I fucked up. Fuck fuck fuck.’
It was confusing. I was mad at Amy. She knew about this and she hadn’t told me, but I was so mad at Vanessa and even more so at Charlie that all my reserves of rage were accounted for. After a few beats of silence I found my voice.
‘I slept with him.’
‘You did?’
I had no idea precisely where in the country Amy was, but I was fairly certain there were now some deaf Highland cattle up in Scotland. She could be awfully loud when she wanted to be.
‘Is that why you left? Are you in Gretna Green? Are you married already? Was it amazing? Tell me everything. I always knew this would happen if the two of you got together …’ She was on a roll – there was no way I’d be able to interrupt her successfully a third time. ‘I’ll just cease to exist. It’ll just be like, oh, ha ha ha, let’s have some wine and a dinner party, and, ooh, do you remember that funny little dark-haired girl who used to hang around? I wonder where she is now? Except you won’t even wonder because I’ll be dead and you won’t care.’
‘Are you done?’ I asked.
‘Are you married?’ She countered.
‘No.’ I replied.
‘Then, yes. Hang on, did you sleep with him before or after you found out about Vanessa?’
‘Before.’
‘Ohhh. Shit.’
‘Yeah.’
I held the phone to my ear and we shared a comfortable silence. There really wasn’t anything else to say.
‘Are you OK?’ Amy broke first. As always.
‘Not really.’ I wasn’t any more. I was too tired.
‘Are you mad?’ she asked.
‘I am mad,’ I confirmed.
‘With me?’
‘With everyone alive,’ I said. ‘Except maybe Ryan Gosling.’ Who could be mad at Ryan Gosling?
‘Shall I come over when my train gets in?’ she asked. ‘We can burn pictures of the two of them? Or we could just break loads of her stuff?’
That best friend of mine, what a mind reader. We’d done a lot of picture burning when Amy had ended her engagement. Even though she had been the one to break it off, she was not one to leave that relationship without some righteous anger. It had been a fun time for everyone who wasn’t her ex-fiancé. I imagined he missed his twenty-year-old comic collection almost as much as he missed Amy. Possibly more so.
‘Yeah, I might be asleep, so let yourself in,’ I said. The exhaustion was overwhelming. My limbs felt so heavy I didn’t even know how I was holding up the phone. ‘See you in a bit.’
‘OK. I love you,’ she said, making kissing noises down the phone. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘I’ve never done anything stupid in my life,’ I replied. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
Collapsing on the closest soft surface, Vanessa’s bed, I exhaled loudly and tried to have a Feeling, the phone still in my hand. But there was nothing there. My brain felt like a clown car, crammed full to overflowing with rainbow wigs, red noses and tutu-wearing bears. I should get out of Vanessa’s room. I should get dressed. I should call my mum and apologize for my behaviour. But I didn’t actually want to. At some point, I was going to have to speak to Charlie. And, must not forget, the council tax needed playing. Priorities, Tess.
Before I could decide which item on my did-not-want-to-do list was up first, the phone rang again. Once again, just in case it was about the council tax, I answered it.
‘Hello?’ I answered, so, so tired.
‘Kittler,’ a woman snapped down the line. ‘Don’t say a single fucking word. I am fucking furious with you.’
Oh no. There was no way I was taking an earbashing on Vanessa’s behalf. Not today.
‘I’m not—’ I started.
‘I said not a fucking word,’ the woman continued. ‘Do you know how hard it is for me to get you jobs? Do you?’
‘No?’ I answered. Because I didn’t.
‘No, of course you don’t, you selfish bastard. It’s really fucking hard. And after last week’s fucking no-show … I should fire you. I should refuse to even put you up for jobs. And now your fucking BlackBerry is out of service? What the fuck is wrong with you?’
I had, by this time, worked out that I was speaking with Vanessa’s agent, Veronica. She had a certain way with words that gave her away. That way was commonly known as ‘swearing’.
Vanessa’s career as a photographer was, at best, patchy. I’d only ever seen maybe ten photos she’d taken. For the most part, she seemed to take a lot of portraits of her friends, who used them for vanity projects and then randomly got her hired for fashion jobs or indie magazine shoots that never seemed to pan out. My shutterbug sensibilities were offended. The pictures that I had seen were flat, oversaturated and, quite often, completely out of focus. I’d seen better shots on Instagram and I hated Instagram. But no one cared what I thought. They cared that she was stupid hot, knew all the right people, and did I mention she was stupid hot?
Before I had a chance to explain to Agent Veronica that (a) I was not Vanessa and (b) just exactly what was wrong with my flatmate, namely that she was a see-you-next-Tuesday (incidentally one of Agent Veronica’s favourite terms of endearment), she had already started shouting at me again.
‘Luckily for you, someone is desperate. This new magazine has landed a last-minute interview with Bertie Bennett and they need a photographer.’
‘Bertie Bennett?’ I didn’t know who Bertie Bennett was.
‘Don’t fuck around with me today, fuckface. Bertie. Fucking. Bennett.’ Agent Veronica snapped. Agent Veronica liked swearing a lot. ‘It’s a piece of piss. Couple of portraits of Bertie, couple of shots of some of his favourite archive pieces, his favourite up-and-coming pieces. Nothing even slightly resembling hard work. It’s a better job than you deserve, and if I wasn’t shit out of luck with the first three people I’d called, you wouldn’t even be hearing my dulcet fucking tones right now.’
She did have a lovely voice.
‘You’re on a plane to Hawaii tonight. You’ll be back by Friday.’
‘Hawaii?’
‘What the fuck is up with you this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘You sound like you’re stoned. Are you on a juice detox or something? You haven’t been fucking born again, have you? I can’t be dealing with God botherers.’
‘Sorry, I’m not—’ My mouth was open and words had started to come out of it. All I needed to do was finish the sentence. All I needed to say was ‘I’m not Vanessa’ and then I could go back to watching shit telly in my shit Eeyore T-shirt on my shit settee, hating my own guts
