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
