commotion more clearly. Someone is definitely moving in. Someone who is in a pretty foul mood, to judge by all the shouting and screaming.

Then, as clear as a bell, I hear a familiar, high-pitched voice calling shrilly to someone at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Be careful, Daddy!’ the voice says impatiently. ‘You’re going to drop that!’

I freeze in my seat.

No.

No way!

Icy fingers are dancing up and down my spine. There’s a cold feeling at the back of my neck. It can’t be. It absolutely, one hundred percent, cannot be …

Tell us: Do you know who the girl is moving in?