LITMIR.BIZ

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had a fucking cup of coffee!’

      Reading the instructions is considered cheating.

      After a while, Dan gives up and makes a Nescafé. The three-hundred-pound triumph of Italian engineering has won again. Nicki and I decide to go out for coffee and discuss plot development. But what we really do is sit in Tom’s, a café and organic food shop around the corner, and hash over Nicki’s failing relationship in detail.

      ‘He thinks he looks young!’ she hisses at me, leaning dramatically across the table, as if discretion were a consideration. ‘I mean, he said to me the other day, “I don’t think I look a day past thirty-five.” I nearly choked on my cappuccino!’ (They must have been out.)

      She’s speaking to me but her eyes never leave the door, just in case someone thinner, prettier, or more chic walks in. This almost never happens. I’m just beginning to confide in her that I think maybe my husband and I might have a serious problem too, when suddenly she screams, grabs my arm violently and yanks me across the table. ‘My God! Louise!’ she gasps. ‘That’s the handbag I was telling you about! There!’

      I smile and nod.

      I’m used to Nicki by now. And I’m used to her ignoring me.

      Nicki is one of those women who only has one girl-friend at a time. She wears friends out with her constant demands for attention but is too competitive to tolerate more than one extra female in her life. I’ve known this for a while. However, cultivating friends has never been my forte. Although I’m perfectly sociable – happy to spend an hour or so in idle chit-chat with any number of people, the thing I’m not terribly good at is the kind of honest self-revelation and shared intimacies that are the backbone of a lasting female friendship. I long to be open and informal, if only my life weren’t such a mess. But now is not the time. After all, if I started confiding my innermost problems to someone, I’d have to do something about them. And I’m not ready for that yet. Someday, when I’ve pulled myself together, maybe I’ll have a real chum of the heart.

      In the meantime, I’m not expected to share any deep personal confidences with Nicki; I’m only required to show up and tag along. And tagging along will do me just fine. It’s easy, undemanding – we talk about nothing more taxing than new lipstick formulations and, even though I could never afford it, the benefits of Pilates versus Hatha yoga techniques. And there’s a certain amount of glamour involved in these weekly escapes. I enjoy basking in the chaotic splendour and excess of Nicki World, complete with multi-million pound homes, £100 face crèmes, and £4 organic lattes, while clinging perversely to the reassuring knowledge that, for all their money, Nicki and Dan are still incredibly unhappy. When your own life remains a baffling, unresolved puzzle, there are few things more comforting than to be surrounded by fellow struggling souls.

      When we’ve downed enough caffeine to bring us to tears, we walk back to Nicki’s and dump our bags in the Moroccan style living room. Almost everything that Nicki and Dan lose is eventually discovered lying camouflaged against the overwhelming profusion of kilim cushions that populate this room. They’ve even managed to create curtains out of old Oriental carpets, so that sitting in it is like being swallowed by a giant carpet bag.

      Then we climb up to Nicki’s Victorian study and she sits in front of her computer, which folds out from a unit made to look like an antique dressing table, and I sit on the daybed. The daybed is an original, painfully uncomfortable and obviously designed to keep Victorian ladies very much awake.

      ‘OK. Right.’ Nicki turns on the computer, clicks into our file and pages down to where we left off.

      ‘Here we are, page fifteen,’ she announces triumphantly.

      No matter how much work we do or how often we meet, we’re always on page fifteen.

      ‘OK, so how did we leave it then?’ I try to gather my enthusiasm.

      ‘Jan was just about to reveal to Aaron why she’d left home.’

      ‘Oh, yeah. Good. And what did we decide about that?’

      Nicki checks through the notes we made at coffee.

      ‘You know, I don’t think we came to any firm conclusions about that one.’

      ‘Did we have any ideas?’

      She flicks through again. ‘I’m not really seeing anything that can be called a solid idea.’

      ‘Oh. OK. Never mind.’ I haul myself out of the sagging centre of the daybed. ‘Right. Let’s get brainstorming!’

      The room goes dead. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Nicki gnaws at a hangnail.

      Suddenly, like the voice of God, the sound of Dionne Warwick singing ‘Walk On By’ floats down the stairs. Nicki’s on her feet in a flash.

      ‘My God, I can’t believe he’s doing that now! The bastard!’

      ‘Doing what?’ I ask.

      ‘He’s playing Dionne Warwick!’ she shrieks. Flinging the door open, she screams up the stairs. ‘I know what you’re doing, you bastard! I know what you’re doing!’

      ‘My God, Nicki, what’s he doing?’ I’m missing the point badly.

      ‘He’s exercising!’ she screams, rolling her eyes. ‘Don’t you understand? The bastard will be bouncing all over the treadmill next!’ She cradles her head in her beautifully manicured hands. ‘I’m getting a tension headache. I can feel it right here.’ She points to the top of her left temple. ‘I can’t work this way. I just can’t. Do you mind? I have to get out of here.’

      So we go shopping.

      Shopping with Nicki takes stamina. It takes patience. And it takes great fortitude.

      I’m fine as long as we stick to coffee shops and her house but as soon as we go shopping, real, proper clothes shopping, the enormous gulf between her life and mine is ruthlessly revealed. Suddenly all the cuddly Hello! glamour and intimacy we’ve shared evaporates and I’m keenly aware of a sharp, insurmountable shift in status.

      Firstly, she’s tall, incredibly slender, with long legs and a handsome bust. So it’s like, well, like shopping with a model.

      Secondly, she shops at Prada and Loewe, Harvey Nichols, and Jo Malone – stores well beyond my meagre budget. I’m used to doing my Columbo impression, shambling around the changing rooms of Harvey Nichols in my second-hand trench coat while she parades through the department in her knickers, grabbing piles of garments in all conceivable colours and styles. The shop assistants love her. They look upon me as a badly groomed pet.

      Occasionally, Nicki encourages me to try something on. There are awful moments, embedded in my memory, of standing in front of a changing-room mirror in a badly fitting dress, my legs unshaven, wearing a pair of worn out plimsolls, only to have Nicki emerge from the neighbouring cubical in exactly the same dress (but a size smaller), looking, yes, like a model.

      It’s the shop assistants I feel for most. They avert their eyes and smile and lie. The minutes stretch like years while they desperately try to make a sale to one of us, to both of us, and then neither of us.

      Nicki frowns, pouts and checks for non-existent panty lines while I crawl backwards into the cubical, desperate to hide again under my trench coat and brown beret. Later, I help her carry her bags from the shop. She smiles and pats me on the head and I listen to how hard it is to find clothes that fit when you’re really a size six and nearly five foot nine on the way back home in the car.

      If she shot me, it would be quicker and less painful.

      That’s our normal routine, only it’s about to change.

      Thanks to Madame Dariaux, the next time I meet her, I’m not wearing a brown beret or my second-hand trench. And I’ve already been shopping. By myself.

      I’ve been thinking about it for a while; building up to it. Normally, I don’t even allow myself to window shop;

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