Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

'I really did think she was out,' I said, blushing with embarrassment. Marsha would surely think I'd tricked my way into her home.

But Marsha wasn't the sort to waste time worrying about whether or not people had obtained cups of tea under false pretences. 'Sounds like she's fallen out of bed,' she said, her face tilted up towards the ceiling.

'Sophie's an early bird,' I said. 'She never sleeps late.'

Marsha's mouth fell open in surprise. 'Are we talking about the same person? Take it from someone who lives directly underneath, it's party all night, and lie in the following day. Lucky for her I don't have a nine-to-five job, or I'd be banging on the ceiling with a broom.'

There was another series of thumps. A slow, sly smile spread across Marsha's face.

'Tell you what, though. It sounds as if she's got a man up there.'

I had to agree. 'Probably Robert,' I said.

We both continued to gaze at the ceiling. We'd run out of things to say. After a while Marsha asked if Sophie and Robert had been together long.

'Not long,' I said.

'So what's he like?'

'Don't ask me,' I said. 'You've met him, I haven't.'

'I have?'

I thought she was being unnecessarily thick. 'Robert. You know. Robert from upstairs.'

The penny still wasn't dropping. 'Robert from upstairs?'

'Robert Jamieson. Robert the writer. Robert the poet.'

When I said the word poet , Marsha's manner changed. All of a sudden the temperature plummeted as her warmth drained away, and her smile tapered off at the edges.

'Sure,' she said, but didn't sound sure at all.

'You must have met him,' I persisted. I couldn't understand what had gone wrong. Only a few seconds ago we'd been getting on like a house on fire, and now she was freezing me out. I was starting to feel very uncomfortable. Uh-oh, I thought. Maybe Robert and Marsha had had something on the go. Maybe I had just gone and put my foot in it.

'Oh, I met him all right,' she said.

'Sophie's been talking about him non-stop,' I said apologetically. 'She's besotted.'

But Marsha wasn't one to stand around gassing when there was action to be taken. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards the door. At first I thought she was throwing me out into the street, but out in the hallway she loosened her grip and started to climb the stairs. 'I don't know what she's been telling you,' she said, 'but we'd better make sure she's all right.'

'What if they're in bed?'

'They won't be.'

She knocked firmly on Sophie's door and, after a long silence, knocked again. Eventually, just as I was thinking about giving up and heading back to Hackney, we heard the sound of something heavy being dragged laboriously down the steps on the other side of the wall.

'What's she up to?'

'Sssh,' said Marsha.

There were more dragging sounds, followed by a scuffling, and the noise of a bolt being drawn and a latch lifted.

Then, nothing.

After a long pause, I tested the door with my shoulder. It swung inwards.

Sophie was kneeling in the kitchen doorway in her nightshirt, head down, the ends of her tangled hair brushing against the floor. The sight was so unexpected I could only stand and gawp. Marsha stepped past me.

'You OK?' she asked.

Sophie whispered something.

I crouched beside her. 'What's the matter?'

She whispered again.

I made out one of the words. Hangover .

'It's all right,' I said to Marsha. 'It's only a hangover,' but even as I said the words they sounded wrong. Sophie never suffered from hangovers, not since she'd knocked back too much champagne on her twenty-first birthday and had vowed never to overdo it again. As far as I knew, that vow had never been broken.

She didn't stir, not even when I bent over her, trying to gather her hair into a ponytail. But there was nothing to tie it back with, so I gave up and let it flop back down.

'You don't look so hot,' I said, trying not to feel too smug; it wasn't every day you could say something like that to Sophie, who was normally as well-groomed and glossy as an old-fashioned mannequin.

'Hrunk oough ouch,' she said. I couldn't tell whether this was, 'Drank too much,' or 'Thank you very much.' I could have done with Dirk there to translate.

Without another word she started to clamber up the steps to the upper level, using her hands and knees like a small child just learning to walk. Marsha and I stared at each other before tagging along behind her.

Sophie crawled into the living-room and curled into a foetal position in the middle of a new rug. Now her voice was coming over loud and clear.

'I think I'm going to throw up,' she said.

I watched, fascinated, as she drew herself up into a kneeling position. All I could think about was the rug, and how expensive it must have been, and what a shame it was going to get messed up. But Marsha had sprung into action. She thundered downstairs and, within seconds, was back with a plastic bucket, thrusting it under Sophie's chin like someone giving a nosebag to a horse. I couldn't help thinking this was the wrong way round — that it was Marsha who should have been given the nosebag.

Sophie stuck her head deep into the bucket. Her shoulders heaved and there was a sound like pearls from a broken necklace cascading onto a wooden floor. Marsha made soothing noises and with her spare hand massaged the upper part of Sophie's back. I wondered whether she'd learned the nursemaid act as part of her job-training to help her deal with Cinghiale's clientele when they overdid it on the alcohol front. Sophie uttered a low groan, feebly trying to keep her hair clear of the bucket, and heaved again.

I went down to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water. I knew Sophie never drank tap-water; it had to be Evian or Badoit or, at the very least, Malvern. On my way past the bedroom, I peeked in to see if Robert was still around, but there was nothing but an unmade bed, clothes strewn all over the floor, and a strong odour of stale cigarettes.

Bed unmade. Clothes all over the floor. Smell like an old ashtray. This was not Sophie's style at all.

By the time I got back, she was sitting on the floor with her back against the base of the sofa, taking unnaturally deep breaths which threatened to turn into hiccups at any second. 'There now,' said Marsha, so capably that I almost wished I too were ill, so she could comfort me. Take it easy now.'

'What have you been doing to yourself?' I asked.

Sophie tilted her head back so I could see her pale, glistening face. I'd been wrong earlier when I decided she didn't look so hot. Now I realized the dark circles beneath the eyes made her look annoyingly ethereal, like an Arthur Rackham naiad.

'We drank too much,' she whispered. That's all.'

'We?' I asked. 'We?'

Sophie giggled weakly. 'You sound like the three little pigs.'

I felt like slapping her.

Marsha asked, 'Who's we?'

Sophie giggled again. 'Robert's a really bad influence.'

'Robert who?' asked Marsha. Once again, her manner had perceptibly cooled.

Sophie summoned enough energy to look scornful. How could Marsha be so obtuse? 'Robert Jamieson,' she said. 'You know — tall guy, dark hair, lives upstairs.'

'Robert Jamieson,' repeated Marsha.

I looked at her quizzically.

'Robert and me,' said Sophie. Her face had taken on that ecstatic look you see on the people who dance up and down Oxford Street banging tambourines. Marsha hunkered down so she was directly in front of Sophie and placed both hands on her shoulders, like a netball coach about to give a pep talk to an injured but vitally important player.

'That's enough ,' she said. This has got to stop.'

I was beginning to wonder if Marsha harboured some peculiar puritanical objection to other tenants drinking and fornicating on the premises. Sophie was simply confused. 'What do you mean stop?' Damp hair dangled on either side of her face in ratty little tendrils. She giggled and asked, 'Do you want to hear this joke?'