Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

— Honey, I ain’t even started yet, and I throw my bag over my shoulder and walk out into the night.

Of course, when I get outside I double-back into Sorenson’s yard. I’m crouching under the window, looking at her through the blinds. Sorenson is sat at the computer. She’s gaping at what looks like pictures of fluffy baby animals and it seems she’s crying. Fat loser tears. Well, let her bubble away, but if I see that bitch take that shit out the trash and stuff her face I swear to God I will kick that door in and ram my fingers down her throat till that poison comes up. .

Fuck. . my cell makes a soft purr. I click it onto silent. Sorenson’s heard nothing. Some emails have come in, one is from Sorenson! I skulk out the yard to look at it.

To: kimsangyung@gmail.com; lucypattybrennan@hardass.com

From: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com

Subject: Did You Ever See Anything So Cute?

Kim, Lucy,

This is to cheer you guys up!

Did you ever see anything so cute?

Lena x

The rabid but pitiful bitch has linked me to a website called Cute Overload. It’s all puppies, kittens, bear cubs, hamsters, and bunnies. Judging by the posts on it, everyone is a mentally retarded soccer mom, or a mentally retarded soccer mom in waiting.

I BLINK AWAKE into a mango light that paints the room. The digital display on the clock—9:12—jolts me alert. What the fuck, I never—

I have a client at 10:30!

— shut the front door. .

Heat and mass by my side; a storm of awareness that the bed is co-occupied thuds into my chest. My first dread thought: Sorenson! No, surely not. I turn slowly to look at the slumbering chick next to me; that femme who really liked the taste of pussy and getting fucked good. I went out on a cunt hunt last night, and I hate when I break my own rules and bring a chick back. She even has a leg over mine. As I roughly disentangle she blinks into life and groggily gapes at me. Without makeup she looks so young, a college freshman or sophomore type.

Getting stuck with experimenting bitches isn’t my preferred modus operandi, but hey-ho, you can’t critique a chick who took the plastic you were packing so eagerly. — Good morning, she yawns and stretches.

— And to you. I force a smile. Then it gets uncomfortable. I’m no good at this.

She gets out of bed; tall, lean and hot. I dig that blond-white hair, cut short, but this chick could never be a proper butch, not without at least five years and 100,000 calories. She pulls on her clothes. — I gotta go. Classes. Then she smiles at me. — I can’t believe I made it with the Causeway Vigilante Chick!

— Yeah, I say. How the fuck can you respond to that?

— See ya.

She gets out, and I wait till I hear the apartment door open and close, then spring up. In the kitchen area she’s taken some orange juice out the fridge and slugged it from the bottle without putting it back. Fucking gross: young bitches got no manners.

I’m pissed at myself for sleeping in, I mean, how fucking lame, so I jump in the shower then swiftly dress. I’ve got time to quickly check my emails. Fuck me, I cringe as I see that one Sorenson sent me last night. And she at least has a friend, though heaven knows what this Kim chick is like.

Fuck her. I’ve more important correspondence to be getting on with.

To: michelleparish@lifeparishioners.com

From: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com

Subject: So Good To Hear From You!

Michelle,

Can’t even begin to tell you how juiced I am about you getting back to me. My life has gotten a shitload weirder since the incident. I have a manager! And I’ve a woman from VH1 TV who’s signing me up to do this makeover show for fat suburbanites who’ve let themselves go. It sounds pretty much like what I do now, but only to camera and on a fucking cruise boat! I know, right? The thing is, they’ve lined up some preening hair, cosmetics, and clothes guy to partner me. My warning bells kind of went off. I don’t want them launching the career of the unemployable faggot son of some TV company exec on the back of my heroic actions, right? LOL!

Not all good, though. A fascist prick running for office down here, Quist his name is, has me on his radar. Turns out the gunman was a kid who had been abused by pedophiles and went under the causeway where those perverts live and started shooting them up. Good luck to him, but like, hello, I was meant to know that? It’s all getting sick, but not in a good way.

Please advise!

Oh, and representation, have you heard of Valerie Mercando? What’s she like?

Oh, FINALLY, and you wouldn’t believe that one of my clients now is this self-styled “artist” girl, the one who witnessed the bridge incident. She sought me out. Creepy or what?

Best,

Lucy x

As I hit the send button, I realize that my nails, clicking on the keyboard, are getting too long. I’m scrolling through my inbox and back to Sorenson’s weird animal pictures website. Then I think I really should go, but to my delight, a reply comes right back!

To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com

From: michelleparish@lifeparishioners.com

Subject: So Good To Hear From You!

Lucy,

Great to hear from you again, and delighted that things are working out so well. VH1 is an awesome channel, and they will give you a great profile. Of course, the right collaborators are important, but this is a golden opportunity! Bite their hand off! BUT leave the negotiations to your rep.

Which bring us on to representation. Yes, Valerie Mercando is very good. She’ll be able to handle all the VH1 negotiations.

Clients are clients, I don’t think it’s important where they come from, as long as there is mutual respect and the proper boundaries are observed.

Yes, I heard that politicians were trying to use your case to gain leverage. Don’t worry, that will blow over, but I’m sure your PR person will tell you that.

Well done! I’m excited for you!

Best,

Michelle

PS Did you try out Morning Pages?

I’m so buzzed, and get right on to Valerie.

To: valeriemercando@mercandoprinc.com cc: themlajtempleton@vh1.com

From: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com

Subject: Let’s Do It!

Dear Valerie,

After sound advice from my trusted friend and confidante, Michelle Parish, I’m writing to formally confirm that you are indeed the best person to represent me. I’m copying Thelma Templeton of VH1 into this email.

Let’s get the ball rolling and kick some serious ass!

Best,

Lucy x

In my postage-stamp kitchen area I mix and down a protein shake. Emerging into the sunshine, I’m ready to bust the chops of any asshole who comes into my space, but the paparazzi seem to have vanished again. Striding across Flamingo Park, I head toward the gym. A couple of guys in their twenties are running and one stops, pulling himself up on the bar by the basketball courts. He does seven pull-ups, struggles on number eight, fails on nine. I get straight on it. — Here’s how it’s done, I say, knocking out a dozen, finishing the twelfth as strong as when I started the first, then doing the same number of chin-ups, beaten by nothing other than the clock.

— Wow. . the guy says.

— It’s all in the breathing, I tell him. — If you’re doing pull-ups, your grip should be slightly wider than your shoulder. For chin-ups, the underhand grip, keep them around shoulder width.

T2 style! Sarah Fucking Connor! Joan Fucking Jett!

When I get to the gym, Marge’s already there, and she’s stretching out. She’s getting the stink-eye from Toby, the fag receptionist, who describes himself as a DJ, because they let him occasionally spin his flouncy, ambient, antimusic, antilife CDs when the joint is empty. When it fills with suburban housewives, he has to cede his place to Coldplay and Maroon 5 mixes, and I’ve even grown to accept those wrist-slash inducers as a blessed relief to his tepid shit. I swear my ass turns to peat bog at the very sight of that pretentious, bitter queer. His earshot makes me instinctively drop my vowels into Southie caricature. Heavy-muscled and cut in typical South Beach pseudo-homo style, he’s blissfully unaware as he pops his steroids and presses his one-fifty that a throwaway jab would bust his faggot nose and have him in counseling for years, spilling bucketloads of pansy tears. — You’ve been in the news again, he announces, then his head swivels to a mounted screen. — Oh, look. He points at the TV.