2

‘How do you know that’s you?’ Chrissie had snorted the night before, when I read it out to her from the Situations Vacant column, tucked alongside the adverts for cheap flights all over the world, which is what I was saving up for. ‘It sounds like an old people’s home.’

‘Either that, or a massage parlour.’ I was already regretting telling her.

‘Could be. It’s near Shepherd Market, after all. That area used to be a hookers’ haunt, you know. Maybe it still is. But with a name like Club Crème, this place could just as easily be a cookery school. But you can’t cook, Suki. You can barely type, you’ve been sacked from virtually every job you’ve ever had, you’ve spent the last year doing what, lolling around in the sunshine being bankrolled by some rich prince –’

‘He wasn’t really a prince, but we all called him that because he looked and acted like one. And I wasn’t lolling around all the time. I was helping train his string of horses.’

‘Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.’ Chrissie had a great line in barbed comments. ‘I suppose that was a step up from modelling trainers in Rio de Janeiro.’

‘And swimwear,’ I protested. ‘They did take pictures of more than just my feet, though it took a lot of persuading, and I wouldn’t let them shoot above the shoulders.’

‘I don’t know why not. It’s not such a bad face, when you’re scrubbed up, and you’d have made more money that way. Honestly, girl. The only job you haven’t been sacked from,’ Chrissie went on sternly, ‘was mucking out stables at that Lord Whatsit’s stately home.’

‘And there’s a very good reason why I wasn’t sacked,’ I said preening myself at the memory.

‘Why? Shagging the boss, were you? Really, Suki  . . .’

‘They begged me to stay. I was the best they’d ever had, actually. And you can take that how you like. So there you are!’ I interrupted her triumphantly. ‘If that catalogue of achievement doesn’t make me a versatile person, then I don’t know what does.’

‘You might call it versatile. I call it unreliable.’

We faced each other over our wine glasses. We were sitting out on her roof terrace, even though it was a cool autumn evening. A plane lifted heavily into the London sky and, as always, I craned my neck to imagine where it was going, who was on board, how hot it would be when they got there  . . .

‘How about being an air hostess?’ I ventured. ‘Or flight attendant, as it’s called now. That’s something I’ve never tried.’ I took a deep slug of wine and wandered across the terrace to peer over the little parapet at the world below. A tube train rumbled out of Earls Court station below us, making the house shake.

‘You don’t look the part,’ Chrissie said as she tilted her head to examine me. ‘You’d never fit the bill. Admittedly, I can’t remember what colour your hair is naturally –’

‘Mouse, I think they call it –’

‘But it never used to be so red or so long. No use hiding it under that beret. You look like an onion seller in that tatty T-shirt and torn jeans. You’re not on the continent now, you know –’

‘Oh, God, Chrissie, I wish I was. I wish I could get this travel bug out of my system,’ I sighed, breathing in the city fumes. Then I wagged my finger at her. ‘You should have visited me out there. Why didn’t you?’

Chrissie pursed her lips, and I wanted to kick her. If I resembled an onion seller, she looked like a Dresden shepherdess: little legs crossed, blonde curls tightly arranged over her small head, perfect fingernails curled round her wine glass – in fact, she would make a perfect flight attendant. But the perfume business seemed to suit her. She liked smothering her naturally wicked little face with heavy pink foundation, accentuating her blue eyes with sparkly shadow until she looked innocent, hiding the sharp teeth and sharper tongue under perfectly applied, all-day moisturising lipstick. Most of all, she liked the uniform that the grand department store made her wear for strutting around the fragrant marble floor of her domain.

‘You know why,’ she replied at last. ‘I’m far too busy. I’ve a career to pursue, and a sexy new fiancé to keep an eye on. Anyway, you were moving in very louche circles. All that champagne, all those pool parties  . . . I couldn’t possibly have visited you, even if I knew where you were. I was worried I’d –’

‘Like it too much? You’re just jealous that I’ve been a lady of leisure all this time. Come on, Chrissie, you can take that poker out of your bum and stop looking at me as if I’m something you trod in. I’ve known you since before you lost your cherry. I was there when you lost your cherry, come to think of it, with Sammy Smithson and Sammy Smithson’s brother. Behind the Odeon, wasn’t it? Oh God, I remember now. We’d just been to see Nine-and-a-half Weeks and you were gagging for it. Any Tom, Dick or Harry would have done. But you needed both the Smithson brothers to do it.’

‘I can barely remember,’ she sniffed.

I shook with laughter, and some pigeons flew off the wall and flapped away over the railway line.

‘It was better than anything they were showing on screen that day,’ I persisted, amused at her discomfort. ‘You were so hot. Your PVC miniskirt was up round your waist before you could say “Packet of three” and you were wrapped round Sammy Smithson like he was a lamppost.’

‘Well, he was as tall and strong as one,’ Chrissie couldn’t resist enlightening me. She tugged at her tight skirt. ‘And hung like a donkey.’

‘His brother and I were supposed to be the lookout, and I couldn’t believe it when Tommy Smithson got stuck in there as well. Abandoned his position as lookout, scuttled up and took you from behind, as I recall, while Sammy had you up against the wall. You were known as the Smithson sandwich after that.’

‘I never!’

‘All lanky legs and arms flailing like a windmill, until you all three crashed over into the dustbins and the manager of the cinema came flying out to see what the commotion was.’

‘Flailing like a windmill. That’s not very nice,’ Chrissie said, desperately trying to retain a stern expression. ‘But you would say that. Always ridiculing sex and romance, though I’m sure you’re addicted to it really. Actually, I thought it was a very beautiful encounter. All that teenage cheek and energy. Don’t get that these days with Jeremy, sadly. He’s always too tired. Ooh, they were like animals, those Smithsons. Wouldn’t stop. I didn’t want them to stop. They had my feet right off the ground, lifting me like I was a doll. I was weightless. Everything faded away except what they were doing to me. You know. That one little part of me was all I could concentrate on. I became that one little part.’

Chrissie’s eyes were glittering under the sparkling eyeshadow. ‘But what a way to go. And there they were, the Smithson brothers; they had me helpless. All I could do was let them shove me back and forth between them with their thrusting while this wild fire built up inside me  . . .’

‘I remember, I remember. God, I wish I hadn’t reminded you  . . .’

‘Then the pair of them were grunting in my ears, but I liked it, I liked that they were brutes. And then we were all coming together, hammer and tongs. Wow! My first time.’

‘Enough! I shouldn’t have started this topic,’ I said. I held my hands over my ears. ‘A sensational encounter it may have been, but pretty damned acrobatic, too. I never knew a girl had so many orifices.’

Chrissie wriggled on her chair, flushing red.

‘Chrissie, you’d love living abroad. That lifestyle is so totally up your alley, and you know it.’ I wasn’t going to let it go. ‘What would your perfume bosses say if they knew how you got a taste for the rough stuff? Their monocles would drop out if they knew what you did when you were bunking off college.’

Chrissie was chilling. I could see a smile tugging at her lips.

‘They might congratulate me on having such a sharp business head on my shoulders, even aged twenty,’ she replied.

‘Yeah,’ I smirked. ‘More beautiful encounters. Enticing rich men into your mum’s house when she was out, promising them a trip to heaven in return for shopping vouchers, never taking cash so you could never call yourself a tart.’

‘And they never called themselves punters, did they? I got several wardrobes full of lovely clothes. Holidays. Cars. Even a job or two. Set me up for life, that did.’ Chrissie stretched her legs out in front of her and wiggled her neat ankles. ‘In more ways than one.’

‘Best not to remind your Jeremy that’s how you met,’ I ventured and she shot me a filthy look.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she flashed, lowering her feet again and pouring another glass of wine. ‘We’re a respectable couple, Jeremy and I.’

‘Of course you are,’ I soothed. Then I shrugged, teasing her. ‘Not that I’ve met the wonderful Jeremy yet. But still, with that kind of history, you can’t criticise me for being restless all the time. You were far more outrageous than me back then.’

‘Maybe, but that was back then. All the cheek of the devil at that age. I’m not as adventurous as you, Suki,’ Chrissie replied thoughtfully. ‘Not really. I know I’m safer in my little world, while you  . . . you were always the tomboy, always wanting to spread your wings.’

‘Back then you were the one that the guys were after,’ I said and shrugged. ‘They didn’t interest me at all. I was too busy looking for a higher tree to climb.’

‘I used to think you were gay, you know.’ Chrissie paused to give me the chance to confirm or deny. ‘Are you?’

I tried to look solemn for a moment, as if she’d struck a chord. What a lark it would be to throw her off the scent, and then try to live up to the lie. But I couldn’t.

‘I used to wonder about that, too,’ I admitted after I’d given up the fight to keep a straight face. ‘But it was only because I never fancied any of the boys. I couldn’t just spread ’em for any old jock. Not like some people I know.’

‘Oi! Less of your cheek. And I’m not like that at all. Go on. After all this time?’ Chrissie wanted to know. ‘Are you still the tomboy who thinks boys are stupid?’

I drained my glass and looked away over the city. Another tube train rattled and vibrated below us. The sky was inky now, but no stars penetrated the smog. The bright headlights of circling aircraft were the only sparks piercing the thick cloud.

‘No. I like boys, don’t worry. The prince saw to that. I guess I’m still a bit of a tomboy, yeah. But there’s plenty of room for guys in this tomboy’s life, I can assure you. Anything goes when you’re under the hot, hot sun.’

‘No one in particular, though?’

‘Nah. It turned out the prince had too many wives already.’

We laughed again.

‘We’ll have to find you a man now you’re back in town.’ Chrissie pointed the wine bottle towards me like a microphone, as if she was about to interview me. ‘But who? And where?’

Chrissie’s phone started to ring. She ran indoors to answer it, while I pondered her question. Who, and where indeed? Compared with where I’d just come from, where all the men, and women, lay about on sun loungers all day or skimmed the blue waves on their monoskis, where everyone was glossy, tanned, bright eyed and rolling in money, London seemed, in the few days I’d spent back here, full of pale, uninteresting, anxious-looking types scurrying along the pavements muffled up in anoraks.

‘Sorry about that,’ Chrissie called, trotting back to the French window. ‘Just work, reminding me that I’m heading up a big perfume buyers’ conference and party in some country house on New Year’s Eve. Now, where were we?’

‘Manhunting.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. She surveyed me in the doorway, unable to stop her lips pressing disdainfully at the sight. ‘I wonder if it would help if we got you out of those clothes? And if you lost that cocky, mannish manner you’ve had since we were kids?’

‘Hasn’t stopped me getting what I want out in the Middle East.’

‘Maybe not, girl. But it’s autumn in England. Remember what that’s like? You can’t dazzle them with your polka-dot bikini and your horse-breaking skills in the middle of Piccadilly, can you? Men here expect more than that. Because you have to wear more clothes here in London, you need to work it in other ways. Twirl that curl round your finger, stroke your leg as if you love it, make your eyes big and sparkling –’

I raised one eyebrow as she acted out her seduction technique. She frowned, and stopped.

‘Come on, Suki. You’re capable of being feminine when you put your mind to it. You used to go all fluid and dreamy when you were keen on some older man or other, or when you were listening to music, or planning some new adventure.’ She came and sat beside me on the wall. ‘But you were always pretty secretive. I was the one who was always going on about sex and boys. You never did.’

‘I’ll tell you what I got up to out there. One day.’

‘It’ll be like prizing open a clam. Just like it used to be.’

‘Now. Talking about getting me out of these clothes –’

‘Don’t get saucy now,’ Chrissie said and giggled.

‘No. I mean getting out of these rags and into something suitable for this interview tomorrow.’

‘I must say, I would have expected you to come back from overseas decked out in jewels and finery, not all your old gear from way back,’ Chrissie remarked. I could tell she was disappointed that there was to be no more sex talk. I just didn’t feel like obliging her. I’d left a pretty wild scene behind me, one pretty wild man in particular, just because I was restless, just because I had itchy feet and just because I’d run out of money. But now I was back in staid old London, I was beginning to regret my hasty decision.

‘This gentlemen’s club,’ I said and sighed, looking again at the piece of paper. ‘I need to make an effort, I suppose.’

‘Of course you do. Get positive.’ Chrissie took a sip of wine, and choked as she started to giggle again. ‘Think there’ll be any tasty men there?’

‘I doubt it. They’ll all be old codgers with handlebar moustaches and gout. They’ll all be slumped in their leather armchairs, hidden behind the Telegraph and demanding port and cigars. Can I hack that? I doubt it. But I just need to earn some money, Chrissie, so I can take off again. Now. Will you help me, or not? I need to borrow some clothes.’ I plucked at my frayed Levis. ‘What you got, Chris?’

‘Just let me toss the salad,’ she said, jumping to her feet and going back inside. I remembered that she, at least, could cook. ‘Are you staying for supper?’

‘In a hurry, but thanks. I’ll meet Jeremy another time.’ My stomach rumbled. Chrissie was a brilliant cook, and I was dying for a square meal. But I also wanted to be on my own for a while. I was still horribly disorientated, and her perky confidence just made it worse.

It was getting chilly, and I followed her indoors, scooping the wine bottle and glasses off the terrace table.

‘Always so restless,’ Chrissie complained, energetically chopping some spring onions with violent jerks of her elbow and dropping them into a complicated marinade. I could tell she was pissed off. ‘Why the rush?’

There was no reason. I just didn’t want to play gooseberry with her and her darling new man.

‘Nothing riveting,’ I said, truthfully. ‘Just need to settle into my lovely bed and breakfast before the dreaded interviews and flat-hunting tomorrow.’

‘I’ve told you. You can stay here. I’m sure Jeremy wouldn’t mind.’ There was a tiny pause. ‘He loves having new people around.’

I hugged her, shaking my head. ‘Just take me to your wardrobe, and I’ll be gone.’

It didn’t take long. We nearly came to blows as she tried to squeeze me firstly into a tomato-coloured sack-shaped dress, and then into a green ensemble which looked like our old school uniform. We were just coming to an uneasy agreement on an outfit when the buzzer went.

‘That’s Jeremy, warning me of his arrival. He says it’s so I can chuck out the toy boys.’

Chrissie patted her already immaculate curls and a pink flush of pleasure went up her neck as she waited for her fiancé to come up in the lift. I grabbed my rucksack and the Harvey Nichols bag stuffed with the borrowed suit. Chrissie had thrown in a silk blouse, some stockings and a pair of shoes. I gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘I’ll leave you lovebirds together. I’ll be back with the clothes in a day or so, Chrissie.’ I pushed my way out of the flat, and took the stairs down to the street.