Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend Page 10

  I put on my poshest voice. I don’t know why, it helps me sound louder and like I really mean things.

  ‘God, girls, you both look gorgeous,’ I said, putting on a ludicrous ‘fashion’ accent. ‘You both look like twins to me. Why don’t you play it like twins and let me see how it goes - I want to take a few Polaroids.’ And I took out my little camera.

  Both the girls’ eyes widened with excitement. Well, I hadn’t said I was anyone important, had I? Kelly shrugged off her pink fake-fur gilet.

  ‘Which one’s the oldest twin?’ asked Grace.

  ‘You know,’ I said to Julius out of the corner of my mouth, ‘I’m also pretty good at cleaning up.’

  ‘I don’t need—’

  I kept my best card till last. ‘And keeping my mouth shut.’

  Julius heaved a big sigh. ‘Then I guess you’ve started, love,’ said Julius.

  I stopped off at the off-licence and bought some cans of something with Greek lettering on that I figured must be beer to take home in celebration.

  ‘You never thought I’d do it,’ I said to Eck when I told him I had a proper job in photography.

  ‘I absolutely did,’ he said and raised his can to me then drank it.

  ‘Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. I’d never bought beer before.

  Cal sniffed it. ‘Is it . . . is it fizzy ouzo?’

  Eck stared at me incredulously. ‘Were you raised in a barn? On the moon? A moon barn?’

  ‘Here’s a hypothetical question,’ mused Cal annoyingly. ‘I wonder what it would be like to have never had to buy your own beer before.’ And he shot me a suspicious look.

  We were eating lemon chicken out of a silver-foil tin. This wasn’t the light tempura I was used to in smart Japanese restaurants. It was thick and heavy, smothered in batter, with a viscous sauce that clung to your teeth and made them ache. It was delicious.

  ‘So where exactly are you working?’ said Cal.

  ‘It’s a photographic studio. I’m in photography. Ergo, this is the job for me,’ I said.

  ‘What kind of photography though? Babies? Fruit? Cats?’

  ‘Uh, more . . . catalogue.’

  ‘Catalogue? Like underwear? Like, Page Three?’ said James excitedly.

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  For the first time, I had stunned them into silence. I felt quite proud of myself. Until James said, ‘Lovely jugglies! Ooherr! Fantastic!’

  ‘So posh - so down with the Page Three mob,’ said Cal thoughtfully. ‘You are a wonder, Cinders. Though they do always say the posh birds are the dirtiest.’

  I ignored him. ‘I’m not actually doing anything like that,’ I said. ‘I’m an assistant. I get coffee and fix lights and hopefully I’ll work up to doing stuff for myself.’

  ‘Do you have to, you know. Spray the girls to make them wet or anything,’ said James, as if this was a completely normal topic of conversation and he was only being polite.

  ‘No!’ I said. This wasn’t strictly true. That very afternoon there had been a bit of T-shirt soppage. Kelly had been very unhappy.

  ‘Well, this is stupid, isn’t it?’ she’d said. ‘ It’s going to give me goosebumps. Blokes will be popping their corks over a chicken.’

  Hot water, however, didn’t have quite the same effect in terms of making the nipples pop out, so cold it was. I’d started to learn on the job already.

  ‘It’s all entirely respectable,’ I said, mimicking what I’d heard Julius tell Kelly’s mother when she rang up to check on her. ‘All the great artists liked to picture beautiful women.’

  ‘With their knockers flailing in the wind. I heartily approve, Cinders,’ said Cal. ‘Do you never feel like joining in?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have you,’ said James. ‘Not enough embonpoint . . .’

  ‘You really are a bit of a soft porn expert, aren’t you, James?’ said Cal. ‘Not enough bromide in the tea?’

  ‘Do they really still put mucky pictures up in lockers?’ I asked, interested.

  ‘The enlisted men put pictures up in their lockers,’ said James. ‘I’m an officer. But I do inspect the lockers.’

  ‘Who’s your favourite?’ I said. ‘Maybe I can, you know, get her autograph.’

  ‘With a big “x” on the paper,’ said Cal.

  James gulped. ‘Really?’

  ‘You start washing up your own coffee mug,’ I said, ‘and with this party coming up . . . you never know what might happen.’

  And that night all the boys did their own washing up. Even Wolverine licked out his bowl.

  Two weeks later I was walking down the road in the rain. I’d had a stupid dream that Daddy was downstairs in the kitchen, teasing Esperanza and trying to sneak an extra croissant for breakfast before Gail smacked his wrists.

  The flat was looking much better. I’d taken down the kitchen curtains and washed them. Unfortunately I washed them with one of my pairs of knickers so they were now a hot pink, but I figured it gave them a party atmosphere.

  Cal, after what I liked to imagine as his hugely flirtatious chats with me, seemed very engrossed in this new girl who’d been over a couple of times. I’d realised the Spanish girl was a one-off when a parade of lovelies had marched through the door, but this one had made it back twice now - a record. He’d better not be falling in love with her, I thought mutinously. Not when I was right here. Interestingly, the girls he came home with seemed to have nothing in common, apart from the fact that they were all spectacularly beautiful. I didn’t know how good a sculptor he was, but he certainly had an eye for the female form. The current girl was petite and Chinese, with fine features, perfect skin and nice manners. The old me would have probably given her stink-eye. The new me was absolutely, definitely not someone who even looked at other people’s boyfriends, so instead I made her tea and told her she looked good in Cal’s old shirts. Which, annoyingly, she did. Bum. Two cute boys in the flat and I was getting nowhere.

  And I got my first real pay cheque! OK, that wasn’t quite the thrill I was hoping for. It would barely cover brunch at The Wolseley and wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in Sephora. It was a paltry, disgusting amount, most of which I’d immediately had to hand over to Eck. But it was all I had, for now.

  I hadn’t called Gail. I didn’t want it misinterpreted as begging. And, secretly, deep down, I wanted her to be impressed with me when I returned with a proper job, a proper life. Well, a somewhat hand-to-mouth life, to be honest, and probably not the healthiest, we realised, the third night we spent necking the filthy fizzy ouzo (actually after the first four tins it wasn’t that bad), but nonetheless it was mine. I had sent Esperanza a postcard, though, now I knew she’d be thinking about me and worrying. I wanted her to know I was all right.

  Hurray, hurray, hurray! I thought when I got paid. At least this meant one really good thing: no more cleaning! I was going to warn the boys sternly that if they mucked this place up again I was going to come in their rooms at night and kick them sharply in the shins, but from now on we were going to share . . . then Eck apologetically asked me for my contribution to the electricity, heating, gas and water. Water? Really? The stuff that comes out the sky? I said, and Eck said yes, and I said with a sigh, OK, let me just go fill a pail with that very expensive water and start mopping floors with it, and he said, all right then. And then when I got down the hall he called after me, ‘Thank you.’ Which cheered me up. A little.

  So I was slightly in my own little world walking down the rainy street, when I heard a car pull over behind me. I was used to being shouted at on the street now, whether by builders, drunks, schoolchildren or just bog-standard crazy people. It was the life of the Old Kent Road. Builders shouted at girls; old ladies shouted at bus drivers; motorists and van drivers shouted at each other; cabbies shouted at cyclists; schoolkids shouted at kids from other schools; and a few people shouted at themselves. At first I’d found it a bit lairy
and off-putting. Now I didn’t even notice, or if I did, thought it gave quite a nice sense of community. Nobody shouted at their neighbours where I lived; you didn’t know them, and they were off in Dubai anyway.

  So I didn’t really notice when someone kept shouting my name; I was wondering if there’d be any free newspapers left on the bus, and whether I could get Wolverine to stop sharpening his nails on the sofa, and, at the back of my mind, probably, a little bit, thinking about my dad. So the voice was quite exasperated by the time I heard, ‘SOPHIE!’ I stopped short and turned around.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ came a voice. The car, a silver BMW, slithered to a halt on a double red line, causing much shouting and beeping from the vehicles behind.

  Utterly immune to all of that, Philly and Carena stepped out of the car.

  ‘Your maid told us!’ said Philly. ‘But we didn’t believe it! Old Kent Road!’

  I knew I shouldn’t have sent Esperanza that postcard.

  ‘I mean, OH MY GOD.’

  Yeah, yeah. Philly’s parents were from Surbiton; she wasn’t exactly the novice to squalor she liked to pretend.

  Carena was more circumspect, slowly raising her huge Chanel glasses from the tilt of her tiny nose. She was wearing a pair of incredibly tight, jet black jeans that somehow didn’t look tarty at all, and a black floaty printed Chloe top. She looked sensational. I realised that I was still wearing my old Juicy tracksuit bottoms. Well, it was only because I was going to work . . . well, really, it was because none of my jeans would button up any more, and the weather wasn’t good enough for dresses. And I hadn’t had my legs waxed in weeks. I suppose I could shave them myself, but I was a bit scared and the cheap shop’s razors looked lethal.

  Plus, who cared? I’d have dressed up for Cal, but he always had his head buried in some bird’s cleavage. Eck might give me the odd yearning glance, if I wasn’t imaging things, but he still had some bleach-related residual anxiety. And as for the studio, well, surrounded by that many images of scantily clad womanhood, I was quite happy to have my trackie bottoms on all the time. Something that completely disguised the shape of my rump made me feel more secure. All of these thoughts ran through my head because my heart was pounding a mile a minute.

  A huge tow truck came up behind the BMW and started honking loudly. Carena turned round and gave it a serious stare, but the truck driver was unfazed and was shouting, ‘Get your fucking scrawny arse out of my fucking lane, you fucking bunch of fucking cunts.’

  Philly gazed at me, her eyes wide, as if this was the biggest fun she could imagine.

  Carena stopped in front of me and lowered her huge eyes. I stared at her. Everything I wanted to say, everything I wanted to ask . . . but before I could start, she jumped in.

  ‘Sophie,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to my therapist and he says I must make a full and frank apology, and that you must accept my apology and make amends if you are to find your own happiness. ’

  This took me back so much I couldn’t think straight. What was I supposed to say to that? Uh, thanks, someone else’s idiot therapist that I’ve never met?

  I thought about all the conversations I’d had with Carena in my head, where she would be genuinely prostrate with sadness, because she’d ruined her life and her friend’s life with her horrible selfishness. I wanted her to be struck with the horror of what she’d done, and utterly miserable. I didn’t want her to look like she was running errands for her therapist.

  Also in my imaginary meetings I’d always, always looked rather amazing and Carena had been looking lumpy and wearing sweatpants.

  Strangely, it was Carena who’d hurt me far more than Rufus could. She’d known me for longer, after all. She knew what he meant to me, she knew where my insecurities were, and she had, Jolene style, taken him just because she could. Whereas my lovely, lazy boy had obviously never really been mine to begin with. I gave my heart an experimental prod. Was it possible I was over him?

  ‘Get in the car! Get in!’ yelped Philly. ‘We’re all going to get knifed.’

  Seeing as the honking of the truck was getting deafening, and we were all standing there getting rained on, I didn’t seem to have much alternative.

  Still without saying anything, I got into the car.

  The smell of fresh leather was intoxicating; I realised it really had been a while. In fact, I hadn’t travelled in a car at all since I moved south of the river. It was damp buses all the way.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ said Philly.

  ‘New Cross,’ I said before I could help myself. Then I cursed. I should have stuck to name, rank, serial number.

  ‘What are you doing in New Cross? Have you got a J- O - B?’ said Philly. Previously she’d been the only one of us who’d had anything like a proper job and really resented us for it. She sounded absolutely thrilled.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a job,’ I said stiffly. ‘I have a job. I work now. People work. Work happens. Et cetera.’

  Philly found somewhere to park the car and I reluctantly took them to my local greasy spoon for a coffee. There weren’t any Starbucks round here. But you could get a cup of tea and a sausage sandwich for a pound-seventy.

  ‘’Allo, cara!’ shouted the friendly guy behind the counter when we walked in. He was always nice to me and complimented my blonde hair.

  ‘I see you know everyone there is to know, as ever,’ said Philly. Was she trying to be nice or horrid? It was hard to tell.

  We got our teas - Carena asked for just hot water, then sat running a very clean finger suspiciously round the rim of the mug instead of drinking it. We took a corner table. The smoking ban may be pretty well instituted everywhere else, but here there were suspicious smells and butts. Maybe they were just left over from the last time it was cleaned. They were very good sausage sandwiches though.

  ‘Well?’ I said finally.

  Carena put on an appropriately sad face. She looked like a naughty nun.

  ‘I just . . . I’m so sorry, Sophie. We just got so carried away.’

  ‘You don’t get carried away,’ I said. ‘You always know exactly what you’re doing.’

  ‘I didn’t . . . I mean, you hadn’t been together that long.’

  ‘You knew very well how much I liked him. After all the twats I had to put up with, I’d finally met a nice guy, so you took him.’

  ‘Well, he was obviously there for the taking,’ said Carena, looking stung.

  ‘I’m sure he still is,’ I said. ‘Hope you have him on a short leash. Or did you get bored with him and throw him out?’

  She didn’t answer that. Oh God. So much worse had happened. I thought about how much I’d missed having my friends at the funeral. My choice was clearly quite simple. Either swallow my bitterness and have someone to talk to, or hate them forever. Or, of course, pretend to forgive them but still secretly hate them forever. And have someone to talk to. Maybe that one.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said finally. ‘He was a total loser anyway.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Carena announced dramatically at exactly the same moment, ‘We’re getting MARRIED!!!’

  Philly screamed excitedly next to her.

  I turned over the timescale in my head. What had it been, weeks? Months, I supposed. I had really started to lose track of time. God.

  ‘Now, don’t scream, Philly,’ said Carena. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. The excitement just overcame me for a moment there.’

  ‘Really,’ I said.

  ‘I realise this must come as a shock to you.’

  Uh, d’uh. My insides were telling me I wasn’t as half over him as I’d hoped. Oh God, oh God, oh God. He had been ready to propose. Just not to me!

  ‘Well, I’ve had other things on my mind,’ I said stiffly.

  Carena and Philly immediately assumed the ‘Sad Face’ I remembered so well from my childhood.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your dad,’ said Carena, although she sounded a lot more convincing about this than she had about Rufus. ‘I really was. I wish . . . I would ha
ve come to the funeral.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t,’ I said briskly. I couldn’t talk about that now.

  There was a long pause at the table. A long pause. I wanted to wait till I felt I’d made my point, but it was getting ridiculous. And I was going to be incredibly late for work.

  ‘So you’ve tamed Rufus!’ I said finally. ‘Amazing, well done you!’

  ‘And they said it couldn’t be done,’ said Carena, her colour returning.

  ‘Without faking a pregnancy,’ I said. ‘I’m kidding, OK.’

  I made a superhuman effort to swallow all my gall. I might be talking to Carena again, but I’d never be one of her little lapdogs.