Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

Let me give you an example of Sophie's gullibility. A few days after I'd spent the night with her, we were talking on the telephone and she let slip that Robert had at last let her read some of his poetry.

'And?'

'He gave me a pamphlet,' she said. 'Hand-printed, I think.'

'Oh do read me one of his poems,' I said, using such a sarcastic tone that I wasn't expecting her to comply, but I heard the riffling of pages, and Sophie said, 'There's a short one here. It's called The Gloomy Traveller .'

There was a brief hush, and then she read in her best speech and drama voice:

The greenness of the midnight Nile

The waters foam-bedecked and vile

Like ooze from sleep-encrusted lids

Goes snaking past the pyramids.

I waited for her to go on, but there wasn't any more.

That's it?' I said. That's the poem?'

'Robert says it's a haiku,' said Sophie.

'A what?'

'A haiku. A short Japanese…'

'I know what a haiku is; I read about it in a James Bond book. And what you have just read out is by no stretch of the imagination a haiku — not in any nuance, shape or form.'

I could almost hear the sound of air being displaced upwards as Sophie shrugged her shoulders. 'That's what Robert said,' she said, and I knew she was going to take his word for it over mine. Sophie's credulity never ceased to amaze me. Robert would only have to announce that giving head stopped you getting cancer, and she would be going down on him dozens of times a day.

'Did I tell you he likes cellulite?'

'He what?'

'He likes cellulite. Says it turns him on. Says it reminds him of the flesh-tones in Titian and Rubens.'

'That's a load of tripe,' I said. 'And anyway, you don't have cellulite. There isn't an ounce of extraneous fat on you.'

'It's just a shame he doesn't have any money,' said Sophie, suddenly sounding sombre. Trust her to face reality only where fiscal matters were concerned.

'Never mind,' I said. 'You've got enough dosh for the two of you.'

'It's not that,' said Sophie. 'It's just that money gives a man a sense of, I don't know, self-respect. If only he had a proper income, Robert would be perfect.'

'No such thing as a perfect man,' I warned her. 'He's like the free lunch — he doesn't exist.'

I was keen to meet this Mr Jamieson, if only so I could expose him for the charlatan he undoubtedly was.

For the next few days I was tied to my drawing-board by a batch of step-by-step muffin recipes so urgent and last-minute they were earning me double the normal rate. I didn't get time to phone Sophie, and of course it never occurred to her to phone me. But I often found myself brooding about her as I worked. I wondered whether Robert had developed an erotic fixation on her crow's feet, or her bunions, or on any of her other imaginary flaws. But I was getting fed up with leaving messages that were only rarely answered. By now, I reckoned, she would probably have moved into the flat upstairs on a more-or-less permanent basis. Sophie didn't waste much time where men were concerned.

One thing prevented me from consigning Sophie to the dustbin of dead friendship, which was where she deserved to be. If she had moved in with Robert, it would mean that her own flat was empty. I wouldn't be able to afford her rent, but perhaps she wouldn't object to me staying there now she wasn't using it.

It was then I remembered that Marsha had mentioned something about Robert moving out. Sophie had never referred to this, but perhaps Robert hadn't wanted to scupper his chances with her and had kept quiet about it. Or perhaps Marsha had got the wrong end of the stick, or perhaps I'd simply heard what I wanted to hear.

But I owed it to myself to find out. Robert's flat sounded a bit shabby, so perhaps his rent would be more reasonable than Sophie's.

One way or another, I was determined to make it to Notting Hill.

As soon as the muffins had been drawn and dispatched, I hatched a little plan and headed west. I was thinking of calling round at Sophie's on the pretext of looking for Lemmy and Dirk. I hadn't thought about what I was going to say or do after that, but as it happened, I didn't have to, because when I rang Sophie's doorbell, there was no answer. I stepped back into the road to gaze up at her windows, dazzling panels of reflected sunlight which gave nothing away, but I saw there were curtains now, pale muslin shrouds which, if anything, made the room behind them look even less lived in than before.

I tried Sophie's bell again. Inserted into the adjoining space was the name Macallan , beautifully hand-lettered with a flourish on the capital M. Beneath that was Marsha's surname, printed clearly and neatly, no messing about. Only Robert had let the side down — Jamieson was scrawled in faded Biro on an unevenly torn scrap of card. There was not even a bell for the basement flat; I assumed anyone visiting the film director had to go down to the basement and knock directly on his front door. If he was ever there to receive visitors, that is; when I'd last asked Sophie if she'd so much as got a glimpse of him in all the time she'd been living there, she'd said no. The mysterious Mr Cheeseman was apparently still off making a film somewhere.

I was dithering on the doorstep, wondering whether to head for home or saunter along to the Saddleback Arms, when I heard a brisk footfall behind me. I turned to see Marsha Carter-Brown peering over the top of two large bags of shopping as she mounted the steps.

'Hello!' she shouted, even though there was no need for her to raise her voice. 'Looking for Sophie?'

There was no spark of recognition in her eyes, but she didn't seem to mind me helping her with the bags as she opened the door. 'We met a few weeks ago,' I reminded her. 'I'm Clare.'

'Friend of Sophie's, right?' said Marsha, still not appearing to recognize me.

'Sophie's out,' I said.

Marsha frowned at the idea of such an untidy social arrangement. 'Was she expecting you?'

'Not really. I was just passing, thought I'd pop in.'

Marsha checked her watch. 'Well, I'm dying for a cup of tea, so why don't you come in and keep me company. She might be back by the time we've finished.'

I said thank you, unused to such unconditional friendliness, and followed Marsha inside. Her flat seemed smaller than Sophie's, but perhaps this was just because the ceilings were lower and she'd had time to accumulate a lot more clutter. There were some richly patterned rugs, carved wooden heads, and a lot of other ethnic curios which looked as though they'd been picked up from a souk.

'You travel a lot?' I asked her.

'My father was a diplomat,' Marsha explained, 'so we moved around a lot when I was little. And yes, I still like exotic places. I love my job, but every so often I need to get right away from it. Keeps me sane.'

She made a pot of tea. The talk turned to restaurants, and I asked about Cinghiale.

'The food's good,' she said, 'but it's outrageously overpriced. And the clientele…' She made a face.

'What's wrong with them?'

'Oh, you know, assholes on expense accounts. Think they're the centre of the universe.'

'Maybe they are,' I said.

Marsha gave me a scornful look as she poured the tea.

'Of course, it depends what universe you're talking about,' I added hurriedly.

'Try the real world,' she said.

I was about to say it was all very well, but sometimes the real world was negotiable only when you pretended you were at the centre of it, when there came a muffled thump from the flat upstairs, followed by a series of smaller, diminishing thuds.

We both looked up. It sounded as though a football had been dropped and had bounced across the room. But Sophie was not a sports fan, hated football in particular, and only ten minutes previously had given all the signs of not being at home.