Guy was everything she might have looked for in a boyfriend, apart from one crucial ingredient: the magic X factor that made her want to rip his clothes off. She had never and could never feel that way about him. He was like a brother, definitely just a mate, someone she could hang out with, spend time with, rely on, and he was fun! A bit like Tony was for Remy, not that she and Guy werethatclose.
After only a few weeks of joining St. Jude’s – while she was still trying to build a solid friendship group, testing the water with girls like Jacinta, who she thought she might like to hang out with, andchatting to boys who seemed nice, boys like Harry – Remy and Tony had become joined at the hip, as if her twin couldn’t bear to be alone, and just like that Tony filled the spot Ashleigh used to occupy. It had hurt her, to be so excluded, replaced. To come home and find the two of them giggling about things of which she had no knowledge made her feel isolated, lonelier than she would have thought possible in her own home. It made her regret leaving their shared bedroom, remembering with a stab of nostalgia the warm, safe feeling of waking with her twin within reach, snoring.
They were still like it now, a little clique of two. Tony would say one word to Remy, just one word, likeconjoined! And they would fall about laughing. It had irked her for years. Ashleigh had never managed to work out if it was a dig at her, something to do with being twins, but she was damned if she was going to ask. It was one of the reasons she didn’t always go back to Salisbury in the holidays, finding the gruesome twosome with their in-jokes and shared make-up bag a little too hard to fathom. And the way they dressed! Ashleigh did her best to adopt the Sloane Ranger look, with Peter Pan collars peeking from under her jersey collar, padded velvet headbands, pearls at her neck and in her ears and a Barbour thrown on with smart jeans, while Remy’s clothes were slouchy. She looked like she was auditioning for Dexys Midnight Runners. And not that she would ever say it out loud, but her sister’s fashion sense embarrassed her a little, showed the world they were not really Sloane Ranger stock, another thing that marked Ashleigh as an imposter.
She tried not to let it bother her, the closeness between her sister and Tony. He was her friend too, after all. Besides, she now had Guy. Guy who washerstudy buddy, her drinking partner, her wingman and protector, her great friend.
She had gone to meet him at the red-brick four-storey house on Pennsylvania Road where eight boys lived the student dream.If that dream was a sink full of dirty dishes and an old grill pan full of soft bacon fat the scent of which lingered. A place where mismatched pint glasses, stolen from various establishments in the city, cluttered up the countertops. Empty tequila and champagne bottles were lined up like trophies on top of the kitchen cupboards, and there was a dartboard on the wall of the living room. And for some reason, which she was yet to fathom, a life-size cut-out of Clint Eastwood in the bathroom which, she had been reliably informed, was taken during hisDirty Harryera.
It was while she sat on the sunken sofa, surrounded by the detritus of a night well spent, careful not to step in the sticky remnants of Chinese food upended on the carpet, to nudge the overflowing ashtrays on to the already stained upholstery, or kick over the abandoned bottle of Bolly on the floor, that in walked the boy who would change absolutely everything. At no more than the sight of him, her heart jumped in a cartoon-like fashion, booming in her chest, as her legs trembled, and a warm feeling of self-consciousness crept over her. There was something about him, the X factor for sure.
‘I’m Archie.’
‘Ashleigh.’ She’d smiled, demurely, yet holding eye contact. His grin had been broad, knowing, suggesting he too had felt the visceral leap of attraction.
‘I was at Clifton with Gigi.’
‘Gigi?’ She was confused.
‘Guy Gallow, GG, which quickly became Gigi!’ he explained.
‘Makes sense.’
‘So are you two . . . ?’
‘No, we’re not!’ Her tone emphatic. ‘I mean, we’re friends, but not ...’ She let this trail, conscious of her posture, holding her stomach in, shoulders back, head tilted to one side, looking up at him through her lashes à la Diana. They all did it.
‘Archie?’ a female voice called from the hallway and then a leggy brunette walked into the lounge. Ashleigh folded her hands into her lap, doing her best to look a little more demure. She had seen the girl on campus a couple of times and smiled as she stopped fluttering her lashes.
‘Ah, yes!’ He clapped. ‘This is Tamara.’ He blinked and she felt her cartoon booming heart sink down to the bottom of her navy loafers.
‘Hi, Tamara.’ Ashleigh waved.
The girl lifted her chin in a greeting of sorts and slipped her arms around Archie’s waist, which was both galling and thrilling. Galling because it was a clear message, letting her know that he was taken, and thrilling because such a display was only ever necessary if you felt under threat. Tamara was clearly smart as well as gorgeous because her assumption was correct. At times like this Ashleigh liked to remind herself of the St. Jude’s school motto –qui se applicat spoliis fruetur– which roughly translated tohe who applies himself shall enjoy the spoils. It was adopted long before the admission of girls, but she had always figured it applied to her too.
It had taken three weeks for her to win the spoils and for Archie to declare his hand. Three weeks during which the anticipation of progression had crackled between them like electricity. After a great night out, standing close to her in the kitchen of his grotty digs, with eyes half closed, a little unsteady on his pins, he tried, in his drunken state, to explain.
‘Just want to say, that Tamarara and I ... we are not, not any longer, not.’
‘Not?’
‘Well, we were, but now we can’t be, because I think you’re gorgeous.’
‘Thank you,’ she’d whispered sincerely. ‘So, you and Tamarara.’ She smiled. ‘Are you saying you’re not a thing or ...’
He had silenced her with a kiss, and as she had placed her hand on the small of his back, underneath his cotton shirt, touching her fingertips to his skin, it was like ... it was like igniting a spark, as flames leapt to life in her stomach. Flames that she knew would never expire because it was all-consuming in the way that fire was. She wanted to never stop touching him, never, even if it meant she got burnt.
Now, as she stood in front of the full-length mirror stuck to the inside of the Formica wardrobe door, she was warmed by thoughts she could never share with a soul, not wanting to be boastful, but knowing as she studied her reflection, her dyed blonde locks blow-dried into a bouffant flick, her shoulders and décolletage shimmering under a generous dusting of Body Shop bronzing beads, her make-up subtle and her faux-diamanté choker catching the light, that she looked beautiful. Beautiful, unique and whole, no longer a half, but anewperson altogether. A girl who could meet someone and know that they would remember her face,hers, and not wonder which twin she might be, which half of the egg.
It had been a slow transition, the erosion of their closeness, the severing of the bonds that kept them tied together as one, completed around the age of fourteen, when she had properly discovered boys, and Remy had become fashionable. Her twin and Tony had fortified their impenetrable gang of two with shields made of music, clothes and make-up. She loved her sister, of course she did, but she understood it was different now, and had been different for a while. Did Ashleigh miss her, miss what they had once shared? Yes, especially at times like this, when she wanted Remy’s opinion, her approval.
How do I look, Rem? Will I do?
‘Archie’s here!’ Fran, her flatmate, called from the hallway.
‘’Kay!’ she replied, reaching for her dress, but then turning sideways, studying her slender frame in the mirror as she stood inher knickers and stockings, deciding the dress could wait. They had at least half an hour before they had to leave and go meet the gang for pre-ball cocktails. Ashleigh slipped on to her bed. ‘Send him in!’
She smiled and lay seductively on her side, hair over one shoulder, hand on hip, head tilted just so. They could do a lot in half an hour.
