define yourselves?’ she asks, looking at me over her wine glass.
She no doubt got this awful term from some sordid programme about weird peoples’ sex lives hosted by Jenny Éclair, but she has a point: ‘Friends who have sex’, that’s exactly what we are. But we’re not, either, not in my eyes anyway, because ‘fuck buddy’ suggests it’s all about the sex and not much about the friendship and Jim and I are the complete opposite to that. ‘Fuck buddies (if ever there were such a grim thing) are all about sex on tap without the emotional complications that come with actually caring about someone,’ I say to her. ‘And I do care about him, I love him to bits.’
‘I know you do,’ she says, over-enunciating the words as though I am deaf. ‘And he loves you – hello! – a lot.’
‘But not like that,’ I say, staring into my glass. I always feel uncomfortable when she starts on this one. ‘As disappointing as that is – and believe me, I’m disappointed too, it’s not like that. Jim and I are just mates. Mates who occasionally shag and probably shouldn’t, I know, I know; but we’re still just mates.’
Vicky shakes her head, defeated.
‘Pretty weird ones if you ask me.’
And on we went. Until I found myself stumbling out of the pub, at almost midnight, into the crisp ring of night air and no hope of getting home before one a.m.
I decide to pass on the cab and walk through Soho, to catch a bus on Oxford Street.
There’s nowhere quite like Soho at night. It’s like the set of a West End show itself, alive with movement, light and noise. As I walk down Old Compton Street, the gay guys sit outside French patisseries with one leg snaked around the other, scarves wrapped tight around their necks, sipping their espressos. Steam from the last washing up of the evening rises from the basements and bar workers settle in for their end of shift beer.
I cut across Dean Street towards Wardour Street, snaking through the crowds of people queuing for late-night bars, members’ clubs and restaurants.
This part of London, it’s the playground of the free. A zone for those who don’t have to make any decisions yet, the circumstances of their lives still unravelling, for those still playing.
And just for now, I’m playing too. But I’ve got a funny feeling that for me, the game’s almost over, the final whistle is nearly up and I have to make some decisions and sort out what I actually want from life.
It’s ludicrous to think I could have been pregnant with Jim’s baby last week. Besides anything else, as I held that test in my hand, the potential father of the potential baby was on a date, just as he is tonight, and that can’t be right, can it?
I had been tempted to send a text. HELLO, DADDY-TO-BE would have served him right, out gallivanting while I was in a self-cleaning toilet having a near nervous breakdown.
But I couldn’t do it in the end. ‘It’s negative,’ I texted. ‘You’re off the hook.’
I didn’t even get his reply until I was standing at the bar in the Camden Head an hour later: ‘Thank fuck for that. And you had me believing that paunch was all baby.’
Cheeky git! So much for sharing the weight of responsibility.
I turn into Wardour Street where a herd of twenty-somethings, the boys all moulded hair and skinny jeans, the girls with sultry, smoky eyes, are careering across the street, singing and laughing. One of the girls is sat on what must be her boyfriend’s shoulders, lanky arms in the air, swigging a bottle of beer. Still high on the buzz of London, I think: we were like that; that would, once, have been me, Jim, Gina and Vicky, strutting our way from one late bar to the next, back to someone’s place, more beer, maybe some drugs, not caring about the next day, masters at navigating a day’s work on no sleep.
We still give it our best shot (even Vicky, who I sometimes think would sell an organ for a good night out). It’s just, sometimes I get the feeling that I’ve accelerated through most of my twenties in a beer-fuelled haze, only to arrive at almost thirty still accelerating in a beer-fuelled haze, when really I should be putting the brakes on, or at least starting to look where I’m going.
‘Next question,’ says Gina, adjusting her bikini top. Her boobs jostle about in the water, like dumplings in a boiling pan. ‘Marcus?’
Marcus licks the spliff he’s holding and sticks it down, then gestures to Gina for the lighter.
‘OK,’ he says, ‘I’ve got a good one. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever said in an interview?’
Jasper cracks open a beer with a fizz.
‘I once asked an interviewer when the baby was due,’ he mumbles from beneath his trilby.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask.
‘She wasn’t pregnant.’
I almost wet myself laughing at this one. I don’t know why, it’s just the thought of Jasper attending an interview – like, ever – is suddenly hilarious. Jasper is an artist. He does ‘installations’. This is absolutely no disrespect to people who are actually artists, who do, actually do installations. But in Jasper’s case, it roughly translates as ‘on the dole’.
Ooops, so much for the contemplative mood brought on by my life-affirming walk through Soho. It’s now two a.m. and I am in the Jacuzzi with Gina (now my flatmate) her current shag Jasper and a man I have never met before in my life. This is all too often the case these days; I don’t plan to have a large one, it just sort of happens. It’s one of the perils of having a Jacuzzi in the basement of your house.
Gina and I didn’t plan to live together this long; that just ‘sort of happened’ too. In our second and third university years, all four of us shacked up in a house in Rusholme. Then when we graduated, we all moved down to London together. Jim did his PGCE and then because he was now officially one of London’s ‘key workers’, got a ‘part-ownership’ deal and put down a deposit on a flat with money he’d saved from his weekend job selling padded cards in boxes with messages like ‘To the One I Love’. Gina, Vicky and I moved into 21 Linton Street in upmarket Islington, and that was it.
At that point I, having spent an awful lot of time watching tragic documentaries about people with ten-stone tumours, was doing a diploma in magazine journalism, with a view to interviewing people about stuff like that all the time. I thought I’d made it living in N1, a career in the media at my fingertips. Trouble was, with its crumbly black steps and security grating, our house looked like the Hammer House of Horrors on an otherwise elegant row of white Georgian townhouses. But we loved it. And we loved our landlady almost as much. Mrs Broke-Snell had her hair blow-dried every other day and only ever shopped in Harrods Food Hall. It’s a shame she didn’t pay as much attention to the upkeep of her properties as she did to herself but at least she had the genius idea (and a sufficient level of insanity) to install DA-DA-DAR!! THE JACUZZI.
Doubtless the most ingenious popularity device ever known to man, the Jacuzzi comes complete with wooden surround, massage jets, and a film of mould growing around the outside. 21 Linton Street has always been THE back-to-mine post-party house, scores of people padding their soap-sudded feet from the hall to the basement and vice versa, to shrivel up in our Jacuzzi and have drunken conversations about where we’ll all be in five years time. The trouble is, those five years are up now. You’d think that the novelty of having deep and meaningfuls in our swimwear would have somewhat
