I shrug. ‘Hmm, how about we take it up a notch? We could go out for a few drinks? Maybe a boogie?’ I shake my shoulders to demonstrate the boogie.
Peach’s pale grey eyes light up at the idea, but then she shakes her head. ‘Sounds expensive.’
‘My cheque from Valentina cleared today … ’
‘I can’t let you do that. You need that money.’
‘I do … but I’m sure a few quid or so won’t matterthatmuch. It’ll be my way of saying sorry for missing your movie night. And I’m kind of an expert when it comes to having a top night out on basically no dosh.’
‘When would we go?’
I squint at the laptop for a moment longer. Then I gently snap down the lid with the tip of my forefinger.
‘How’s about right now?’
* * *
Grandma must be feeling generous because she doesn’t seem to mind at all that Peach and I are going out dancing.
‘You have worked hard today and every Good Woman deserves a little fun from time to time.’ She gives me a benevolent look. ‘Dancing is a trulywonderfulway to keep one fit in an elegant and ladylike fashion.’
I wonder what kind of dancing she thinks we’re going out to do? Probably the bossa nova or something. I don’t correct her. While Grandma is cool about us going out, she absolutely insists on two conditions: one, that we pull a Cinderella and return by midnight so that I’ll get a full beauty sleep ready for my date with Leo tomorrow, and two, that I wear my vintage underwear in order to learn how to ‘move around more gracefully’in it.
Peach helps me into the waspie, the girdle and the bullet bra, and though it hurts like a motherfucker, when I put on my skinny jeans and tight red Ramone’s T-shirt, the curvy effect is kind of epically sexy. Peach changes into a cute green tunic, black leggings and a gauzy black pashmina and, together, we leave the house.
‘Where shall we go?’ I ask her as we amble through the hazy sunshine towards South Kensington tube station. ‘Where are all the hip young kids of London at these days?’
Peach gives me a look as if I’ve just asked her to describe exactly how and why ITV’sSplash!is still pulling in an audience. ‘How should I know?’
‘Um, haven’t you worked in London for, like, five years? Don’t you go out?’
She crosses her pashmina more tightly round her body and throws me an embarrassed glance. ‘I usually just knit or read in my room. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a little—’
‘Shy? Nooo. You’re kidding me!’ I peek across at her. Her shoulders are hunched, head down, mass of tumbling mousy curls hiding her gentle, round face. ‘Peach … have youeverbeen to a bar? A club?’
She gives a tiny quick shake of the head.
I gasp in astonishment. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’ She sighs. ‘In my defence, I grew up on a farm in Alabama and left the US before I was legally allowed in any establishment that served alcohol. And then I got here and I never quite got the hang of meeting people. I went to the pub once. But that was just for a ploughman’s lunch.’
I cannot believe it. This woman is twenty-six years old and she has never been to bar or a nightclub!
It’s like my whole life has been leading up to this very moment. Going out is myraison d’être. Partying is my purpose. Peach could be my protégé. She’s young. She’s still got a few years left before she turns to the dark side of long-term relationships and babies and TV development deals and Farrow and Ball paint shades. I could teach her everything I know, and in doing so create the best going-out buddy of all time! At least for the next two to four weeks.
I grab her chubby hand in excitement and quicken our step towards the tube.
‘Watch and learn, my little one,’ I say with a mad smile. ‘Watch and learn.’
