A cousin of mine who once won a minor beauty pageant used to say real beauty requires hard work and discipline. I didn’t truly know what she meant until I go shopping with Britney.

We spend hours looking for the right dress. She tries on what seems like a hundred different outfits in at least thirty shops. She twirls in front of me in dresses that are, quite frankly stunning, and decides that they make her grasshopper long legs look stumpy and fat or her augmented and perfect 32C chest look flat and blah.

She almost bursts into tears because the color of one of them, she believes, makes her glowing teenage skin look washed out. Another classically simple dress gets the ultimate insult.

‘I’d rather wear one of Kanye West’s plain white T-shirts that he has the cheek to sell at $150.00.’

I flash a placating smile, find a broken sweet in my jean’s pocket, slip it into my mouth, and crush it to death between my teeth. Then, just as I am about to tear my hair out with sheer boredom, we go into Couture Couture and Britney finds a mini-dress in Clementine. Even I have to admit this dress is special. It is super-sexy, trendy, and perfect for her body shape. Good, I think we can take a break for a couple of hours before her appointment at the hairdresser, but life is never that easy.

‘Now,’ Britney says, moving again towards the dress rail, ‘we have to find something for you. I think I saw something that might be perfect just now.’

There is absolutely no way I’m buying anything at Couture Couture. Even the tiny dress Britney is swanning around the shop in carries a £695.00 price tag. That’s more than three weeks’ worth of wages to me, and there is no way in hell I’m about to go traipsing around the shops all over again.

‘I have a little black dress. I think I’ll wear that,’ I say trailing behind her.

Britney stops in her tracks, balances her weight on one hip, and looks me up and down. She reminds me of one of the divas in that Real Housewife reality show that Cora likes to watch.

‘What little black dress?’ she asks.

‘You haven’t seen it. I didn’t bother to unpack it.’

She folds her arms across her chest. ‘I have seen it. Isn’t it made out of T-shirt material?’

‘Well, yes, but I can dress it up.’

‘Absolutely not,’ she says imperviously, and turning away from me resumes rifling through the dress racks.

‘Look, even if I do decide to buy something, I definitely can’t afford to get anything from here.’

‘Hmmm …’ she says, ignoring me and moving quickly through the rack.

‘Britney,’ I call, my voice louder and more impatient.

‘You’re not paying for this dress. I am,’ she says without turning around.

I puff air out of my cheeks. ‘It’s really nice of you and everything, but you will not be paying for it, will you? Your Dad will be, and I don’t think he’ll appreciate being forced into buying me such an expensive dress.’

She turns to look at me in surprise. ‘Dad’s not going to mind me buying you a dress. It’s not like it’s every day that Cash comes home and throws a party.’

I shake my head.

‘If you don’t believe me I can call him right now and ask,’ she challenges.

‘That won’t be necessary. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I’d just feel uncomfortable accepting such an expensive dress from my employer.’

‘Think of it as a uniform. You have to come to the party with me and you need an outfit that won’t show me up.’

‘OK, let’s compromise. Maybe we can stop by Topshop or Miss Selfridge and I’ll find something suitable there.’

She wrinkles her nose in disgust. ‘Tori, you don’t understand, do you? Everybody there will be dressed to kill. You might as well come naked instead of a little number from Topshop.’

I stare blankly at her. My mother calls it my owl look.

‘It’s just a dress,’ she says persuasively.

‘Fine.’

‘Good,’ she says with satisfaction, and turns back to the rack. Less than a minute later she yanks something out from the rail. ‘How about this?’ she cries triumphantly.

I stare at it in amazement.

‘It’ll be gorgeous when it’s wet,’ she says, walking towards me.

Wow! I don’t know about it being gorgeous when it’s wet, but it’s awesome dry. I mean, I would never even have considered a zebra print, semi transparent, maxi dress with a plunging neckline and long sleeves, but now that she has pulled it out and is waving it temptingly in front of me, I have to admit she knows her fashion. I take it from her and look at the price tag. An eye-watering £799.00. On sale. Supposedly reduced from £1,399.00.

‘Have you seen the price?’ I whisper, horrified.

‘If you don’t hurry up, we’ll miss my hair appointment,’ she prompts, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

I take the dress from her and bustle into the dressing room. I wriggle out of my clothes and pull the dress over my head. I zip it up and I can quite honestly say I have never worn anything so revealing, sexy, or glamorous before. I feel slinky and sheer, and in a funny sort of way like my grandmother’s favorite movie character, Suzie Wong.

‘Come out then,’ Britney calls.

I step out. ‘How do I look?’

She gives me the critical once over, grins and says, ‘I think I officially hate you.’

‘You don’t think it’s too … er … sexy?’

She comes closer to me. ‘It’ll be tremendously sexy when it gets wet, but that’s the whole point,’ she explains, tilting her head slightly as she adjusts the material around my hips.

I swivel my head to look at the back of the dress. Actually, it’s already tremendously sexy. ‘Are you sure your dad won’t mind?’

‘I have a credit limit. Sparks only start flying when I go over it.’

I smile at her awkwardly. ‘Well, thank you for the dress. It’s very generous of you.’

She looks down at her bare feet, and for a confusing moment she looks young and vulnerable. ‘It’s only a dress. You do a lot for me.’

‘Thank you,’ I say softly.

She raises her eyes to mine and smiles shyly. ‘You’re welcome, Tori. I really like you.’

For a fraction of an instant I can’t bring myself to reciprocate. Then I realize that she’s just a kid. A lonely, rich kid. Telling her I like her won’t be a lie. Sometimes, like now or when she was hanging on to my bathroom door and twerking, I do like her, a lot.

‘Me too,’ I say.

Her smile widens into a massive grin of pure joy. It is infectious and I start grinning back at her too.

‘Are you planning to put your hair up or let it down?’ she asks suddenly.

‘What do you think?’ I ask, bowing to her obvious expertise when it comes to clothes, fashion, and pool parties in the homes of celebrities.

‘Without any doubt, down.’

‘You don’t think that would be too … obvious?’

‘God, no. It’s an asset. I wish my hair was as beautiful as yours. Actually, I wish my everything was as beautiful as yours.’

I frown. ‘I think you’re way cuter than you give yourself credit for.’

‘No,’ she says gloomily. ‘Cash got mum’s lovely coloring and looks and I got dad’s.’

‘I think you’re beautiful, Britney,’ I say sincerely.

She shrugs. ‘You’re hardly going to tell me I’m ugly even if you think so, are you?’

Astonished, I stare at her. ‘Why on earth would you imagine that I think you’re ugly?’

She shrugs again.

‘I don’t think you’re ugly at all. In fact, the opposite. You’re beautiful. People are always telling you that.’

‘Sure they are. Everybody wants to be Cash’s sister’s friend.’ Her voice is husky, almost tearful.

‘That’s not true,’ I deny immediately, but we both know that there is no real conviction in my tone.

She smiles suddenly, a forced stretch of her lips. ‘Never mind. Let’s settle the bill and go get us some killer shoes.’

We pop into Russell & Bromley and Britney gets a pair of mile high platform sparkly shoes and I buy silver stilettos. My shoes come to £120.00 and I insist on paying for them. They are more expensive than what I would normally splash out on a pair of shoes, but what the hell? We only live once!

After buying our bikinis, black for me, and white for Britney, we head off to the hairdressers. While I wait for Britney, the girl from Thailand who does nails comes and asks me if I want to have my nails done. My nails are actually pretty rough looking.

‘I make pretty,’ she says, nodding her head vigorously.

How can anybody resist such an invitation?

‘Oh, go on then,’ I say. A little part of me has started to get excited about this pool party and seeing Cash again.

‘Manicure and pedicure?’ she asks, sensing an easy prey.

‘OK,’ I agree, and she shows me her color swatches.

To be honest she does make both my hands and feet look very pretty. Feeling generous I leave a good tip.

‘Thank you,’ she says with a small nod. She immediately roots around in her basket and carefully presses a small crystal onto my thumbnail and finishes it with a layer of clear varnish.

‘Hmmm … your carriage awaits, Cinderella.’