Chapter Two
Being late is never, ever fashionable.
Matilda Beam’sGood Woman Guide, 1959
Before I get a chance to turn the key in the lock, the front door is yanked open by my boss, flatmate andCelebrity Rear of the Year Runner-Up 2011, Summer Spencer.
‘Did the new neighbour just call you a slapper?’ she asks, observing his retreating form.
‘I prefer sexually cheerful.’
‘I suppose that’s one way to put it.’ She raises a fashionably thick dark eyebrow. ‘How are you even late, Jess? Seriously. Today of all days? Possibly the biggest day of my – of our − entire career? We’ve got to leave for London in less than half an hour and you’re a mess,quelle surpreeeeze.’
Mr Belding, our tiny black and white kitten, winds his way around my legs. Picking him up, I hold him close, like a protective shield against Summer’s grump bullets. I look at his head. What’s she done to him this time?
‘I know.’ I grimace. ‘Sorry, Sum. I did mean to have an early night. I even wrote it on my hand. Look!’ I hold out my palm to show her the smudged blue biro scrawl readingHave early night!‘I just … after you left, the beer garden got dead busy and everyone was playing Twister and it was so sunny and warm and they do that lovely pear cider . . .’ I rub my eyes. ‘I can barely see right now, I lost my conta—’
‘Yeah, I’m sure it’s all another delightful adventure in the amazing responsibility-free world of Jessica Beam.’ She blows the air out through her cheeks. ‘But maybe you can tell me on the train down south? Just shower, will you?’ Leaning forward, she gives me a delicate little sniff. ‘You reek.’
‘Do I have time for a quick run first? Twenty minutes max? Just to clear away the cobwebs? I feel a bit pukey.’
‘No! Jesus, Jess.’
Summer holds her arms out to take Mr Belding back. He scrambles up me, his paws clinging desperately to my top. She narrows her eyes in deep suspicion.
‘Hmm. I don’t get why he likes you so much when I’m the one who spends so much time with him. Styles him, manages his career.’
Mr Belding is a burgeoning Internet star. A model cat. Summer dresses him up in little outfits and together they pose for pictures, which she posts online for likes and retweets.
I pointedly eye the specially made feline top hat that Mr Belding is wearing. ‘I don’t know,’ I say innocently. ‘Maybe he just wants to grapple back a little creative control?’
Summer tuts. ‘Oh, it’s allsucha laugh, isn’t it? Just hurry up, will you?’ She sighs loudly, spins on her heel and clicks back across the hardwood floor, closing the living room door more forcefully than usual.
She’ssomoody lately.
I grasp tightly onto the dado rail and feel along it until I reach my cosy, cupboard-sized bedroom, where I finally put on my old faithful tortoiseshell glasses.
‘Praise be!’ I cry to the ceiling as sight is restored.
Plugging my iPhone into the docking station, I flick on my favourite rock anthems playlist − which never fails to get me in a brilliant mood − and speedily pull off last night’s clothes, chucking them in the general direction of the already overflowing laundry basket. Really must get round to putting some washing on.
Tomorrow.
Definitely tomorrow.
Jumping into the shower, I do the fastest shampoo I’ve ever done in my life because Summer has already used this week’s quota of hot water for the twice daily holistic baths she’s been reading about ongoopand the water is turning into icicles before it even hits me. From downstairs she yells:
‘Double-brush your teeth, Jess. Maybe triple.’
‘Absolutely!’ I call back in a shivery voice, immediately reaching outside the shower screen for my toothbrush and getting to work on an extreme mouth cleansing.
‘Don’t forget to wear underwear today,’ Summer shouts again, this time from outside my bedroom door. I half expect her to suddenly appear in the bathroom Ninja-Cat style to make sure I’ve cleaned behind my ears.
‘Definitely will wear pants!’ I call back.
I wonder if it’s normal to be a little bit afraid of your best friend? Not like in a murdery way, of course, but sometimes, when Summer gives me this stony-eyed, ice-cold look, my heart plummets to my knees. If I’m extra tiddly or extra flirty or extra gobby, Summer’s frosty stare comes out, and that’s when I know I should probably rein in it. Every so often I try to get sensible. I go cold turkey on fun: stop with the boy crazy, end the boozing, press pause on eating only Pot Noodles with a side order of McCoy’s crisps and a pudding of Haribo for dinner, and start going with her to the horrendous Saturday spinning class and taking my make-up off before I go to sleep and trying to understand that fashion is about much more than which sparkly top makes my boobs look the most awesome. I usually manage fine for a few days. But then, soon enough, life feels quite grey and empty without a party going on, and whether I like it or not I’m back to what Summer refers to as my ‘ridiculous Jessica Beam adventures’. She reckons I’m still living life like I’m eighteen instead of twenty-eight, but what’s so wrong with that? As Tulisa Contostavlos sang so soulfully, ‘we’re young, we’re young, we’re young’. And as I always say: life is too blummin’ short not to have a giggle while you can.
‘Jess! Get a move on!’
