Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

Of Sophie's girlfriends, I had always preferred Carolyn to the others, even though she'd had a gratuitous nose job and her father was a Tory MP who bankrolled the PR company she and Charlotte pretended to run on the days they didn't spend hanging out at the health club or buying up half of Harvey Nichols or Hyperbole. At least Carolyn made an effort to be friendly. 'You should have brought your boyfriend along,' she was saying now in a voice that was slightly slurred.

I looked at her carefully, decided she wasn't taking the piss, and confessed that I didn't have a boyfriend, not at the moment.

Carolyn drained her glass and passed it to Grenville for a refill. Mine was still half-full; the Social Whirligigs fiasco had taught me to exercise caution in this company.

'I meant the bloke you were with the other night,' she said.

I thought back. 'Which one? There've been so many.'

Carolyn's eyebrows shot up. 'So many men?'

'So many nights,' I said.

'Last week at the Rhumba,' she said, as Toby came up with her refill.

'But I was with you lot,' I said.

Toby elbowed me in the ribs so heavily that I nearly fell over. 'Up to no good, eh?' he bellowed.

'Not that I can remember,' I wheezed, rubbing my bruised abdomen and beginning to wonder if I were going mad. This was the second time I'd apparently been paired off with someone who wasn't there.

'You're a strange bird,' said Carolyn, contemplating me with her head on one side. 'But then so was he. I'd say you two were perfectly matched.'

'He was all right,' said Toby in a wistful tone that suggested he was more than a little envious. 'He was a dab hand at Social Whirligigs.'

Yeah,' giggled Carolyn. 'And at least now we know whose is biggest. Lucky old Clare.'

It was like playing a game, daring myself to see how far I could go. Opening Robert Jamieson's mail was the most excitement I'd had in ages.

Hi Rob,

Loved the latest poem, but afraid I can't help out. You know what women are like — Katie swears she'll quit if I put it in the mag, and some of the girls in the office have threatened strike action. But then what do you expect from college-educated bimbos? Maybe you should pop round one afternoon and soothe them with some of your manly charm.

Hate to have to ask this, but couldn't you pump up the bondage and go easy on the mutilation? Restraint doesn't necessarily mean compromise, you know.

As ever,

Percy

PS. How about that drink?

I thought it was safe to conclude that Robert Jamieson was not a feminist.

I was tickled to death by this letter. I was dying to share it with someone, though since I wasn't supposed to have opened it in the first place I had to keep it to myself. But Robert was beginning to grow on me. He sounded like an incorrigible chauvinist and a refreshing contrast to Graham.

I would sit and look at Sophie and wonder exactly what she imagined she'd got up to with him. Perhaps she had unwittingly glimpsed his photo somewhere, or, like me, she'd opened one of those letters that kept arriving, day after day, and it had been that, coupled with the bust-up with Miles, which had triggered off her elaborate fantasies.

It was too late to ask her about it now, of course. I didn't want to set her off again. And besides, we still weren't getting on too well. When she wasn't cutting me dead, she was running me down in front of her friends, and yet I noticed she never went so far as to avoid me. Indeed, it sometimes appeared as though she were actively seeking out my company, as though there were something she desperately wanted to talk to me about but couldn't bring herself to mention.

Which was why we'd somehow ended up together, one night in the Bar None, two inseparables locked in a love/hate relationship. Her new-look crinkle-cut hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was looking more feline than ever in a black velvet jacket I'd never seen before.

That wasn't the only change of habit. I watched in astonishment as she pulled out a packet of Silk Cut, extracted a cigarette, and began to smoke it with an expertise that suggested she'd been puffing away for years. But it was the first time I'd ever seen her with a fag in her mouth, and I was foolish enough to say as much. She almost bit my head off.

'So fucking what?'

I'd had enough. 'Why are you being such a bitch?'

'Hardly surprising, is it.'

'You used to be so well-mannered,' I said.

'Well-mannered?' Her tone of voice took the mickey out of mine. 'To whom am I not being well-mannered?'

Me for a start, I thought, but out loud I said, 'Marsha.'

Sophie roared so loudly that several heads turned. 'Marsha!' she exclaimed. 'Marsha! The woman is a joke.'

'I rather like her,' I said.

'She is absurd,' Sophie continued. 'How can you take anyone who wears cowboy boots trimmed with tassels seriously?'

I heard myself saying, 'Just because someone has bad taste doesn't mean she's a worthless human being.' The idea had crept up on me unawares. I had never entertained a thought like that before. I ran it through my head again and gave it serious consideration. Just because someone has bad taste doesn't mean she's a worthless human being.

Then I thought, nah. Sophie was right. Tasselled cowboy boots were irredeemably naff. I said as much out loud, con brio .

'Thank God for that,' breathed Sophie. 'You had me worried there, old girl. I thought we were going to have to set the fashion police on to you, and you don't want to end up in their custody, believe me, forced to wear beige all the time like I used to. Another drink?'

I nodded, even though my glass was only half empty, hoping to take advantage of Sophie's sudden geniality. She was up and down so fast, it was like trying to ride a whirlwind. She snapped her fingers to attract the waiter's attention. I'd never seen her do that before, nor could I remember having ever seen her drink this much. Normally, she stuck to wine, but now she was knocking back Mexican lager as though it were Day of the Dead.

Then, all of a sudden, everything fell into place. It was so obvious, I couldn't understand why I hadn't seen it before. Sophie had always had a chameleon-like quality. She'd always had a tendency to adopt the mannerisms of the men she was going out with. I couldn't stop staring at her as she gave our order to the waiter. I stared so hard she felt my gaze boring a hole into her skull and turned to meet it head on.

'What?' she demanded.

'You know,' I said.

'No, I don't know. Why are you looking at me like that?'

I thought what the hell , and said aloud what I'd been thinking, even though I knew it would sound absurd. I said, 'You're still seeing him, aren't you?'

Sophie's mouth moved, but no sound came out. At last she found her voice, and it was a bitter one. 'Jesus Christ! You've got a bloody nerve!'

'This has got to stop,' I said. 'You know it's not healthy.'

She was shaking her head disbelievingly. I decided it was time to give it to her straight.

'Sophie,' I said. 'You're shagging a dead man.'

She recoiled as though I'd slapped her. 'How can you say that? You know I hate that word.'

'I'm sorry,' I sighed. 'Let me rephrase that. You're conducting an intimate relationship with a dead man.'

'I don't mean shagging ,' said Sophie. 'I mean dead .'

I gawped at her. 'What would you like me to say? Vitally challenged ? Terminally experienced? '

Sophie pushed her chair back violently and leaped to her feet. 'You're a two-faced bitch, you really are. And I thought you were my friend.'

'I am your friend, I said. 'I'm worried about you, that's all. I mean, how much do you really know about Robert Jamieson? Who is he, really?'