LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER TEN

      When Luke realises who has buzzed the bell, he flings open the door, picks me up, swings me round, then snogs me for more than a minute.

      I untangle myself from his arms. ‘I see you haven’t got round to reading that treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen manual I ordered for you.’ I bend down and pick up the squashy bag I have brought with me containing his laptop, magazines, cables and sweatshirt, as well as the grooming tools I will need in the morning. ‘Adele got back and was being narky about your stuff littering up the lounge so I thought I would bring some of it over.’

      ‘Ha!’ he laughs, straight at me. ‘I see someone else hasn’t got round to reading the manual I ordered for her on coming up with decent excuses to cover up for the fact that she really wants to spend time with me. Besides, I think we both know that if I was that into you, I would have got rid of these by now.’

      He points at the trousers he is wearing. They are my most hated item of all his clothes: knackered army-surplus combats that have a side pocket long and wide enough to hold a family-sized tube of Pringles. Today a red tube is peeking out. Paprika.

      ‘Yeah, but—’

      He interrupts me. ‘The “yeah” is all I need.’ With that he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, leans down to grab the bag and carries me down the corridor. ‘So, how did the audition go?’

      ‘I won’t get the part,’ I say with absolute certainty.

      ‘You reckon? I’m sure you were m—’

      ‘Stop!’ I reach down and wallop him on his concrete-hard backside. ‘Don’t even try to make me feel better.’

      ‘Okay, okay. I’m saying nada.’

      He kicks open the kitchen door and plonks me down on the floor. The room is a tip. The sink is full of dirty crockery, the bin is overflowing with empty takeaway cartons, the floor is littered with cardboard pizza boxes and all the surfaces are covered in a thick film of biscuit crumbs. It’s like a Disneyland for real mice.

      ‘Christ, Luke …’

      He shakes his head at me. ‘Don’t give me grief. I try to keep it clean but you know what Wozza is like having his mates over the whole time to party. It’s like living within the eye of a storm. I haven’t been around the past few weeks to contain things, have I? Let’s get out of here and grab some dinner.’

      ‘It’s Friday … eating is cheating. Besides, we’re having dinner tomorrow.’

      ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Having dinner on consecutive nights is a crazy Aussie thing, isn’t it? You only have it once a week in the UK.’

      ‘Exactly,’ I say, pleased he is making a joke. ‘Besides, I had something earlier.’

      ‘Earlier today, or earlier in the month?’

      ‘Don’t nag, I had a proper meal.’

      ‘A proper meal from whose point of view? An adult human or a baby marmoset?’

      Now I can tell he isn’t joking, and I am not particularly amused either. The anti-congratulatory way in which he refers to my neatly calculated portion control pisses me off. On The City, Allie Crandell’s boyfriend never said anything about her weight, despite her being so waifish she often wafted into scenes like an apparition. I did eat tonight. I had an Atkins bar. Then I did an hour of Jillian Michaels – Body Revolution. Then I had a vanilla Skinny Cow ice-cream.

      ‘I don’t know what you’re so worried about, anyway,’ continues Luke, shrugging. ‘There’s nothing of you. Put on a few kilos and there’d be more of you to do bad things to, which could only be a good thing. Guys like something to grip onto.’

      I nod as if I am taking on board what he is saying. I am not. He’s speaking like a larger lady who is trying to convince herself that she is happy with her size. Next he’ll tell me that Beyoncé is ‘bootylicious’ (read: bottom heavy) or that Jennifer Hudson looked better with ‘more junk in the trunk’ (she didn’t) or that Christina Hendricks’s curves are ‘old Hollywood’ (i.e., not so helpful when getting roles in this century). But I don’t bother repeating any of this. I can feel them – the thoughts from earlier – lining up, ready to start running through my head again.

      ‘Why don’t we go clubbing?’ I suggest. ‘Ask Warren to bung us on the guest-list somewhere. He’ll have some gear too, right?’

      Luke raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You want to get stuck into the speedo?’

      ‘You know I don’t do that any more.’ I may have stopped purely not to hear him say that beyond-irritating expression. ‘But I …’

      ‘… wouldn’t mind doing something to let the wheels come off?’

      Yes, I would like to. Maybe an E, but not because I want the wheels to come off. The opposite. When I occasionally use drugs, it is as a tool to get myself back in control. I see it like this: being yourself and convincing other people of this self is a mental marathon. One that does not have a finish line. The stop watch will never go back to zero. Nor will you be wrapped up in a heavily branded silver foil blanket. There is certainly no medal. It’s a hard slog. So sometimes you need time out from the race. For me, that’s what drugs are about: a reprieve from thinking. It’s a trick. Not a treat.

      ‘Why not?’ I say to Luke, reaching into the bag I brought with me. I get out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and some beers for Luke (which he will probably ignore in favour of a Dr Pepper). ‘And stop looking at me like that.’

      ‘Why don’t you just tell me what’s the matter? You’ve obviously had a shit day.’

      I prickle, wrong-footed. ‘I haven’t. I simply want to go out and have fun. That’s all.’

      ‘Fair enough, but I can’t stay out late; I’m working in the morning.’

      ‘I thought the whole point of your job was that you didn’t do weekends or overtime.’

      ‘I could do with some extra cash right now.’

      ‘What for? More cables to add to your viper’s nest?’ I huff. ‘Look, I won’t keep you up for hours. Warren has got some Valium’ – another necessary trick – ‘hasn’t he? It’ll knock me out as soon as we get back.’

      ‘You’re really not dressing this up as A Night to Remember.’

      ‘Christ, Luke … live a little.’ I add another huff and untwist the cap on the vodka bottle.

      He huffs back at me, then opens the freezer compartment for a bag of ice and half fills two pint glasses with cubes. I pour at least three measures of Grey Goose into one of the glasses. He reaches into the fridge for a bottle of Dr Pepper. When he turns round I can see his face could be about to crumple.

      ‘Why do you always have to lash out at me like a cut snake?’

      I figure this is not the time to pull him up on his usage of Aussie slang. ‘I don’t mean to.’

      ‘Try harder.’

      ‘I am trying.’

      ‘Yes, you are … very trying.’

      ‘Why

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