Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

'I am not,' I said.

Marsha wrapped her arm around me and squeezed. 'Don't worry,' she said. 'I won't let the ghoulies get you.'

'I'm not superstitious,' I repeated. 'I just thought it might be easier to hire an outside venue, so we wouldn't have to worry about cleaning up, or things getting broken, or complaints from the neighbours.'

'But cleaning up's half the fun!' said Marsha, and I couldn't be sure she was joking. 'Look, it's no big deal. We'll keep it on the ground floor. I just thought it might have been fun to do things on a bigger scale, that's all.'

Had she looked crestfallen, I would have stuck to my guns, but no way was Marsha going to let her disappointment show, and it was the brave face that did it. I felt petty and mean-spirited, especially since she'd been the one who'd got me into my flat in the first place. I hastened to assure her that no, I didn't mind letting the party spread upstairs, in fact I insisted, there was hardly any furniture, mi casa es su casa and so on, and I was sure Sophie would want to join in. Actually I wasn't sure at all, but I wasn't going to let her get off scot-free.

I pondered my best course of action. Marsha could do what she liked with my flat, but I had no intention of being anywhere near Hampshire Place when midnight chimed on the thirty-first of October. I was going to get as far away as I could. The flat in Hackney was currently occupied by a globe-trotting Canadian friend of a friend, but perhaps it was time to pay one of my rare visits to my grandmother in St Albans.

Halloween. As if . I had absolutely no intention of hanging around to see what crawled out of the woodwork Did you think I was stupid?

'Jesus!' I shouted, sitting straight up in bed.

'See what I mean,' said Sophie. I'd been staring at my ceiling, wondering why all the little bumps and cracks had rearranged themselves during the night, when I realised with a cold shock of comprehension that it wasn't my ceiling at all.

On the other side of the bed, Sophie was propped up against a heap of pillows, lounging like a medium-sized odalisque except that instead of being nude she was wearing pale green silk pyjamas. What with the pyjamas and the red hair, she was glowing like a Technicolor goddess.

I asked what she was doing there. Then I corrected myself and asked what I was doing.

'You've been at it again,' Sophie said coldly. 'Now I'd like my bed back if you don't mind.'

Still a bit addled, I got up and padded over to the door, wishing I were wearing something more glamorous than the outsized T-shirt my grandmother had got free by sending off ten labels from cans of Pedigree Chum.

'How about returning my key?' Sophie called after me.

'I don't even know where my keys are.'

'Try the door,' said Sophie, 'where you left them.' She was right. I retrieved my keys and wandered into Sophie's living-room to find something to jemmy hers off with. I didn't have my specs on, and so everything was in soft focus, the top of her worktable resembling a scene from the Arabian Nights, sprinkled with glimmering jewel colours and tantalizing scraps of treasure which on closer examination turned out to be Japanese pencils, translucent plastic rulers and Italian-made sketchpads covered in mock-croc and nubuck.

I levered the key off my keyring with a pair of scissors and went back into the bedroom to return it to its rightful owner. 'I suppose you might as well stay for breakfast,' Sophie said ungraciously, and headed down to the kitchen, leaving me free to wander back into the living-room and take a closer look at something I'd glimpsed earlier.

The board on which Sophie had drawn her autumn garden was propped against the wall by the table.

From my standing position, and without spectacles, it looked innocuous, but I bent down apprehensively, half-expecting something to leap out and fasten on to my throat.

Close up, it still looked innocuous.

Perhaps too innocuous. There had to be a catch, but for the life of me, I couldn't work out what it might be. The scene was so autumnal, you could almost smell the dead wood and the toadstools. The flower beds blazed with red and yellow chrysanthemums. The leaves had turned crisp and golden; most had already fallen from the trees, and some had been swept into a pile, waiting only for a touch of flame to transform them into a roaring bonfire.

I scrutinized the picture for hints of something lurking in the undergrowth, for beady eyes gleaming, or warty snouts snuffling, or grotesque figures with limbs gnarled like the branches of trees. But there was nothing like that at all. Instead, two podgy-cheeked children clad in duffle-coats and mittens romped on the lawn with their golden-haired spaniel. And a jolly time was being had by all.

I nibbled at a ragged cuticle. The picture was horrible. It made me want to vomit.

It was obvious what had happened. Sophie had shaken off the dark influence and gone back to being normal.

It was weeks since anyone had seen Robert. I was beginning to wonder if he'd gone for good. Maybe thinking I'd seen his reflection in the mirror had been as good as an exorcism. It was a load off my mind, but at the same time I missed him. He still struck me as having most of the advantages of a real live man without too many of the drawbacks.

Graham did his best, but he left a lot to be desired. Apart from the sex, that is, which was as wild and crazy as it had ever been; he turned into a beast between the sheets. I was even tempted to try it with a clear head, but on those rare occasions when we managed to stay sober, we never got beyond first base.

But at least my sex life was active, so when, later that week, Miles phoned and invited me out to lunch, I realized to my satisfaction I wasn't as thrilled as I might once have been. With Graham catering for my physical needs, and Robert occupying the twilight zone of my fantasy life, the man who had started everything rolling in the first place had almost slipped my mind.

I wanted to go to Cinghiale, but Miles insisted on trying a place called Truffles which had recently opened in a cul-de-sac around the back of Westbourne Grove. The decor was wall-to-wall whitewash, the seats looked and felt as though they'd been welded out of scrap metal, and the menu was one long litany of tongues, knuckles and tripe. Miles let out a little whimper of pleasure and plumped for deep-fried pig's ear rolled in breadcrumbs and served in a mustardy vinaigrette with spiced red cabbage. All around us diners were tucking into loin roasts and fresh offal, and the juice was running down their necks. As I prodded my chitterling pancake with beans and sauerkraut, I began to feel nostalgic for the sort of rocket salad so minimalist that even Sophie might have hesitated to pass it off as a square meal.

I wasn't fool enough to believe Miles had invited me out because of my irresistible allure, and, sure enough, it didn't take him long to get to the point.

'Sophie said she was having a party.'

'She invited you?' I asked, vexed that he thought it was Sophie's party and dismayed to learn they were back on speaking terms. The news left me feeling slightly disoriented, as though I'd been guarding something of value, but had had my attention distracted at a crucial moment.

'So you'll be taking Ligia,' I said, sorry that I wouldn't be around to see Sophie come face to face with her nemesis. I was sorry too that I wouldn't be there to see Ligia for myself; in my head I'd built her up into a formidable opponent. Perhaps it was time to see what I was really up against.

'She won't be there,' said Miles, gazing lugubriously at his pig's ear. 'We split up. We weren't really compatible.'

'What a shame,' I said, trying to suppress the blockbuster smile that was threatening to break out all over my face.