I feel a bit sad at this. Clive is OK, as far as I can tell. I mean, I wouldn’t date him myself, he’s always apologizing for things, and tells Kath so often that he’s really lucky to have her that I don’t blame her for feeling superior to him. And he is lucky to have her. She’s gorgeous – long curly red hair, the right number of freckles, and so curvy in all the right places that she makes me look like an ironing board standing next to her.
‘The grass isn’t necessarily greener, you know,’ I say, gesturing to the computer screen.
Kath snorts. ‘It couldn’t be any less green,’ she retorts. ‘Right now, it’s already a bleeding drought situation. Hosepipe ban and everything.’
We giggle at the innuendo and I pour us each a large glass of wine.
‘Poor Clive,’ I say. ‘I’ll make a deal with you – I won’t tell Clive, if you promise not to tell my sister.’
Kath pauses, the glass halfway to her mouth. ‘Why not?’
I don’t answer immediately because I’m distracted by a picture of a guy on CupidsWeb who looks so ridiculously sexy and handsome that I can’t believe he doesn’t have women camping outside his front door. ‘Ooh, look at HIM! He’s gorgeous.’ I click on his profile. ‘SolsticeLover – thirty-five, divorced, a two-year-old who’s the love of his life, five foot nine. A film editor … and he only lives in Streatham!’
Kath tuts. ‘A two-year-old who’s the apple of her dad’s eye? Don’t go there, Becks, just think of the baggage he’ll have. Do you really want to be spending every other weekend with a needy, whining small person?’ She pauses for comic effect. ‘And that’s just the dad!’
We laugh, although I sometimes wonder why on earth Katherine became a teacher when she seems so anti-kids. ‘But he is lovely, though, isn’t he?’ I stroke his stubbly cheek on the monitor and make a mock lovey-dovey face at it.
‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crisps,’ Kath said. ‘You haven’t told me why you don’t want Amy to know?’
I was hoping she’d forgotten. I take a minute to choose my words, although I know they will be severely edited when I do – I swore to Amy I’d never tell anybody what happened with her and that arsehole, and it feels disloyal to even hint at it.
‘Oh. She’s just a bit old-fashioned. Wants me to get married and have hordes of kids, so that she doesn’t have to.’
Kath frowns. ‘Why would she object to you finding someone online?’
‘She assumes they’re all weirdos and nutters. A … er … friend of hers had a really bad time with a guy she was living with …’ I trail off, being deliberately vague.
‘Fair enough. Well, it can be our secret then.’ She taps the side of her nose and pulls a cigarette out of the pack in her handbag. ‘Just going for a fag and a wee, back in a mo.’
When she squeezes out onto my tiny balcony, I click back to SolsticeLover and read his personal statement. He sounds amazing – until the part where he says, I think I should probably state upfront that I’m a Druid, and my spirituality means everything to me. I want someone to share my beliefs with.
I wonder where a Druid living in Streatham goes to practise his rituals? However gorgeous he is, I can’t quite see myself donning white robes and joining him and his cronies to perform blood rites on a squirrel on Wandsworth Common …
Kath comes back into the room, the smell of cigarettes following her like an acrid cloud, and she has this familiar look on her face, the kind of look that gives me a little tingle of excitement in the same way I used to feel excited at school when my best friend suggested we do something naughty.
‘I’ve decided,’ she proclaims.
‘On what?’
‘That I’m going to do it. Join you in the wonderful world of Internet dating.’
I look at her, sitting there on the arm of my armchair, her nipples clearly visible through her thin T-shirt, her tongue stained black with wine. Her eyes are shining with mischief and the flesh of her throat is flushed pink.
‘But, really – what about Clive?’ I ask.
‘Oh, he doesn’t have to know. You won’t tell him, will you? I just need a bit of fun, Becks. While I’m young and hot.’ She winks and pads over to the computer.
‘You’re a nightmare,’ I say, but I have to admit, it’s exciting. And God knows, after some of the dreary dates I’ve been on recently, and with my seeming inability to find the kind of man I fantasize about, I could do with some help.
Kath grabs the keyboard and pulls it towards her, biting her lower lip, waves of sexual energy pouring off her.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s find ourselves a couple of real men.’
I have a flicker of hesitation – what am I letting myself in for? I had it all under control; sedate drinks with men whom I then let down gently when they ask for a second date, back to the drawing board, find another one, ad infinitum until I – hopefully – find one I want to see again and who likes me too … Somehow, I feel that Kath’s involvement might change my little routine. She’s a loose cannon, on the prowl. Then I think, sod it, and giggle to myself at the mental image of a cannon on the prowl. A couple of real men. That sounds good.
No. It sounds great.
‘Bring it on, girlfriend!’ I crow, in my best fake-Harlem accent.
Sunday, 21 July
Amy let herself into her flat and smiled for the first time that day.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said. ‘What do you fancy for lunch?’
He raised an ear and licked her face.
Boris was her greyhound, adopted from a rescue centre two years ago, a great, lazy, affectionate mass of skin and bone and, as she often joked, the only man in her life. She had even started letting him sleep on the end of her bed, although she would never tell anyone that. If found out, she would say it was for security. Boris was her guard, growling at strange noises, though she suspected that an intruder would get nothing worse than a big lick on the nose.
The dog followed her into the kitchen and watched her pour dried food into a bowl.
‘I’m worried about her, Boris,’ she said. ‘Her nutty friend said she’d been on a hot date on Thursday night. But she didn’t know the guy’s name, where he lives, what he does, or anything useful except that Becks met this bloke on a dating site and had met up with him a couple of times before.’
On her way out of Katherine’s, Amy had noticed a framed photograph of Katherine and her ex, Clive, hanging on the wall in the hallway. The glass had been smashed, a jagged pattern of cracks spreading out from a centre point directly above Clive’s mouth. How strange that Katherine would leave a broken frame on the wall – but then, the girl was strange, full stop, and it had pissed her off how Katherine had seemed to find the whole thing so amusing. She made a mental note not to push for that article on jewellery-making any more. Dealing with unpleasant people, whether in her business or personal life, was something she had vowed to avoid at all costs.
‘So this is what I know so far,’ she said, flicking the kettle on as Boris scoffed his lunch. ‘Wednesday, Becky went to work as normal and went out that evening with a bunch of teachers. Katherine says they left early but that was the last