Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' I said, giving her my best wide-eyed and candid look.

'You are seeing him!' she shouted. 'Don't try to pretend you're not! You are! And I thought you were my friend .'

'Look,' I said, 'Miles hasn't even been…'

I trailed off. She'd fallen back a few paces, the wildness in her eyes now softened by a mist of bewilderment. 'Miles?' she demanded. 'Why the hell would you want to see Miles? '

'I thought…'

'Don't you dare try to confuse me,' she said, but the stridency was gone. 'You know perfectly well who we're talking about.'

'No, I'm sorry,' I said. 'I don't.'

The bewilderment vanished and her eyes hardened into glittering slits. 'Bitch bitch bitch. You know perfectly well I'm talking about Robert.'

My first thought was that she was referring to the letter I'd opened. I felt an instant's guilt, and heard Marsha go 'uh-oh' under her breath, but didn't get an opportunity to respond because in the very next instant I found myself lying flat on my back on the floor, trying to protect my face from Sophie's fingernails as she knelt on top of me, slashing and clawing and screaming unintelligible words.

It was fortunate she was such a delicate creature; I was more shocked than hurt, Marsha grabbed her by the armpits and hauled her off easily, saying, 'That will be quite enough of that.'

'I'll get you,' said Sophie.

'Lovely to see you too,' I said, getting to my feet and brushing myself down.

'Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do,' she said. 'You've always been jealous of me, always. Do you think I don't notice?'

It was true I'd felt the occasional pang of envy, but I glanced at Marsha as if to say, What's going on here? and Marsha returned the glance with interest.

Sophie broke out of Marsha's restraining grasp, but she was calmer now. Her eyes flashed one last poison dart at me before she flounced back upstairs.

We heard the door crash shut behind her.

'Jeez,' said Marsha. 'Doesn't look as if ten days in Provence was enough now, does it?'

There was something else bugging me. 'Did you notice anything peculiar about her? I mean apart from the behaviour. Something about the way she looked.'

Marsha shook her head.

'She wasn't wearing beige,' I said.

But Sophie was back in town, and, though that first meeting didn't go so well, I soon found myself with another bonding opportunity. One evening, I spotted her in the Landrace Inn as I walked past. The windows were fitted with faux-antique dimpled glass which made whatever was on the other side ripple, like one of those flashback effects you sometimes get in old black and white movies, but through the undulation I made out Sophie. She was sitting in the corner, head bowed in deep conversation with a dark-haired man who might have been good-looking if only the window hadn't been blurring his features into one of those portraits by Francis Bacon.

I'd had enough of hanging out in the sort of lowlife dives favoured by Dirk and Lemmy. It was time to get myself a taste of the glittering W11 life I'd been hankering after for so long. I was prepared to forgive Sophie's bizarre behaviour and put our long-standing friendship to some practical use, and I thought I would make a start by muscling in on her cosy tête-à-tête . Besides, I needed to meet more men, since Miles was no longer in the running, and my promising relationship with Walter had yet to develop past a state of nodding acquaintance.

But first I had to get a drink and pretend I'd been there all along, so Sophie would think I took places like the Landrace Inn in my stride. By the time I'd elbowed my way to the bar, attracted the attention of one of the Australians holding court behind it, shelled out vast sums of money for a bottle of authentic Japanese lager, and wormed my way through the crowd to where she was sitting, it was too late. Her companion had legged it, and she was on her own.

The first thing I noticed was that it hadn't been the dimpled window that had rippled Sophie's hair: she really had crimped it into Pre-Raphaelite waves. It was reassuring to see that she was taking care over her appearance again, but the style struck me as very un-Sophie, as did the dark smudges of Cleopatra-style kohl around her eyes.

But she looked a lot healthier. She was as skinny as ever, but had definitely turned some sort of corner. The spark that had died the day she'd learned the truth about Robert Jamieson had returned to light up her eyes.

If anything, she was now looking at me a little too brightly. 'Oh, hi!' she said, with rather too much enthusiasm.

I looked down at the cigarette end smouldering in the ashtray. 'Are you with someone?'

Sophie followed my gaze. 'Oh, he had to get back,' she said, flipping the stub over and crushing the last wisps of smoke out of it with her thumb.

I parked myself in the chair opposite. 'Then you don't mind if I sit here.'

For a moment, Sophie looked as if she was about to say she did mind, but instead she said, 'Sorry about the other day in the hall. I'd been, er, having a peculiar dream.'

'That's OK,' I said.

'Things have been a bit… strange recently,' she said, smiling to herself.

'Tell me about it,' I said rhetorically. 'But you are looking a lot better.'

'I feel so embarrassed,' Sophie said, bending forward so the Pre-Raphaelite ripples cast lacy shadows across her face. 'I expect you thought I'd gone bonkers.'

'Not at all,' I lied. 'What did the doctor say?'

'He referred me to a therapist,' said Sophie. 'She blames it all on Miles, of course. And on Hamish.'

'Too right,' I said. 'Men are always to blame for everything.'

'There's some interesting stuff coming out. Heavy mental baggage I had no idea I was lugging around.'

I said how I'd always rather fancied being in therapy, because it would be nice to have someone really listen to me, but Sophie went on as though I hadn't spoken. 'I tell her my dreams,' she said. 'And she never gets bored.'

'I never got bored when you told me your dreams,' I protested. 'Even the one about the piglets and the bumblebees.'

'But you're not a professional,' said Sophie. 'You can't tell me what they mean. What? What's the matter?'

I'd been grimacing with the effort of trying to dredge up something I'd only just half-remembered. 'I had a dream about baked chocolate souffle,' I told her.

'Lucky old you,' said Sophie, but expressed no interest in hearing more. As other scraps of the dream filtered slowly back into my brain, I realized I didn't want to describe it to her anyway. I didn't want Sophie thinking her influence over me was so enormous that I even followed in her footsteps in my sleep.

We strolled back to the house together. As we drew nearer to Hampshire Place, Sophie saw something up ahead and checked her pace.

'Don't look now,' she whispered. 'It's the ashoo boys.'

I assumed she was referring to some local Asian or West Indian family, but all I could see were a couple of skinny teenagers lollygagging around on a louvred installation which I gathered had something to do with the cable company that had left lumpy furrows in all the pavements. They were both wearing red anoraks with the hoods up, which made them look like mutant hybrids of Little Red Riding Hood and the homicidal dwarf from that thriller set in Venice, and they were kicking their heels in oversized sneakers from which the laces dangled loose. They were the sort of people I would normally have crossed the road to avoid.

As we approached them, Sophie explained, 'Couple of weeks ago they came up to me and said, Ashoo . So naturally I replied, Bless you .'

She paused, waiting for a reaction.

'I don't get it.'