Read the book: «Amanda’s Wedding»

One

Most of the really messy things in life don’t actually have a beginning – they kind of bear down on you over years, like the consequences of not cleaning your bathroom floor (stickiness, cholera, etcetera).

This one did, though. It definitely did, and I remember it extremely clearly. Well, in a fuzzy kind of way.

Thank God – it was my bed. So: (1) I was actually in a bed, and (2) it was mine. I was beating the odds already.

I prised open one very sticky eye and attempted to focus it, to try and work out where the smell was coming from. I appeared to be jammed between the wall and an extremely large and unidentifiable chunk of flesh.

The chunk of flesh was connected to lots of other chunks, all in the right order, but I didn’t notice this until after I’d sat bolt upright in terror at a potential Godfather-type situation in my bed.

Everything seemed weirdly out of proportion. Maybe I was still drunk. I pawed at the sticky stuff at the corner of my eyes. No, something was very wrong.

An inappropriate hand was slung across me. It appeared to be about the size of my stomach, and my stomach is not renowned for its tiny-ness … A thought began to worm its way into my head.

I knew that thought and tried to avoid it for as long as possible, but alongside my hangover voice that was howling ‘Fluid! Fluid!’ the thought whispered, ‘Oh my God … it’s Nicholas … Again!’

I grimaced like I’d just swallowed something nasty – which, let’s face it, I probably had.

Slowly creeping my way off the end of the futon, and feeling worse and worse, I crawled into the kitchen in search of aspirin and Diet Coke. Fran, of course, was lying in wait. She didn’t live here, but she made herself more at home than I did. Her own place was a three-foot-square studio which induced immediate Colditz fever, so I’d got used to her wandering in and out.

‘Good morning!’ trilled Fran, bright and breezy. She must have been putting it on. Through a strange fog – which I supposed was the alcohol in my system filling me right up to the eyes – she actually looked quite good. I couldn’t focus on her mass of fuzzy hair, but I did notice that she was wearing one of my T-shirts, not quite covering thighs that didn’t even meet in the middle. I hated that.

I summoned all my energy to pipe, ‘Hello!’

‘Hungover?’

‘No, no, absolutely fine. I’ve just suddenly developed a taste for a half-bottle of warm, flat Coke, OK?’

‘Oh, right.’ There was a pause. Then she said, ‘I take it you’ll be wanting two glasses?’

‘Aaaaaaargh!’ I put my head down on the kitchen unit.

‘Mel. Mel Mel Mel Mel Mel!’

‘Urgugh?’

‘Nicholas …!’

‘Uh-huh …’

‘Twice …!’

‘Aaaargh!’

Fran backed away.

‘I know, I know, I know,’ I admitted. ‘Oh my God. Shit. SHIT! I think maybe I’ll just move house, starting now.’

‘In a towel?’

‘You’re right – all my clothes are in my bedroom, and I’m never going in there again! Why don’t I start a fire?’

‘Well, it’s a bit risky, and I don’t think Nicholas would fit in a fire engine.’

‘That’s OK! He could die! In fact, that would be good!’

Fran poured us both a cup of tea and looked sorrowfully at me. ‘Come on, don’t worry. Look on the bright side.’

‘There’s an eight foot tall accountant in my bed who smells like a polecat, whom I have now woken up with TWICE, thus ruining ANY potential excuses – and you’re telling me to look on the bright side?’

‘Ehmm, how about … if you spill any tea on the towel, it won’t matter, because you’ll have a towel handy? OK then … ehmm … it means you’re not the type of girl who has one-night stands?’

‘Oh God, WHAT am I going to do? Is Linda around?’ Linda was my dumpy flatmate. I only saw her about once a fortnight. Possibly, she hid from me.

‘She scuttled past about twenty minutes ago. She looked pretty tired. We might have been a bit noisy last night. Wasn’t Nicholas trying to pretend he could play the trumpet?’

I grimaced. ‘That wasn’t a trumpet.’

Fran grimaced back at the memory. ‘Bloody Amanda!’ she said. I nodded vehemently. Whenever anything really bad happened, Amanda was always mixed up in it somewhere.

Fran, Amanda and I were at school together in Woking, one of those dreary endless London suburban towns, not city or country, just lots of people hanging round bus shelters wondering if they were missing something. I’d met Fran when she ran past our house, aged four, chasing my older brother with a cricket bat.

Amanda lived next to us, and the three of us walked to school together for years, Amanda usually in possession of the latest Barbie-doll outfits, and extra sweets from the man at the corner shop with slightly dubious tendencies. Despite her blue eyes, strawberry blonde ringlets and general air of pinkness, she was pure evil, and played Fran and me off against each other with the talent of a Borgia poisoner.

Our biggest wish as children was to grow up famous and be on Celebrity Squares. Twenty years on, we were all still following this wish: Fran in the time-honoured method of going to drama school then hanging about for years and years and years, usually round my flat. I’d decided to do it by marrying someone very handsome and famous. I kept a close eye on Hello! magazine to check out when celebrities got divorced. Amanda, however, trumped all of us totally while still at school, by getting her dad to invent a new way of opening milk cartons or something, and suddenly becoming utterly stinking rich.

We didn’t really notice at first, just that all through the last year of secondary school she kept sighing and talking about how boring everything was – but then, we were teenage girls. Only when we saw the new house, with the pool and the built-in bar, did we realize something was seriously up. Her dad had left her mum by this stage and was too busy chasing totty our age to really care what we did, so we had big parties, shopped, and got tipsy in the new jacuzzi with the gold taps: it was a fabulous year.

Eventually, Fran went off to the Central School of Drama to pretend to be a lizard for three years. Amanda was heading for Durham University and, not having much imagination, and rather less sense, I applied there too.

I hardly recognized Amanda when we went up on the first day of freshers’ week – mainly because her hair had changed colour and she talked differently. She gave me a lift up in the open-topped sports car her dad had given her for getting into university, and cut through the town like she owned it.

I knew when she dumped me in my seven-foots-square midden in the nasty students halls with damp running down the walls and shouted, ‘There you are, darling! See you around, yah?’ that somehow things had changed. Things had. She never spoke to me again, except once every six months when she’d condescend to take me out for a drink to remind me how wonderful everything was for her. I don’t think her glittering success meant as much to her if she didn’t have someone to look down on, and that was my job. I fell for it every time; the next day, she’d ignore me in the corridor.

If things were fair, I reckoned, it would all go wrong for her one day. As things were, she got a good degree and, as a result of her blondeness, qualified for a job in PR, and now was invited to lots of show-biz parties. I got a terrible degree, probably something to do with the bile marks on the paper, and ended up reading copy for a boring stationery company in Holborn.

But I still saw her. Every so often she’d phone, Fran and I would go see her, she’d gloat, and we’d get her to pay for all the drinks. And that’s how it had started last night, when the phone rang.

‘Melanie, darling.’

I’ve finally worked out that darling is PR code for inferior acquaintance.

‘Hi, Mandy.’

She hated that.

‘Listen, how about you and Francesca and I meet up for a drinkey tonight …?’

Tonight? As if we had nothing better to do.

‘I have news!’ she trilled.

‘Really? What?’

‘Oh no, this is definitely drinkey kind of news.’

‘OK. Fran!’ Fran was lying on the sofa drawing a moustache on herself. ‘Fancy a drink with Amanda tonight?’

Fran made a snarling noise, shook her head violently and contorted her face into that of a cougar, which apparently they teach you at drama school.

‘Great,’ I said down the phone. ‘We’d love to. Where?’

‘The Atlantic?’ she simpered.

No chance. Cocktails and nob-ends. Plus, she lived in posh North London and we lived in Kennington, one of the nice but scruffy ends of South London, so it was like trying to arrange an inter-galactic alliance. I parried with the Ship and Shovel – both dirty and potentially dangerous.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Melanie. All right, the Ozone then.’

‘I’ll raise you to the Pitcher and Piano and no further.’

There was a sigh on the end of the line. ‘Well, if you must …’ She pouted audibly, which had zero effect on me as I don’t have a penis.

‘What did you do that for?’ groaned Fran once I got off the phone. ‘She’ll only have been promoted or been asked out by some poof in a West End musical or something.’

‘You never know,’ I said. ‘Maybe something’s gone horribly wrong. Maybe she’s up the duff by some sailors, and we, as her oldest friends, are the only ones who can truly comfort her. Heh heh heh.’

‘Did she have an up-the-duff voice on? Or perhaps a twee gloaty voice?’

I thought for a minute. ‘Ehmm, twee gloaty voice.’

‘Well, that’s it then. Sean Connery’s son has asked her to lunch. And we’re going to have to listen to two boring hours of how fantastic everything is for her, and we’ll be so bored we’ll get accidentally drunk, then she’ll drive off somewhere much more exciting, completely sober, and we’ll stay and get totally plastered out of bitterness and self-loathing, and hate ourselves for days.’

‘Unh huh. So, what are we going to wear?’

Amanda flounced into the bar on time. She was a three Ps girl – pert, pretty and petite.

‘Darlings, hi!’ she crowed across the bar. I forgot: when she got posh, she also got loud.

‘White wine OK?’

‘Special Brew for us, Amanda,’ shouted Fran. ‘But in a glass.’

Amanda finally wandered over with the drinks, after checking to see if she knew anyone, perched down on her perfect arse and turned to us with a smile like a morning weathergirl.

‘What’s your news, then?’ I asked helpfully.

‘You’ll never guess what, girls!’

‘Ehm, you’ve won the lottery, for double world fairness? You’re actually a man? You’re pregnant by forty sailors?’ Fran said the last bit under her breath.

‘I’m ENGAGED!!!’

‘Oh my God! Who to?’ we yelled simultaneously.

‘You know him, Mel. You remember – Fraser McConnald, from Durham.’

‘Fraser who?’ said Fran.

But I remembered. Sweet big gentle Fraser, with the scraggy hair and old clothes. I fancied him madly, he ignored it, so I followed him around pretending to be his mate instead. Not one of my proudest moments. God, did this girl have to win all the time?

‘You and Fraser! Arse Bastards!’ I said. ‘And also, I mean, wow, you’re getting married! Congratulations, that’s wonderful! God, and quick!’

Fraser never did anything quickly, I seemed to remember. I had a flash of him mooching about the college, trying to find somewhere to sit down and stretch out his incredibly long legs.

‘Oh, I know.’ She displayed the ring on her perfectly manicured finger. ‘He says I just swept him off his feet! Hee hee hee!’

Swept him off his feet? Or ran him over with a steamroller? Fraser didn’t even like being swept off his feet, I thought mutinously. Fraser liked striding about in the hills and reading Viz magazine and failing his engineering exams.

‘I remember him,’ said Fran, ‘… a couple of times when I came up. Lanky bloke. Lank. He didn’t seem like your type …’

‘Yes, well,’ simpered Amanda.

‘How did you meet him? Chess club?’

‘No, actually, it was the funniest thing … I was purring …’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Oh, my job, darling, you know.’

Grrrrr.

‘I was working for these clients from Edinburgh who are launching some ancient castles guide. Anyway, who should I see in the portfolio brochure but my old friend from university, Fraser.’

I didn’t point out that she can’t have said two words to him the whole time, as he blushed a lot, and wore the same pair of Converse trainers every day for three years.

‘Anyway, so I thought I’d go see him for a drink –’

‘Hang on,’ interrupted Fran, ‘what the hell was he doing in a brochure? Was it a brochure for Converse trainers?’

Amanda tinkled her tinkly laugh. ‘No, actually – and you’ll think this is just mad: me, little Amanda Phillips from Portmount Comprehensive …’

Uh-oh.

‘What?’ demanded Fran.

‘Well, actually … he’s a laird!’

‘A what?!’

I knew, though.

‘Oh, I know, isn’t it cute? Well, it’s like a lord – only Scotch!’

‘Is this true?’ Fran looked at me.

‘Ehm, I knew his uncle was. Maybe if his dad died, I suppose …’

Amanda looked at me in shock. ‘Melanie, you knew all that time and you didn’t tell me!’

‘Amanda, you met him once at a party, and you said he smelled funny.’

‘No-o, that can’t have been me.’ She laughed again. ‘Anyway –’

‘Did he smell funny?’ Fran asked me.

‘Only when it rained.’

‘Darlings!’ said Amanda, with an edge in her voice. ‘This is my BIG NEWS!’

We settled down, and her coy smile came back.

‘Anyway, by sheer coincidence I spoke to the castles people and they gave me his mother’s number, and she had his home number and it was just across London, so we got together and we had so much in common; we laughed and laughed … Then we went off to look at his land deeds, then one thing led to another at the Caledonian Ball …’

‘What a coincidence!’ said Fran.

‘… and now I am going to be Lairdess Amanda Phillips-McConnald!’ finished Amanda, all in one breath.

There was a silence.

‘Hey, his name’s Phillips too?’ said Fran.

‘No, no! You see, I’m keeping my name and taking his name. It’s a feminist statement really. Didn’t you see me in Tatler?’

Fran said later my eyes were like saucers. So she asked, ‘Is he rich?’

‘Don’t be silly, darling. What’s in Scotland?’

‘History? Great natural beauty? Mel Gibson?’

‘Sheep and alcoholics, darling. No, he hasn’t a bean … and there’s a “castle” to do up – he couldn’t pay for that looking at bridges all day long.’

Then Amanda went completely off on one about her interior design plans for the castle. I’d been there. (Fraser had asked a bunch of us along, but I’d tried to pretend it was a private outing for me alone.) It was really just an impressive exterior, two habitable rooms, and a Calor Gas heater, but she clearly didn’t know that yet, given the lengths she was prepared to go to to put metal walls in it.

‘I thought we’d go for a cutting-edge, post-industrialist look,’ she was saying.

I knew I had to say something – anything – at this point. So I followed my time-honoured rule of saying the first thing that comes into my head:

‘Wow, so really it’s like a class-weds-money type of thing! That’s practically …’

I was going to say Hogarthian, but too late. I got a look that could peel an apple whole, and a very long pause. Eventually:

‘Well, of course, us Phillips can trace our ancestry back pretty far.’

‘What, to Woking?’ said Fran.

‘Ha ha, very funny.’ She turned. ‘Are you getting married, Fran? Oh no, I forgot, you’re not seeing anyone, are you? Because maybe, if you ever do, we could make fun of you for a change.’

Fran raised her eyes to heaven and headed back to the bar for more drinks.

Tantrum over, Amanda leaned in chummily. ‘So, you and Fraser were quite close, weren’t you?’ She smiled, as if to show that this didn’t mean ENVY ME! ENVY ME!

‘Not really,’ I said, meaning: Well, I fancied him and he completely ignored me.

‘Oh, you must come to the wedding. It’s going to be absolutely wonderful. Daddy simply insists on making a fuss.’

Amanda’s dad had been married about four times since we were sixteen. He got a discount.

‘I’d love to.’ I would be generous. She was the first of my friends to get married, and to a lovely bloke. Why shouldn’t I be happy? Without warning, a thought of Alex popped into my head, and I winced.

‘Great! Oh, I’m sorry I can’t make you a bridesmaid, but Larissa and Portia are such good friends from varsity, I just had to ask them.’

‘Oh, right …’

‘You will meet someone, Melanie, you know. Someone nice. Such a shame about Alex dashing off like that. He was a bit of a one, wasn’t he? And of course so terribly well connected.’

Meaning what exactly? I put my drink down, rather too emphatically.

‘Well, I don’t care about that, and I don’t care about Alex.’

‘No, of course you don’t,’ she said, patting me on the hand in an infuriating manner.

I was constantly forgetting Amanda’s true potential for sheer malice. Revising my earlier estimate, I hoped she’d have a poxy marriage and get divorced before we’d finished the cake.

Fran came back with the drinks, but Amanda immediately hopped up and said she had to be elsewhere. She shook back her blonde sheet of hair – rootless – and sashayed her pert little leather-trousered arse out the door to her latest-model convertible, mobile phone already clamped to her ear, waving merrily behind her, off to somewhere infinitely more glamorous and exciting than the pub on a Friday night.

Fran and I sat in silence for a bit, till Fran said, ‘Sod that, then!’ and we drank her white wine as well as ours. Then we had another one to cheer ourselves up, and then a couple more, and before long we didn’t care that Amanda Phillips had found her handsome – if scruffy – prince and was going off to live in a castle. Much.

Much, much later we were yabbering nonsensically about the last bloke Fran metaphorically kicked in the bollocks and threw out the house – actually, when I came to think of it, she had literally kicked him in the bollocks, and he had limped out of the house of his own accord – when across the crowded pub I spied what looked like a familiar pair of knees. Following upwards, I deduced that it was in fact Nicholas, tallest accountant in the world. (How did I know him again?) Gosh, he was tall. I liked tall.

I tugged on Fran’s sleeve. ‘Look –’s Nicholas.’

Fran looked roughly over. ‘Wanker,’ she said.

Had Fran not said wanker about every bloke we’d mentioned for the last hour and a half I might have listened to her and saved myself some trauma. Instead, I waved at him in huge circular motions. ‘Knickerless!’ And I dissolved in giggles. He flew over and gave me a big kiss. Oh, we must have been old friends, then.

‘Melanie, fantastic to see you. I’ve just been having another crazy night out with the accountants.’

I squinted to make out anyone else who’d been at the other end of the bar, but they all seemed to have mysteriously disappeared.

‘God, we’re mad. Can’t see us getting home tonight without a police caution! Chaw chaw chaw!’

‘Buy’s a drink, Nicklas! You’re loaded!’

‘Sure, babe.’ And he did so with the fervour of a man who knew only too well just how much alcohol he usually had to get down a woman to get her to sleep with him.

In normal circumstances I would have run six miles from Nicholas, whom I had accidentally slept with at a party once because he was, er, very tall. He’d phoned me up constantly since and I’d realized that, tall though he might be, he was also the most boring bastard who’d ever lived. In fact, he was the most boring accountant who’d ever lived. After the inevitable grilling I’d caught from Fran when he turned up to pick me up in stonewashed jeans and pink cowboy boots, I’d made Linda answer the phone for a month. Now here he was again, and he was desperate, and I was desperate for attention – a deadly combination.

Ensconced in a corner next to Fran – who looked half-asleep, but with a drowsy look that said she could still bite you on the face if you thought about trying anything – Nicholas started telling me all the latest pranks him and his fantastic accounting mates had been up to. By the time they’d finally got on the coach they’d hired to go see Bryan Adams, I was about to gnaw off my own hands in despair. With impeccable drunk logic, I decided I’d better kiss him to get him to shut the fuck up. It wasn’t the easiest of tasks; almost on a par with climbing a tree. While pissed out of your head. So, once I got to the top, I decided I’d better stay until the tree fell asleep. I’d crawled from under the wreckage the following morning.

‘So now what am I going to do?’ I complained to Fran. ‘There’s a big stinky man in my bedroom, whom I hate, and if I go in and wake him he’ll start telling me hysterical stories about tax again.’

‘So?’

‘So, ehm, could you go … like, ask him to move?’

‘Me! Why me? You’re the one with all his saliva! Anyway, plus, what if he’s naked?’

‘Oh, right, you’ve never seen a naked man before?’

‘Not one that’s six foot seven. It’ll put me right off my sausage sandwich.’

Suddenly my ultra-loud doorbell rang, which made us both jump. Fran and I looked at each other and I limped dourly towards the door to stop the infernal noise.

WHOP! Straight out of my bedroom, an absolutely starkers, very hungover, six foot seven man ran full into me in panic, and it didn’t look like he had the faintest idea what galaxy he was in.

‘IS THERE A FIRE?!’

We stood for a while, looking straight at each other like rabbits caught in headlights. Then my psyche made an independent decision to turn me into my mother for as long as necessary.

‘No, Nicholas, of course there’s not. Go get dressed immediately! Now! – before I open the door.’

He blinked and retreated without saying a word, headed for the bedroom, then did a quick U-turn and made a bolt for the loo, where I could soon hear him having a six foot seven pee. Well, it was either him or a passing horse had got in there. So I had solved one problem – getting him out of my bedroom – and discovered another. Maybe I could keep him locked in there for ever and the neighbours would let us use their shower.

Finally, I opened the door, putting on an ingratiating look – not that the fat postman on the doorstep gave a toss.

‘Parcel.’

I signed for it, trying not to get too excited, but this was one huge parcel. Perhaps I had a secret admirer who was sending me precious gifts because they were totally rich and also perhaps completely famous.

Fran wandered through to try and use the loo. The fat postman noticed her – every man noticed her.

‘Hello, fat postman,’ she said. Then, indicating the parcel: ‘Hey, is that for you?’

I turned it over in anticipation. ‘No, it’s for Linda. Bum bum bum.’

‘God, what is it – the latest in the Woodland Farm Princess Diana Star Wars plate collection?’

‘No, too heavy.’

The postman wobbled off. As ever, we looked at each other, wondering how a man who walked ten miles a day could get that fat.

‘Books?’

‘Linda doesn’t read books. She eats them.’

‘Is that true, or is it just that you don’t like her?’

I looked at my feet.

‘It’s just that I don’t like her.’

‘Well then, can we open it?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Why not? She wouldn’t mind.’

‘Fran, I believe she might, in fact, mind.’

To be honest, I had no idea whether she’d mind or not. In fact, all I knew about Linda was that she worked in a bank – I couldn’t remember which one – was an only child, and had inherited money from her grandmother to buy this lovely flat and cover it in pastel tat. And I had learnt all this from the flat interview, where I had tried to look unbelievably fascinated, thus moving in under false pretences – which was a huge relief, as at the time I’d been on the run from a cabal of physiotherapists who were terrorizing me out of my shared flat in Edmonton, a period of my life I normally only flashed back to at four o’clock in the morning, wide awake and sweating.

As if hearing our thoughts – or, more likely, she’d had her ear up against the door earwigging our entire conversation – Linda stomped out into the corridor from her big bedroom at the back of the house, managing not to look either of us in the eye, even while grabbing the parcel out of my hand. She was short and round, with a definite aura of moustache. As she stomped back to her room, Fran and I swapped our familiar ‘Linda’ look.

‘Erm, guys … ha ha …’ came a strangulated voice, ‘can I, er, come out of the bathroom now?’

Fran raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Any time you like, darling. We’ll be right here.’

I started to giggle.

‘Right, OK, right …’ came the voice. Then there was a pause, during which we didn’t move back to the kitchen.

Finally, the door started to open and Nicholas emerged, with a mass of tissue paper covering his genitals. And I mean a mass.

‘Bwah hah! Corking night, eh, ladies!’ he hollered, putting on a good front, I have to say. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

‘For you, a number sixty-eight bus,’ said Fran. ‘They deliver.’

‘Haw haw haw – I’ll get my dancing trousers on and be right with you. And how are you, my darling?’

We both looked round, till I realized he was talking to me.

‘Oh, you know, some variation of fantastic,’ I said, hunched over, still in my towel. ‘The negative one.’ Suddenly I saw something on the floor which I hadn’t seen previously. I picked it up. It was a postcard, and this time it was for me.

‘Fra-an!’ my voice quavered as I followed her into the living room. ‘It’s a postcard.’

‘So I see. Oh, and look over there, Nicholas – it’s a door!’

‘Cwah cwah!’ came the voice from the other room. ‘Just wait till I tell the boys at work about this.’

I sighed. ‘Look,’ I said urgently. ‘Look who it’s from.’

The postcard was of the Empire State Building, almost completely obscured by a close-up of a woman’s breasts. On the other side it said simply: Darling, I’m so sorry – big mistake. I’m coming home. Alex.

There was a long dramatic pause. Or, well, there would have been a long dramatic pause, except that Nicholas chose that moment to launch into the room wearing purple trousers (I hadn’t noticed they were purple; the effect was like a terrible plum-canning factory accident), shouting, ‘Hey, I know what would be hysterical – let’s make some French toast!!’

Fran gave him a Paddington Bear hard stare. ‘Go look for some chocolate, Nicholas.’

I was in shock, and scarcely noticed when Nicholas disappeared, then returned obediently with a dozen chocolate mini rolls. I was too busy staring straight ahead without blinking and trying to work everything out: Alex, Alex, Alex – my ‘one true love’, according to me. Alex, Alex, Alex, that ‘low-level rat bastard’ according to Fran and pretty much everyone else in the world.

The first time I ever saw Alex I thought, ‘Phwoar, I’d like to get into his pants!’ And he looked at me and thought exactly the same thing: it was a true meeting of minds. Oh! That shitty West London party (well, I should have known better than to go to parties in West London and expect to have a good time, but just that once it paid off).

I was searching for the more expensive beer that hosts hide at the back of the fridge, when:

‘Is it just me,’ growled a tall voice, ‘or does everyone here look like they’ve got something uncomfortable up their bums?’

‘That’s trendy,’ I hissed. ‘You’re supposed to be envying them. They’re only pretending not to be having a good time.’

‘Ohhhhh, now I understand. Right. So I can either try and get out of West London …’

‘Can’t be done,’ I pointed out.

‘True … Or I could get absolutely wasted and do something awful which I could later abdicate any responsibility for.’

This was so pointed that I gulped and took a closer look at this six foot two, dark-haired, unruly-looking character with the most heavy-lidded, pointy-lashed brown eyes I’d ever seen.

‘That,’ I said, ‘sounds like it would be completely out of character.’

Eighteen astonishing hours later, damp, grubby and absolutely starving, lying in an unfamiliar bedroom having my tummy tickled with a tea bag, I realized I was on to something.

A year later I was blissful, swanning around with Alex, who was trying to make it as something in the music industry. He knew everyone; we always ended up at a party and all his friends were louche, slightly dodgy but with terribly nice accents. I was with the band: it was great. He wasn’t exactly the most romantic character on the planet, but I didn’t care; here I was, Melanie Pepper, twenty-six and watching minor pop-stars throw up in the corner of filthy nightclubs. Life was cool.

More than that, though, I absolutely adored him. I loved his cool long floppy hair, and his sad brown puppy eyes, and was constantly trying to get him to notice me. I would jump up and down trying to reach him, and he would give me his big lazy grin and check out who else was in on the conversation. Occasionally he would indulge me with his attention, and I would be like one of those pathetically affectionate little dogs they’re always rescuing on programmes about the RSPCA. Other times he’d flirt with women for ages and I would be distraught. In short, he was not that good a boyfriend, no doubt about it. But in his leather trousers … well, you know, a girl is a girl, and leather trousers and pop-star friends are leather trousers and pop-star friends, so of course I did what the cool girls should NEVER do, which is fall in love with the cool boys. It blows the whole thing.