Читать книгу Looking for Andrew McCarthy - Jenny Colgan - Страница 6

‘HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!’

Simple Minds. Ellie nudged it up with her foot, still concentrating on whitening up an extremely old pair of stilettos, and joined in with gusto.

‘Wooohhwoooahh!’

The phone rang and she turned the music down reluctantly.

‘Hedgehog!’

‘Oh, hi Dad.’

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Ellie tried to sound embarrassed, but was actually pleased.

‘Did you like your present then?’

‘Dad, it’s a beret.’

‘It’ll come in handy, though, won’t it? For skating?’

Ellie hadn’t been skating with her father for sixteen years.

‘Uh, yeah.’

‘So, are you all set for tonight then?’

Ellie looked around the room. One of the problems of having an eighties party, she mused, was not quite having the resources to rip out your entire flat and redesign it to look like the set of Dynasty. So she’d hung lots of old Brat Pack and Duran Duran posters on the wall, left lots of Jackie annuals lying about and bought a bunch of pink and black striped napkins. Later on, she was planning on spraying around some Anaïs Anaïs.

‘Hmm, pretty much,’ she said.

‘Is Julia coming?’

Ellie raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Dad, she’s my best friend. Of course she’s coming.’

‘I bet she’ll look nice.’

‘Yes, well, I think it’s enough every male my own age I’ve ever known fancying Julia without you as well, okay?’

She could hear her dad shrug over the phone.

‘She’s very pretty.’

‘Dad, you’ve know her since she was five. Stop being disgusting.’

Ellie stared in the mirror next to the phone and squinted at herself, trying to see if she could get her hair to lie down simply by leaving her hand on it for a long time. Ellie didn’t quite fit into the ‘very pretty’ category. She might make ‘very perky’ on a good day, with her ridiculously curly hair, which went in every direction, snub nose, and generous sprinkling of freckles. At least her eyes were nearly black, usually with mischief.

‘Yes, well,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Thirty, eh, darling? Leaving your wild, carefree youth behind you.’

Ellie contemplated a much-loved picture of Limahl and wondered if her youth had been quite wild and carefree enough.

‘Ehm … something like that,’ she said, trying to manipulate sellotape, poster and phone at the same time. ‘I stole a traffic cone once. Anyway. What did you do for your thirtieth birthday?’

‘Don’t you remember, Hedgehog?’ he said. ‘You were the one who wouldn’t stop biting the waitress.’

‘I was there?’

‘There? You were practically at school. Couldn’t go back for another black forest gateau for years. Then we went to the garden centre in the afternoon and you weed behind the fountain.’

‘That sounds terrible,’ said Ellie, glancing at the piles of old twelve inch Howard Jones singles she was planning to use as the major form of entertainment.

‘No, actually, it was lovely,’ her father said, nostalgically.

Ellie examined her face in the mirror again. It was a Nik Kershaw one she’d found at a boot sale.

‘Wrinkles and freckles? That can’t be right, surely,’ she thought to herself.

‘Huh?’ she said.

‘Nothing. Just have a nice time.’

‘I will. I’m just going to pick Billy up from his rehearsal.’

‘Oh, right.’ Her dad conveyed by those two simple words exactly what he thought of Billy, Ellie’s latest paramour. Ellie thought it was because he played saxophone in a band. In fact, it was because her dad had been a policeman for thirty-five years, and had a pretty good idea what a rogue looked like.

‘Okay. See you soon.’

‘See you soon, darling.’ He paused. ‘And – have a happy birthday, sweetheart. You know? I just want you to be happy.’

‘Now what the hell did he mean by that?’ thought Ellie to herself, instantly upset as soon as she put the phone down. She started unpacking the bags of Wham bars, Spangles and Space Dust and gazed at the dusty box of Bezique she’d extracted from a rather shocked looking off-licence assistant.

‘I’m completely happy,’ she thought to herself. Particularly now she’d bribed her evil landlord with several boxes of nasty cheap continental lager to get himself out the house.

She hauled herself out into the chilly October air to head round the corner to Wandsworth Town Hall where Billy would be making a racket and pretending to be Steve Norman. She dug her hands deep into the pockets of her duffel coat.

‘I am happy,’ she thought. ‘Well, apart from my job, which is shit. And the flat of course. Which is also shit.’

She turned the corner. ‘And I’m having a party. And I have a cake in the shape of Dangermouse.’

‘Bought by me for myself,’ she thought.

She marched up the steps of the town hall. There were no wailing noises, which was unusual, but she knew where the rehearsal rooms were.

‘And all my friends will be there.’

She pushed open the door.

‘And I guess they’ll buy me lots of knick-knacky things.’

She entered the room fully.

‘Oh SHIT,’ she yelled, as Billy leapt up from the near-prone position where he’d plainly been snogging the dumpy trombonist.

‘Fuck! I’m MISERABLE!’

Julia’s hand was sore from knocking on the newly stripped pine bathroom door. She sighed and tugged at her nasty nylon shirt with the pussycat bow rather self-consciously. Ellie was on the other side of the door, and she had locked it and pushed a cupboard in front of it.

‘Hedgehog! Please come out! You can’t have a tantrum on your birthday!’

From behind the door came muffled noise. Julia leaned in to hear.

‘Yes, well, let’s just forget ages four, six and eight through eleven for now, shall we?’ she said, and sighed again. She gazed through the doorway into the living room. It actually looked pretty ratty, with the basic Ikea covered over in old posters, and two Cabbage Patch dolls posed to look as though they were having sex forming a centrepiece. The Psychedelic Furs were playing.

There were, Julia often reflected, two ways to deal with someone who, on the day in Year One when the photographer comes from the local paper and everyone is scrubbed, brushed, plaited and ironed to the nines, stands next to you and jams their pencil in your thigh so that there are twenty-seven angelic grins in the official 1975 Year One photograph of St Joseph Xaviers, and one agonized grimace. You either never speak to them again and secretly break all their pencils, or you give up and become their best friend, whilst learning to accept a certain amount of unpredictability into your life.

She smoothed down the ridiculous blouse, in which she was actually managing to look quite chic, and knocked again. ‘I’ve fixed Pass the Parcel!’ she said. ‘Second verse of “Never Ending Story!” Just hang on in there!’

There was silence from beyond the door. The front doorbell rang and Julia stomped off to open it.

‘Hello darling,’ said Arthur, kissing her on both cheeks and swanning in stylishly as usual. ‘You smell nice. I thought I’d come early.’

‘God, am I glad you did,’ said Julia with clear relief, indicating the bathroom door. Arthur was handsome, charming, kind and everyone was in love with him. He was also so gay you could bounce him like a basketball. He put down a gift and a bottle of champagne and went over to the bathroom.

‘No, really?’

Julia nodded. ‘Disappeared in there with a bottle of wine to get ready. Two hours ago.’

‘Huh, I don’t know why she’s so bothered. It’s only thirty. That’s, like, seventy in gay years.’

‘Oh, yeah, where is Colin?’

‘I left him tied up outside. Come on, darling, what’s the matter?’ Arthur hollered through the door. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got to complain about. I caught Colin eating from the sugar bowl again.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t just get a dog,’ said Julia. ‘Be a lot easier.’

‘But he’s so cute.’

‘Yeah, and wait to see how cute he is with worms.’

‘Come on missus!’ Arthur banged the door again. ‘There’s presents out here.’

‘Why aren’t you dressing up?’ said Julia, rummaging in her old make up kit for a blue eyeliner pencil.

‘I am,’ said Arthur, lifting his Tom Ford shirt to show a quick flash of an old “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt. ‘That’s as far as I can go. Anything more eighties brings me out in a rash. I call it Banarama-isus.’

‘Ah,’ said Julia wisely as, through the open front door, she spotted a couple heading up the pathway of the run-down South London terrace. ‘Who’s that coming?’

Arthur peered over her shoulder.

‘I don’t know. Who else has been invited?’

‘Not sure. Ellie went through all her old address books and asked everyone she’s ever met in an attempt to have a big bouncing birthday party.’

A rather ascetic-looking young man and his even more disinfected-looking girlfriend stood nervously on the doorstep clutching a gift wrapped in a Body Shop bag.

‘Hello there!’ said Julia brightly. The couple smiled nervously.

‘… and you are?’

‘Ehm, Hi. Yeah. I’m Ellie’s chiropodist?’ said the awkward looking man. Behind them, alighting stodgily from a taxi, were two more people, who looked middle-aged unless you peered very very closely.

‘I can’t believe she invited George and Annabel,’ Arthur whispered to Julia.

‘I can’t believe I gave her free access to her own address book.’

Annabel was truly dressed up for the nineteen eighties only in as far as she hadn’t changed her style in her whole life. Her pearls smacked gently off her upturned blue-striped collar as she leaned in to try her hand at the bathroom door of fear.

‘Darling, do come out. I’ve got to tell you the hilarious thing George did at the golf club dinner.’

Annabel and George had been together since college and had married immediately after it, which surprised no-one as they’d both looked forty-five on the day they’d turned up for fresher’s week. He did the bad dad jokes, she did the baking, and they had been the first to buy a flat, settle down and start complaining about parking in garden centres on Sunday afternoons.

‘I brought some home made hors d’oeuvres!’

The chiropodist appeared to be picking up the cheese and sniffing it.

‘Where’s Billy?’ said Arthur, helping himself to a glass of wine, seeing as the party seemed likely to continue hostess-free.

‘Aha,’ said Julia. ‘That kind of explains the bathroom. They’ve had a little contretemps.’

‘Good.’ said Arthur. ‘Too much saxophone playing. I hope they split up: when you say their names together it sounds like Canterbury Cathedral.’

‘No,’ said Julia. ‘She caught him getting off with a trombonist. Apparently they do amazing things with their lips …’

‘Oh dear,’ said Arthur. ‘Things are bad. If this really was the nineteen eighties, we’d have to give her a makeover.’

Ellie was sitting on the linen basket feeling utterly disconsolate and kicking her white-stockinged toes in the air. The problem about having a huff was it was kind of difficult to know when to stop. She could hear signs of activity outside and knew she ought to go and face them all, but instead she was back looking in the mirror at the amount of polka-dotted lace she’d tied through her curly black hair and thinking, ‘thirty!’ Okay. Relax. She was fine. She wasn’t unhappy. Okay. So she was living with the biggest bastard landlord this side of China. And she had a job which involved a mind boggling amount of paper shifting to no apparent end. And Billy. She didn’t even want to think about him. Okay, so he hadn’t been absolutely ideal – he worked all night and slept all day and wasn’t even anything cool like a vampire – and, okay, his hair was a bit on the mullety side, but she didn’t mind that particularly. But no. He still had to go and bag off with someone who looked like she carried around two ping pong balls in her cheeks. Was this fair? She rubbed roughly at a stubborn tear which had forced its way through several layers of Barry M crème eyeliner.

How on earth could she go out there? Half of her guests she didn’t even know. With a wince of embarrassment she remembered that she’d invited the postman. And, yet again, another birthday without a word from her mother, which made sixteen in all. She examined her eyes for wrinkles again and found plenty. ‘Not that it matters much from this point on,’ she thought gloomily. ‘It’s all downhill from here, fat arse.’

She touched up her beauty spot. Oh God. Maybe if she stayed in here all night they’d all go away.

‘Umm, hi,’ came a deep growly voice from the other side of the door. It was Loxy, Julia’s super-uxorious boyfriend.

‘Julia sent me over to … I don’t know what really. But here I am. And lots of other people are too. Happy birthday by the way.’

He coughed. Ellie closed her eyes. Loxy was lovely, and so in love with Julia it made Ellie want to puke.

‘So … Julia’s looking good, don’t you think? What are you wearing?’

Ellie glanced down at her hybrid 1984 Madonna/ Strawberry Switchblade/Cyndi Lauper outfit and winced a little. Perhaps it was a little bit over the top. She hoped everyone else was dressed up too. (This was to prove a vain hope, although the security guard from her office was wearing differently coloured neon socks, and her hairdresser’s assistant had got herself a wet look perm done specially).

Someone was singing about someone else being their favourite waste of time, and Julia glanced around the room. It had filled up quite nicely, although ‘Come Dressed for the Eighties,’ seemed to have been literally translated as ‘Well, In a Way Gap Did Actually Exist in the Eighties.’ There wasn’t a boiler suit in sight, despite the pictures of Tony Hadley on the invites.

Siobhan and Patrick were in a mood with each other, not exactly unusual given that they’d been a couple for five years and were both chronic workaholics who’d forgotten how to spend any time together. Patrick was pushing the ironic flying saucer sweets in his mouth with the same relentless mechanical motion he used to sell bonds and, Julia suspected, make love. He was staring straight ahead looking mournful. Siobhan, on the other hand, had turned into a parody of someone trying to pretend she wasn’t in a mood with someone; circulating, flirting, laughing loudly. The joys of domesticity. Julia had never lived with anyone, not that Loxy ever stopped dropping hints; in fact, even now as she turned round from pouring wine (Annabel had taken over canapé distribution) he was hovering about worriedly and asking her if she wanted him to break the bathroom door down. Caroline Lafayette was banging on about her gap year in Tibet yet again, despite it being twelve years ago. Colin was hopping from foot to foot, obviously desperate for the toilet. Were all parties always crap, or just Ellie’s? Okay, that was it. She marched out to the bathroom.

‘Hedgehog!’ she yelled. ‘I’m bringing out the cake. Everyone is here. We’re going to sing happy birthday. You are going to come out and be nice. Or we’re going to … ehm. We’re going to tell your Big Bastard Landlord that you fancy him.’

‘How come,’ said Ellie through the door, ‘when Oscar the Grouch is in a bad mood everyone’s really sympathetic, but when it’s me I get dire threats?’

‘He’s cuter than you.’

‘He lives in a bin!’

‘Come on everyone!’ said Julia as Loxy came out of the kitchen with the Dangermouse cake. She started singing ‘Happy Birthday’.

People started to join in nervously, however just as they were getting going, the front door slammed open. Shadowed in the open doorway against the wet October evening, the light from the streetlamp bouncing off his face, clutching his saxophone and dripping onto the carpet stood Billy. He lifted the saxophone and started to play along. Slowly, very slowly, the handle of the bathroom door started to turn.

Ellie burst out of the bathroom.

‘Hey, sugar,’ said Billy, curling his lip at her. Billy was medium height and emaciated and looked, in a bad light, like Rob Lowe’s ugly younger brother. After he’d been addicted to crack for fifteen years and had a YTS haircut.

‘Sorry,’ said Ellie, calmly. ‘Did someone say something? Or did I just hear a cat being sick?’

Julia manoeuvred herself to Ellie’s side and put her arm round her.

‘Why don’t you just come over here and we’ll cut the cake?’

‘It didn’t mean anything, sugar.’

‘Would you like a canapé?’ said Annabel. ‘I made them myself.’

Billy ignored her, pulled on his cigarette and dropped his ash on the carpet. Annabel sniffed loudly.

‘Babe, I’ve just composed a little melody for you to show you exactly how much you mean to me.’

‘Just as well it’s not the other way around,’ said Ellie, crossly. ‘Otherwise we’d all have to listen to “Agadoo”.’

Billy lifted up the saxophone, framing himself artistically in the doorway, winked meaningfully at her and threw back his head to start blowing.

‘This isn’t the one that sounds like “Baker Street” is it?’ said Ellie.

Billy paused and slowly lowered the sax. ‘Ehm, yes. Yes it is that one.’

Ellie sighed and slowly began eating a canapé.

‘Oh well. Go on then.’

‘You’ve put me off now.’

‘Fine.’

Billy looked down at Annabel, who seemed to have accrued a dustbuster from somewhere.

‘Excuse me, but I’m trying to make what’s known as a gesture?’

‘Yes, well, you’re actually making what’s known as a mess.’

Billy sighed and, very slowly, lowered the saxophone.

‘You know darling,’ he said to Ellie in a conversational sneer. ‘It’s not like we were going to get married or anything.’

‘Nobody gets married,’ groaned Ellie.

‘… it’s you that said you didn’t want commitment.’

‘Yeah, I don’t need a lot of commitment to ME.’ Ellie found herself yelling. ‘But you can’t make a commitment to a piece of TOAST.’

‘Jeez, what happened to everyone being laid back?’ said Billy.

‘For fuck’s sake Billy. Just because I went to Red Wedge doesn’t mean that you’re allowed to get off with a trombonist, okay?’

He pouted. ‘I just don’t know why it’s such a big deal. It’s not like I’ve bought her her own handset for the playstation.’

‘Oh,’ said Ellie. ‘So she’s been round your house.’ She stared at him. He was idly brushing back his gelled hair. Fury welled in her.

‘It’s a studio, not a house, okay babe? Chill! It’s ironic really … you know … being found snogging by someone who says they don’t want commitment then them blowing a gasket.’

‘For once in your fucking life …’ she screamed at him. The chiropodist began to edge towards the door.

‘Just for once: this is NOT fucking ironic, okay?’

‘Not unless he did the same thing on her twentieth birthday in the same clothes,’ whispered Arthur to Julia, who nodded.

‘For fuck’s sake, you prick. You really hurt my feelings. Can’t you see that?’

Billy shrugged. ‘It’s like that movie …’

‘It’s not like ANY movie, Butthead,’ shouted Ellie. ‘You actually hurt me, and you seem chronically incapable of giving a fuck.’

She burst into tears and retreated into the bathroom.

‘Chicks, eh?’ said Billy in the bad fake American accent he affected much of the time. He looked closely at the bathroom door. There was no sign of life. He turned and slouched moodily out of the flat.

‘And how about another quick “Happy Birthday to You”?’ suggested Annabel.

Six hours later Ellie was still lying across her bed in something approximating despair, although she was coming to the end of the drama queen stage. Mascara was running down her face and she was clinging onto another empty bottle. Julia and Arthur were sitting on the bed, Colin was mooching around petulantly. Loxy was waiting patiently outside.

‘Oh God,’ she said dramatically. ‘That’s the worst party I’ve ever had. Or been to.’

‘Nonsense.’ said Arthur briskly. ‘What about that time at Annabel’s when you threw up on her mohair rug?’

‘It was round and it was white, okay? Looked like a toilet seat to me. Oh God. I can’t believe I’m thirty. I’m thirty and I have absolutely nothing.’

‘You have masses of things,’ said Arthur, rubbing her back soothingly. ‘Friends, and a flat and a job and everything. And your mobile phone is really, really tiny and silver. I mean, what did you think things were going to be like when you got to this stage?’

Ellie’s vision clouded over as she thought of what it was going to be like.

‘Let me see,’ she said, staring into the middle distance. ‘I’m wearing a beautiful pink dress.’

‘Oh no,’ said Julia. ‘Not this one again.’

‘And I’m in a big pink room with billowing curtains … and I’m dancing to Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark … and my handsome partner leans over and whispers something like …’

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure house prices will keep going up for ever,’ said Arthur, squeezing her tightly. ‘I can’t believe you thought that having an eighties party would make the Brat Pack happen.’

‘What are you all talking about?’ said Colin, who still lived with his parents.

‘God, Colin, what’s the first film you ever saw? Jurassic Park?’ said Julia. ‘Ellie was talking about a very talented group of young actors in the nineteen eighties …’

‘… who now make furniture sale adverts and appear in films on Channel 5 after midnight on wet Thursdays,’ said Arthur.

‘And we loved them.’

‘Why?’ asked Colin.

Everyone looked at each other.

‘They had HUGE apartments,’ said Ellie. ‘Not flats, apartments.’

‘And they went to cool dances at school.’

‘And they started out unpopular, but then got really popular.’

‘And they had makeovers.’

‘And they were going to be friends for ever, despite their class and intellectual differences.’

‘And they were all going to be famous and successful and live happily ever after for ever!’

Everyone sighed.

‘That sounds complete shit,’ said Colin.

‘As opposed to what?’ sniffed Ellie. ‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?’

‘Oh, Hedge,’ said Arthur, rubbing her head affectionately. ‘I don’t think we can get you what you want for your birthday. Although your chiropodist left you some peppermint foot lotion.’

Ellie had been known as Hedgehog since she could talk. Ellie’s mum had started calling her it because she was such a prickly little thing, and it had stuck, because the more you called her it, the pricklier she got. After her mother ran away with an chartered accountant called Archie, Ellie got pricklier still.

Whilst Julia was blonde and angelic as a child – she was still blonde now, although it took a little bit more effort, and she was certainly angelic bordering on martyrdom as far as the Hedgehog was concerned – Ellie was wild-eyed and had kinky black hair and sticky pink cheeks and looked as if she’d just run away from the circus. Their teachers in public had called them ‘Snow White and Rose Red’, in private, ‘Good and Evil’.

Ellie’s mother had skipped town without warning the year before the girls sat their GCSEs. It shocked their friends and neighbours in the respectable suburb, and no-one ever mentioned it to Ellie ever again, no matter how many tantrums she pulled. Julia, and her parents, had made sure that, when Julia sat down to study for her exams and, eventually, applied to university in Sheffield, Ellie did exactly the same, and they had gone up together. Which usually meant that they just felt like very old best friends, although occasionally it could feel that they were yoked together unto death. Julia looked out for Ellie, and it seemed to Ellie that the trade-off was Julia got to be blonde and gorgeous-looking and pick up the nicest guys.

They’d met Arthur at college. Ellie had marched up to him in the student bar and declared that she fancied him. She’d found as a student that this method worked amazingly well on desperate teenage boys away from home for the first time. She would find in later life that it worked well on some older men too, but that the quality was definitely deteriorating year on year.

‘Tough,’ Arthur had replied lazily.

‘Why? What’s wrong with me?’

He looked her up and down.

‘One … two … ehm, three things,’ he said. ‘Adam’s apples I can take or leave.’

‘Oh,’ said Ellie. ‘Ohhhh,’ she said again as the ramifications sunk in. ‘I’ve never met anyone gay before.’

‘Really?’ Arthur had said. ‘How is Mars?’

‘I’m Ellie,’ she had announced sticking out her hand. ‘From Esher. Do you have any brothers who look exactly like you?’

‘No, Ellie from Esher,’ he had said, taking it. ‘Do you?’

‘Pardon me for asking …’

‘I’m not sure I like the way this is going.’

‘But aren’t you supposed to be really stylish and stuff?’

‘Clearly,’ said Arthur who was wearing satin smoking trousers and had his cigarette in a holder.

‘Well then, why do you hang around with Annabel and George?’

He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I like to keep a constant reminder around me of what I’ll never ever have to be. That and the sponge cake.’

‘Really! Me too! That’s me exactly! Would you like to be my partner in crime?’

Arthur had considered it for a second.

‘Yeah, alright then.’

‘My life,’ said Ellie now, sitting up on the bed, ‘is like one of those adverts for soup. You know, when someone has a really horrid, cold, rainy, bad day but it’s all right because at the end they sink into an armchair with a big cup of soup. WITHOUT THE SOUP.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Arthur. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your life that a little scooter wouldn’t sort out. Let’s go shopping on Sunday.’

‘No, it’s not that,’ said Ellie. ‘I mean, just, why do I just feel so bleargh? I mean, is all I have to look forward to squeezing massive foreign objects through my own tissues?’

‘You know, you really don’t have to have a baby if you don’t want to,’ said Julia.

‘We’re going to have to go,’ said Arthur, looking at Colin who was snoring sweetly in an armchair. ‘Come on; why don’t we forget tonight and go out tomorrow and drink the cocktail alphabet?’

‘Uh huh. Maybe. Okay,’ said Ellie. ‘You might as well go now. I’m wearing fifteen layers; it’s going to take me half an hour to get undressed.’

Julia kissed her on the head. ‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be worried about. Not really.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Ellie wistfully. ‘That’s why I’m so worried about why I’m worried.’

‘You looked lovely tonight,’ said Loxy to Julia as they left.

‘Uh huh,’ said Julia. They picked their way through the party detritus and the old Classix Nouveaux LPs.

Ellie didn’t sleep. Or she thought she wasn’t sleeping, but found out she was when she fell out of bed. Having been dreaming of doing something rather disconcerting with Anthony Michael Hall, she bounced and shuddered awake with a yelp and scuttled about on the carpet, noting as she did so how filthy it was. It was grey outside, inside, on the floor, and especially under the bed.

‘Aargh!’ she yelped. ‘The first yelp of my thirties,’ she thought. She paused experimentally, in case the landlord she shared the flat with might get up to make sure she was alright. Her landlord was a bastard and it was a horrible flat, but she’d picked it because it was within walking distance of all her friends.

‘Shut up, Hedgehog!’ came a sleepy voice from next door. He’d come in late the previous night and eaten the remaining sausage rolls very, very loudly.

‘Shut up yourself,’ she yelled, snivelling. Unfortunately she wasn’t bleeding hard enough to go into his bedroom and do a Carrie imitation. She wiped herself with a dirty tissue and crawled back onto the bed, not noticing that the reason she had blood on her head was because she’d knocked the alarm clock off the bedside table. Lying back down, she dropped straight into a coma until the flat farting rev of her flatmate’s supposedly trendy scooter underneath her window woke her up at ten to nine.

‘Aargh,’ she yelped again, and leapt out of bed to look out of the window to try and work out what was going on.

‘Late for work again, Hedgehog? Not like you,’ shouted her big bastard landlord, a huge rugby player who was so muscular he couldn’t cross his own legs. Ellie was looking forward to his thirty-fifth birthday, when he would go to bed a brick shithouse and wake up morbidly obese. His hair was brown and stuck out persistently in different directions, despite his efforts to clamp it down with what Ellie fervently hoped was hair gel and not spit, and his face was permanently red.

She leaned out of the window. ‘Give me a lift on your scooter, Big Bastard.’

He snorted. ‘No chance. You are at least two hours off being ready and it’s morning traffic.’

‘Pleeease. I’ll do your ironing.’

He barked with laughter.

‘If I want fewer clothes I’ll give them to Oxfam, thanks.’

‘I hate you.’

‘I know, I’ve tasted your shepherd’s pie.’

‘I am thirty years old,’ Ellie rifled through her drawers, thinking. ‘And yet I do not appear to have a pair of unladdered tights. How can this be?’

‘Big Bastard!’ she hollered out of the window again. He was slipping his helmet on.

‘Ugh?’

‘Have you been stealing my tights for hilarious drunken pranks again?’

‘Guh … Yeah, I think so. We put one on Vince’s head for … ehm, some reason. Bloody funny though. Oh, and we took a pair of hold ups for Gaz’s stag. Oh, and that bet Willis had to put a pair on those monkeys at the safari park. And, ehm, Carmel borrowed a pair one morning. Oh, yeah, and I needed a pair to fix the car.’

Carmel was his dull girlfriend. Her only point of interest was that, as she was four foot eleven and Big Bastard was six foot four, people were always asking them how on earth they managed to have sex, as casually as if they were asking them if they wanted a cup of tea.

‘You are one big bastard,’ said Ellie.

‘Tough,’ he said. ‘Oh, and I need your rent and your share of the satellite TV.’

‘But I never watch the shagging satellite TV! You only use it for sport and women’s bosoms!’

‘Just write us a cheque, eh darling?’

‘Yeah, minus tight tax. Now I’m going to have to wear my white tights again.’

‘Nothing wrong with white tights.’

‘Yes, Big Bastard, but you think Jordan’s gorgeous. And please give me a lift.’

‘Phforr … Jordan. Sorry, what was that darling? No, I couldn’t possibly be seen out with someone in white tights.’

‘I hope you get run over by a lorry carrying really stinky chemicals that hurt you really badly and make you stink for the rest of your life. Even more than you do now. And maybe turn you purple.’ Ellie petered out, slamming down the window as Big Bastard completely ignored her.

‘Aha,’ she thought. ‘I’m thirty and even the quality of my insults is deteriorating year on year.’

Still, Big Bastard had been right about the ironing. Prodding desperately at a silk shirt that appeared to have taken on several different shades, Ellie cursed the entire institution. ‘In the future,’ she growled to herself, ‘ironing will be like dunking witches and bloodletting. They won’t have a bloody clue why anybody bothered.’

She turned the shirt over and groaned at the large water stain that appeared.

‘Along with commuting,’ she sighed, throwing on a jacket with only one button missing and diving for the door, stopping to scoop up a spoonful of the horrid brown supposedly athletic mush Big Bastard had left behind to cement itself to a bowl. ‘And breakfast cereal, probably. They’ll discover it on an archaeological dig and say “Well, we’ve analysed it, and it’s not food.”’

Ellie stormed out of the door, not even stopping to pick up her newly delivered copy of Smash Hits.

‘Miss Eversholt! How kind of you to join us.’

Ellie tried to smile without using her teeth. Her boss, Mr Rooney, was of the school headteacher sarcastic variety, but you didn’t have the option of sneering back at him or pretending you had your period as compensation. He was pink-eyed, with thinning red hair, and had suspiciously scrofulous looking skin.

‘Everyone, we can start now! Miss Eversholt has deigned to grace us with her presence.’

‘Sorry Mr Rooney. Sorry everyone.’

As usual, the rest of the surveying team looked at her with complete blankness. They always did this, as if they thought being Assistant Administrative Director of Business Development was in some way odd. Ellie hated her job. Beyond hated it. She’d liked the idea of it, but then her idea of it was kind of sexy architects crossed with sexy builders. This didn’t turn out to have a lot to do with what it was, which involved large numbers of protractors and lots of long division. And for some reason the men who worked in it seemed to be required by law to wear loads of pens clipped onto their top pockets, and great big shoes that looked like Cornish pasties.

‘Well, you’ll be glad to know we’ve got a new job in, and it’s going to be taking up lots of our time. They’re turning the old library into … anyone? Anyone?’

‘Don’t tell us, groovy new fake open-plan warehouse flats with fake wooden floors and metal sinks,’ Ellie muttered to the person sitting next to her who was wearing a polyester blouse and completely ignored her.

‘… a revolutionary evolution in inner city migration.’

‘Thought so,’ said Ellie, slugging back some more revolting polystyrene coffee.

‘Miss Eversholt, if you have anything to say, perhaps you’d like to share it with the rest of the group?’

‘No Mr Rooney.’

‘And are you chewing?’

‘No Sir,’ she said. That wasn’t true. There was an undislodgeable and inedible piece of Brantastic stuck to the roof of her mouth.

‘Well, I need a volunteer to dig up the archived Victorian plans … anyone? Anyone?’

There was silence.

‘Ellie, why don’t you take that on?’

This was the filthiest job possible and usually meant several sixteen-hour days in a locked windowless basement, which was good if you were a method actor researching a play about the Beirut hostages, but not particularly useful for anything else.

‘Sir, how can I look for things down at the library when you’re converting all the libraries?’

‘Don’t play smart mouth with me young lady. Now, any other business?’

Ellie sighed and ate another fusty custard cream. Rooney & Co. specialized in ripping the guts out of proper, useful buildings and turning them into Lifestyles for young single professionals; identical rough-walled wanker machines that sold for hundreds of thousands of pounds. As well as it being horribly dull, Ellie always had the sneaking feeling that there was something actually totally wrong with what she was doing, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Arthur had patiently explained it was post-modern and at least they weren’t ripping up the countryside, but the niggling feeling remained, alongside the budding repetitive strain injury.

‘What’s up?’ she remarked to her sullen and uncommunicative temp as she wandered into her cubicle after the meeting.

‘Three churches, six cotton warehouses and a shipyard some wanker wants to offload. Did you have a nice birthday?’ said the temp without lifting her head from Take A Break magazine. What was worse, Ellie wondered: inviting the temp to her birthday party or the temp not turning up?

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘You’re not meant to enjoy your own birthdays, are you? Too fraught.’

The temp shrugged.

‘Can’t remember. I’m always too lashed out of my head.’

‘Maybe that was my big mistake,’ said Ellie. ‘Actually remembering being there.’

What was worse, Ellie wondered: playing patience at work or caring about it enough to change the design on the back of the cards?

Thank God she had something to look forward to after work. Elms, their Clapham local, looked lit up and busy that evening. There was a band playing in the corner with a saxophonist who fortunately wasn’t Billy, friendly waiting staff with aprons, who let you run tabs, and long red-checked-tableclothed tables. Siobhan and Julia were joining them, to see if they could remember what a good night out felt like. As she walked in, Ellie was disappointed at how relieved she was that her friends had found a place to sit and the music wasn’t too loud. She plucked off Arthur’s red hat and sat down.

‘Hey! Where are we up to?’

‘B,’ said Arthur.

‘Perfect. I’ll have a Bloody Mary.’ The waitress nodded and headed off.

‘How are you?’ said Julia tentatively.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ellie. ‘I’ve had the crappiest day in the universe. I just can’t … God, do you ever feel you’re getting into a big fat rut?’

‘Aha! The middle class Olympics!’ said Arthur.

‘G2 does,’ said Siobhan, handing over the newspaper. The headline read, ‘Are You and Your Twenty-Something Friends in a Big Fat Rut? Why not Experiment With Scented Candle Sticks, Scatter Cushions and Cocaine, Just Like Everybody Else Is?’

‘This is EXACTLY what I mean,’ said Ellie. She picked the paper up. ‘I don’t feel I can have one tiny original thought in my head. And if anything goes wrong I’m just supposed to go and buy something taupe and put it in the right corner of the living room.’

‘Thatcherbaby,’ said Arthur.

‘I know. But I didn’t ask to be a Thatcherbaby!’

‘Well, you are.’

‘I mean, is this it? Is there really nothing more to life than getting your gold card?’

‘Oh, I got mine!’ said Siobhan.

‘Really! Let’s see. Ohh. God, I’m so shallow.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Arthur. ‘Your number one fantasy in life is to kiss Andrew McCarthy in a pink dress. Although world peace runs a close second.’

Ellie sipped her newly arrived Bloody Mary. ‘I think I’m unhappy. I need an adventure. Maybe I should change jobs. Or career. Or dye my hair?’

‘You’re affluent, you have no responsibilities, you have plenty of free time … you are making up INVISIBLE WESTERN PROBLEMS,’ said Arthur. ‘Go see a therapist. They love invisible problems.’

‘It’s just thirtyangst,’ said Julia. ‘I got that too. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ said Ellie. ‘You’ve got your own flat AND a devoted love slave.’

Loxy smiled and put his arm around Julia. She shrugged him off and raised her eyes to heaven, whereupon his smile faded. Loxy was aware at some level that the more uxoriously he behaved the less attention he received, but was too nervous to put any lovebastard techniques into practice. In short he was universally referred to as Sweet with a capital S, never the epithet of choice for strong-armed love gods, unless your name is Eric Cartman. This often puzzled Loxy, as he was six foot two, built, had a fairly difficult responsible job as a prisoner’s advocate and was never normally like this around women. In fact, before he’d met Julia, he’d never done a sappish thing in his life. However he’d never met a woman before who did such a convincing job of combining Felicity Kendal and Ulrika Johnson.

There was no point in envying the fact that Julia got all the great men though, as Siobhan, checking her watch for the hundredth time, was well aware.

‘Where the hell is Patrick?’ she said. ‘He’s so unreliable. I wish he wouldn’t work so late.’

‘Actually, Shiv, Patrick’s incredibly reliable,’ pointed out Julia. ‘He’s always working late.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Siobhan. ‘Christ. He can’t even be annoying in an interesting way.’

Siobhan had been Arthur’s landlady at college, when they’d taken it in turns to argue about furniture and have immaculacy competitions. No-one liked to go round there too often, particularly not Ellie, who had a bit of a conflict going on between her love for red wine and her red wine’s love for other people’s carpets.

‘What I’d really like,’ said Ellie, ‘is for something really dramatic to happen. An earthquake or something. Hmm, no, a non fatal earthquake. Oh God, I don’t know. Just something.’

‘How about you fall out with your boyfriend in public at your own birthday party have a yelling match with him then lock yourself in the bathroom?’ said Arthur. ‘Oh, no, hang on …’

Ellie’s mobile rang.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Maybe this is it. Maybe somebody’s seen me in the street and wants me to go to Hollywood and become a movie star!’

‘I bet that’s who it is,’ said Siobhan. ‘Or maybe it’s Prince William telling you he’s in love with you.’

‘Could be anything,’ said Ellie, peering at the phone. ‘Oh. It’s my dad. Oh no! I take it all back! I don’t want anything to happen at all.’

Ellie’s dad lived alone. Ever since Ellie’s mother had left he drank rather too much whisky and relied on seeing his only child often, otherwise he tended to live in string vests and eat cold beans straight out of the tin.

‘Hey?’ she said tentatively, then listened patiently as he described his extremely bad heartburn.

‘And how many sausages? Uh huh. You know, Dad, I think nine sausages is probably too much for dinner.’

She listened some more. ‘Okay, no, they’re on the top shelf of the cabinet. Well, look again. No, I did get some. Listen to me … Oh, for God’s sake.’

She put the phone down. ‘Sorry everyone but I think I’ve got to go and burp my father.’

‘But it’s C!’ said Arthur. ‘Your favourite round: Cosmopolitans.’

‘I know. But I’d better go.’

She shouldered her bag, downed the dregs of her Bloody Mary and headed out of the door, face set against the rain.

‘This isn’t fair,’ she thought to herself, walking down the darkened suburban street in search of a taxi, as the wind blew gusts of rain across her face. Anyone passing her would have thought they were looking at a very upset four-year-old. Her lower lip stuck out tremulously. A bus crashed along the road, spraying her skirt with water, and ploughed on. Ellie stopped in the middle of the street.

‘I’m not happy, okay!’ she yelled at the open sky. ‘I don’t know why, but I’m NOT! And I don’t know who I’m talking to, because my generation doesn’t even believe in GOD anymore!’

‘How are you today, my favourite Hedgepig?’

She gave herself up for a hug inside the gloomy house. An old terrace, it was musty and undecorated, and her father had a thing about putting on the central heating and very rarely did, preferring to stomp about in several layers of faintly grubby pyjamas.

‘Hey Dad. Little bit grumpy. What’s the matter with you?’

‘I think I had a bad sausage.’

‘I told you before: you eat too many sausages.’ She poked him in the belly. ‘Why don’t you have something healthy?’

She went into the bathroom and dug out the bottle of milk of magnesia; as predicted it was on the top shelf.

‘They make healthy sausages?’

‘Not exactly.’ Ellie checked the grill was off – he’d already had a minor fire – made him take the medicine and made them both a cup of tea.

‘How could you not find this? It was right on the shelf.’

Her dad squirmed and tried to look as if he hadn’t done it on purpose so she’d come over and see him. Ellie told him about the party fiasco, and her general sense of being miserable.

‘Well, you’d better do something about it then. Haven’t you been saying since the day after you got your job that you really want to switch jobs? Why don’t you do that?’

‘Not this month. Not until they forget about the customer services rep and the bottle of quink.’

‘Explain exactly what it is you do again, Hedgepig?’

‘Business Development Manager. Oh, never mind. God, they should have a Bring your Parents to Work Day.’

‘My theory is, right, if you can’t sum it up in a sentence, it’s not a proper job. Like, “I nick thieves”.’

‘Dad, that’s a movie pitch, not a career.’

‘“I fix hearts” – cardiologist, see?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve cottoned on. Nobody has simple jobs any more.’

‘That’s true,’ mused her dad. ‘Nobody does. What is it Julia does again?’

‘She’s a systems analyst consultant.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean. That doesn’t even make sense.’

‘There’s too many people in the world. They have to make up stuff for us to do.’

‘Ah. That would explain computers.’

Ellie thought for a second.

‘God, you know, I think it does.’

‘Okay then, if you’re looking for something new to do, why don’t you paint the front room?’

‘Daad! And eat this tomato. It’s better than nothing.’

‘Shan’t. Why don’t you …’

‘… get myself a nice young man? Because there are none, Dad.’

‘In the whole of London, there isn’t one single nice man?’

‘Nope.’ And I have personally checked most of them, she silently added to herself.

‘I know lots of nice coppers I could introduce you to.’

‘Yes, but on the whole my motto is the less Freudian the better.’

‘Nothing wrong with a nice copper.’

‘Nothing wrong with a nice bit of tomato either. Eat!’

He took it reluctantly. This was a constant battle between them. Deep down, he liked his daughter’s chiding at him. It showed she cared. In the same way, Ellie liked his bothering her constantly about all the bad aspects of her life. As an only child and an only parent, they’d done the best they could. Which wasn’t, Ellie reflected, looking at the congealed-egg washing up, that great when you started to think about it. She squirted the remnants of a dusty bottle of Original Fairy into the sink.

‘Dad,’ said Ellie, plunging her hands into the lukewarm water. ‘Am I a Thatcherbaby?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose so. Do you remember Callaghan?’

‘No.’

‘That’s why people your age are always blaming me for voting in Thatcher.’

‘Why did you vote in Thatcher?’

‘Well, because it seemed right, you know? At the time. It seemed the right thing to do: work hard, don’t give all your money to the government, get a nice house, get a nice car.’

‘And?’

‘And then you get comfortable and then you get bored and then your wife runs off to Plockton with an accountant called Archie.’

Her dad shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable.

‘Oh,’ said Ellie. They rarely discussed her mother and she hated upsetting him. ‘Um. Dad. You really should put these pans into soak.’

‘… and there are too many cars on the road so you can’t get anywhere and everything they’re making is absolute crap so you’ll buy another one in a month’s time and the hole in the ozone layer is about to start poisoning South America but, you know, we’re used to it now so we just can’t stop.’

‘Oh,’ said Ellie again. ‘Ehm. Bummer.’

He nodded and looked at her. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘Thatcherbaby or not, I still think you’re beautiful.’

‘How come I can wash all this rotten egg and it didn’t make me want to puke, but now you do?’

They smiled at each other.

Ellie left him to Match of the Day and wandered up to her old room, which was exactly as she’d left it eleven years ago for college. She picked up her Strawberry Shortcake doll, inhaled deeply and looked around the room.

It looked pretty much as the flat had done for her party: covered in peeling old thin magazine posters of the Brat Pack: in particular, her favourite, Andrew McCarthy.

‘Oh Andrew,’ she said, as she had done for so many years in her teens.

‘What are we going to do?’

As usual, Andrew stayed entirely schtum. Ellie had never given up, despite the range and variety of questions he’d completely ignored over the last decade-and-a-half, including:

‘Should I let Stuart Mannering put his hand up my blouse?’

(The answer should have been no, and she knew that, but she let him do it anyway.)

‘Should I finish my homework or go out and hang around the boys doing wheelies on their BMXs at the bottom of the street?’

(Ditto.)

‘Will I ever meet a nice boy?’

(Most likely not a pubescent one.)

‘Will I ever get over Miles Sampson not being in love with me?

(Yes. Well, pretty much. As long as nobody is playing Lloyd Cole and the Commotions albums.)

‘How do I get the substitute Social Studies teacher to notice me?’

(Stop trying; it’s working and he might get sent to prison.)

‘Am I gay because I really, really like my gym teacher?’

(No, it’s a teenage occupational hazard.)

‘If I wish really hard, will I grow up to get a huge pink apartment like Demi Moore’s in St Elmo’s Fire?’

(Yes, if you become a coke whore.)

‘Now everyone at school has seen The Breakfast Club sixty-four times, will school become more like The Breakfast Club with everyone breaking down social barriers and revealing their inner selves?’

(Definitely not, although Stuart Mannering will reveal his entire outer self in biology and get two month’s detention.)

‘Will I get to meet John Cusack on a long trip across America?’

(Perhaps, if you’re six foot tall with long shiny blonde hair.)

‘Wouldn’t it be great if I had a really gorgeous lover who died and then came back and made pottery with me?’

(As yet unexplored.)

‘Will you come to rescue me, like you rescued Molly Ringwald?’

(So far, no.)

‘Oh Andrew.’

She looked at him again. The poster had worn away around his mouth from chaste kisses.

‘Where are you, then? The middle-youth of the world needs you.’

She thought harder.

‘Actually, we do bloody need you. Where the hell are you?’

As she stared at the battered magazine-torn image, a thought began to stir within her. I mean, here, surely was a man with a bit of knowledge about growing up and not playing the adolescent for ever. She stared at it a bit more with mounting excitement. ‘What,’ she wondered, ‘is he like now?’ She pictured him – a little older, not much. With shock, she realized he was only halfway through his thirties and she gulped internally – not that much older than her. Oh my God. If there was one person in the world who understood what she was going through, she suddenly had the utter conviction that it was him. Why she was feeling so bleargh. And why she felt that something was passing her by, but she didn’t know what it was.

Excitedly, she jumped up and took out her mobile.

‘Julia? Where’s Andrew McCarthy?’

‘What?’ said Julia. Behind her, someone managed to drop an entire tray of glasses. The bar crowd appeared to think this worthy of a round of applause.

‘Look. I can’t really talk. We’re up to H, an I … an I … can’t … motor functions.’

‘Julia!’

She could hear Julia sit up and try and pay attention.

‘Is this some guy you picked up on the way over to your dad’s house?’

‘No, you know, Andrew. I mean, what happened to him? He just disappeared. He just stopped being famous and disappeared. Maybe he’s dead!’

‘Don’t be silly … he can’t be dead … you and him have a date …’

‘Yeah, ha ha ha. This is serious. A movie star has disappeared off the face of the planet.’

‘That’s not serious. A rainforest tribe disappearing, maybe. But, you know, I just can’t see Sting doing the tribute album for the guy who made Weekend at Bernie’s II.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ellie.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That doesn’t sound like nothing.’

‘I just might have had an idea, that’s all.’

‘A grumpy idea or a cheerful one?’

‘Hard to say. Depends on whether he’s … nothing.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

‘Oh, got to go!’

‘Go where? You’re at your dad’s!’

‘Yes, and his deep fried lard is burning. Got to go!’

She put down the phone and sat back on the bed, deep in thought. God, she had seen those films so many times. It hadn’t been until much later that she’d realized her mother had been desperate to get her out of the house that year, and had let her disappear to the cinema as often as she wanted, so she could get on with the business at hand of arguing with Ellie’s dad and preparing to move to Plockton.

Ellie looked at the back wall, where her old ice skates were hanging by their grubby white laces. That was what her father had done: every time she wasn’t at the cinema, her dad had taken her ice skating. He was mad for it. Of course by the time she’d got to fourteen she’d disdained it utterly and much preferred trying to freeze-frame the video with Julia, to see how far under the duvet they could get in Class. And now she was being petulant about doing her dad’s washing up. Some things never changed. And what was grown-up anyway? And why did she suddenly have an inexplicable desire to go ice skating?