Bright Girls

“Why do you live with your granny? Are your parents dead?” I asked. Having some experience of this subject myself I felt entitled to ask.

“No, they’re in Telford,” he replied. “Though some might say that amounts to the same thing.” The twitch gave way to a quick smile. “I’m only staying with my gran while I’m at university because it’s cheaper than renting. Plus, I can keep an eye on her. Sort of”

From above came the tripping sound of footsteps on the stairs and presently Rachel bounced in without troubling to knock.

“I’m ready,” she announced.

She was dressed in a white cropped vest, joggers and trainers. Her hair was tied up in two long plaits. It was positively indecent, I thought, the way she flaunted her health and energy while I was still so pasty and weak.

“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to sound politely interested rather than envious.

“Into town and then to play tennis. Do you want me to bring you anything back? Chocolate?” she wheedled.

“Maybe some mints.” There was a foul, rusty taste in my mouth.

“OK.” Rachel held her hand out. For a moment or two I acted mystified.

“Can I have some of that money…please,” she conceded. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job.”

Still trapped under the duvet by my nakedness I gestured towards my bag on the door handle and watched in dismay as she helped herself to ten, twenty thirty…

“Bye then.”

They sauntered out and a few minutes later I saw their feet passing along the pavement outside. Their mingled laughter floated carelessly down through my open window

I knew this would happen. Rachel would spend all summer swanning around with Adam and I would be left to amuse myself. I had hoped that there might be a brief lull between boyfriends so that we could spend some time together, the way we used to when we were younger, before she became the Beautiful One.

It seemed to happen overnight, the transformation. One day we were building obstacle courses for the guinea pigs, diving for weights at the Marston Ferry pool, French skipping and practising dangerous stunts on our rollerblades, and the next day she woke up with boobs and periods and didn’t want to play any more. She started straightening her hair and wearing thick black eyeliner, and high heels that made her walk like someone with two sprained ankles. She couldn’t bear to be separated from her friends for a minute: as soon as she came in from school, she would throw her bag on the floor and get straight on to MSN to continue the conversation that they’d just been having on the bus. It seemed to me that all of her time was spent in one of three pursuits: tarting herself up for parties, going to parties or exchanging post-party gossip with her mates. These various commitments had crowded me out over the years.

When the first boyfriend came on the scene, it was even worse. She was never in except with Him, unless they’d had a row, in which case she would stay in bed eating biscuits and listening to suicide rock on her iPod and generally suffering until he came crawling back.

Once she’d got a taste for them, she couldn’t seem to do without a boyfriend. Even when she’d been viciously dumped – a rarity this, as Rachel was usually the first to cool off – and she would rage and storm about having had enough of blokes, this high-minded singleness would only last a couple of weeks. Then her phone would start chirping at unsociable hours, a new name would keep cropping up in conversations and she would revive and blossom again. I couldn’t help envying her luck, or whatever it was. I’d never even got close to having a boyfriend and I wasn’t anything like as fussy as Rachel. He didn’t have to be tall or good-looking – just funny and nice and available, but even that, it seemed, was asking the impossible.

If Rachel hadn’t recently split up with the latest specimen – Todd – and wanted to put some distance between them, I doubt she would have agreed to leave Oxford at all. She said she’d tried to let him down gently, but he was obviously much keener on her than she’d realised. Every time she went to the pub or a party there he’d be, moping around looking tragic and making her feel guilty for flirting with other blokes. In short, his refusal to move on was seriously spoiling her fun, to the point that our banishment to Brighton began to seem a convenient solution.

I was secretly pleased that they’d parted because I’d never much liked Todd. Unlike the fit, confident, sporty types she usually went for, he was thin and arty and depressed. On one occasion I had walked in on him in the bathroom because he’d failed to lock the door and caught him peeing in the washbasin, even though there was a perfectly adequate toilet right beside him.

I said, “Whoops, sorry,” and backed out, pretending I hadn’t noticed. After he’d gone, I bleached the basin and threw my flannel in the bin in case it had been within range, but I never told anyone what I’d seen. Not even Rachel. It was too weird and, besides, my critical insights about her boyfriends were seldom well-received. (Once, in a spirit of sisterly solidarity, I’d passed on the information that a boy she was seeing had been at the Penultimate Picture Palace two rows in front of me with a notorious local slapper, and she hadn’t been the least bit grateful.)

After a while I began to wonder whether I had imagined the whole Todd/bathroom episode, or misinterpreted some entirely innocent and hygienic activity But I knew I hadn’t really.

Seven Of Rats and Men (#ulink_343cdf7d-4c75-5430-8a05-333f0a6f4dae)

My gloomy prophecies of romance between Rachel and Adam turned out to be a little premature, as she returned from their outing distinctly unimpressed.

“Men are so competitive,” she grumbled, throwing herself down on my bed, which I had only just vacated. “I’ve hardly played tennis in my life and he’s some sort of county champion, so of course he’s going to win!” Her face was still the colour of corned beef from her exertions on court. “I thought it was going to be a nice, gentle knockabout.”

“What about the rest of the day?”

“Oh, that was all right. We went on the pier and walked down to the marina. I did most of the talking. The only subject that really got him going was computers.”

“Oh. Did you tell him about—”

“No, of course not.” She tutted at my lack of faith in her discretion. “He wouldn’t let me win one point!” she burst out, unable to leave the subject alone. That thrashing had really got to her. “I think he’s just a bit young for me.”

“He’s older than you.”

“Yes, but emotionally. I need a man with more experience…By the way here you are.” She produced a Sainsbury’s bag from her holdall and slung it across to where I was sitting on the window seat. On inspection I found it contained a packet of “Taste-the-difference extra-lean steak mince”.

“What’s this?”

“You said you wanted some mince,” she replied.

I looked at her in disbelief. “I said mints, you stupid troll. Why would I want a lump of raw meat? I’m just getting over food poisoning!”

“I dunno. I thought you might want to make a burger or something.”

“I don’t even eat burgers when I’m well!” I stuffed the plastic box hastily back in the bag – the sight of the oozing, pulped flesh was too much for my delicate guts – and threw it back at Rachel.

“I’m sorry” she laughed remorselessly. “You should speak more clearly. You mumble; that’s your trouble.”

I glared at her.

“Oh, well, no point in wasting it. I’ll make spaghetti Bolognese tonight. Auntie Jackie is the worst cook.” She lowered her voice, remembering just too late our proximity to the kitchen. “I think she must live on baked potatoes.”

A baked potato sounded good to me: bland and fluffy and easily digestible, and not greasy or recently slaughtered.

Rachel stood up and began to prowl around my room in search of diversion, opening and closing the wardrobe and poking about among Auntie Jackie’s ornaments on the mantelpiece.

“What’s she keeping all this stuff for?” she asked, twanging the one remaining string of the double bass. “I mean what’s with the archery target? And this?” She picked up the papier-mâché pig, which was surprisingly light considering its vast girth, and stared into its painted eyes.

“He’s called Gunter. She made him at art college.”

“What are you going to do all day when I’m at out at work?” Rachel asked suddenly, as if I was the one who was bored and restless.

“Have you got a job then?”

“No, not yet. But I will have soon. And then what are you going to do?” Anyone would think she had done nothing but entertain me since we arrived.

“I’ll be fine. I thought I might help Auntie Jackie in the shop.”

“You could get a job of some sort. A paper round or something.”

“I don’t need a job,” I reminded her with a smug smile. “Because I’m not in debt.”

As I said this, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye; a small brown shape with a pink, thread-like tail suddenly shot out from under the double bass, crossed the carpet in a blur and vanished under the door. It was over before either of us could react with the proper squeals of horror: instead, we just blinked at each other in surprise.

“Was that what I think it was?” Rachel said after a pause.