LITMIR.BIZ

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her hand.

      Imo’s practically apoplectic with indignation. ‘My God, Robbie! He’s only about eighty! That’s 50 gross!’ she hisses. ‘Why can’t you ever take anything seriously?’

      Robbie sighs wistfully. ‘But he’s sexy! Besides, our Mr Chicken doesn’t know his penis from his pancreas. Or my tits from my tonsils. Or, for that matter…’

      ‘Oh please!’ Imogene stalks off, hands pressed over her ears.

      I shake my head. ‘Bad Robbie. Down, girl.’

      ‘Oh, Evie!’ She leans her head against my shoulder, stifling a yawn. ‘But being good is so boring! And besides, I’m ever such a long way from home.’

      Boyd walks over and sits down. ‘Good work today’ he says, tapping me on the knee.

      I look at him in amazement. ‘But I completely fucked up!’

      ‘What you did took courage and balls. Anyone who wants to be an actor has to get used to making a prize prat of themselves. And in my experience the bigger the talent, the bigger the flops. But it paid off, in the end…didn’t it?’

      My whole insides warm with pride.

      ‘And you.’ He turns his attention to Robbie. ‘I’m a big fan of e.e.cummings but I’m willing to wager that’s just a little something you pull out of your back pocket any time you don’t fancy paying for your own drinks.’

      To my surprise, Robbie’s pale cheeks are bright red. I thought nothing could faze her.

      ‘Don’t waste my time,’ he continues. ‘This isn’t a nightclub in Soho and I’m not, despite appearances, a casting agent for the European porn industry. And next time,’ he adds, standing up and reclaiming the coffee, ‘go easy on the sugar.’

      That night, watching Top of the Pops and eating a supper of boiled rice, soy sauce and Singapore slings, Robbie composes her list of things to do. She’s possessed, pacing the living room and waving her fork in the air.

      ‘First off, girls, we need to get Evie here into Juilliard!’

      ‘Guess that rules out my famous Hamlet speech.’

      She ignores me. ‘Second, we need to get Imo laid. Preferably with the homo, so a real challenge, that one.’

      ‘Hey!’ Imo comes to life from the depths of the sofa, where she’s been lying comatose for almost an hour, staring at George Michael dancing around in a pair of tennis shorts, singing ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’. ‘Why am I second?’

      ‘Because’—Robbie pauses to take another sip of her drink—‘Juilliard will change Evie’s whole life, whereas getting laid with Mr Nancy Pants will pretty much leave you back where you started.’

      ‘Oh.’ She leans back again, apparently satisfied but more than likely just pissed.

      ‘And lastly, we need to devise a way that I can impress the new love of my life, Mr Boyd Alexander.’

      ‘Try turning up on time.’ I flick a forkful of rice at her.

      ‘No heckling! I’m on a roll! Now, how can we do this? What we need is an event…something sophisticated, sexy…something where we can all dress up and look fabulous!’

      ‘You’re blocking the television.’ Imo waves her out of the way. ‘I like George Michael.’

      Robbie shakes her head. ‘What is it with you and gay men?’

      ‘Oh, no! I’m not buying that for one second! That’s definitely one guy who’s straight!’

      ‘He’s a babe,’ I agree, drenching my rice in soy sauce.

      Robbie freezes. ‘I’ve got it! We’ll throw a dinner party!’

      ‘Do you think it makes any difference that none of us can cook?’ Imo turns to me. ‘Sauce, please.’

      Robbie does a little pirouette, the contents of her drink splashing over the sides of her glass. ‘Leave it all to me! Why do you girls always think so small? Don’t you understand? We have the power to be anyone or anything we want! The chance to change our whole lives in the blink of an eye! Anything is possible! Nothing can defeat the House of Chekhov! We will go to Moscow, I tell you! We will!’

      I pass the soy sauce to Imo. ‘From Russia with love.’

      Robbie drapes herself into one of the large leather chairs, sighing with satisfaction at the perfection of her own plan. ‘You know,’ she muses, unfazed by the fact that we’re not really paying any attention to her, ‘I can’t wait to be famous. I really can’t. I just know I’m going to be good at it.’ And she leans back, her face a picture of contentment and easy, unruffled anticipation.

      ‘Don’t you love the word naughty?’ she continues, swilling her drink around like character in a Noël Coward play. ‘I mean, the way the English use it? Even the way they say the word naughty is naughty’

      Imo and I are transfixed by Duran Duran’s latest video in a way that prevents anything more than just shallow breathing.

      ‘Well, I love it,’ Robbie whispers, half to us, but mostly to herself. ‘I can’t think of anything more exciting than to be poised on the brink of committing acts of great daring and huge potential naughtiness.’

      I’m late. It’s quarter past nine already and I’m still not out of the door. For the fifteenth time I examine myself in the full-length mirror of my wardrobe and attempt to readjust the little scrap of pale pink and blue silk Bunny gave me for my birthday. I try to tweak it with the same quick, sharp flick of the wrist I’ve seen Bunny and Ally use so many times to great effect, but the result is unpromising. I look like an airline hostess. For Air Kazakhstan.

      I don’t wear scarves; I never have. So why am I wasting precious time today playing with one that, until ten minutes ago, was firmly (if discreetly) headed for Oxfam?

      I’ve lost my books. My room, normally a haven of cleanliness and order, has suddenly erupted into a full-blown mess. I can’t find my papers. I tried to change my handbag to something slightly smaller and chicer, and now have a purse I can’t close, exploding with a selection of strange objects—mentholated breath mints, coloured pens, boxes of half-eaten raisins for Alex…The bed has all but disappeared; covered with piles of rejected clothes, the floor with unread sections of the Sunday Times; I stub my toe on one of Alex’s transformer toys (a bright red superhero which morphs into insect/vehicle) and hop around, clutching it and swearing, and then realize my tights have run…

      And I’m forced to conclude that there is no point to having extra time. I’m one of the women who don’t know what to do with it anymore. In fact, the whole day runs much more smoothly if I have no time to think, feel, or deviate in any way from my set routine. Women’s magazines are always pontificating about the emotional rewards of luxurious baths, long walks, stolen hours spent reading or meditating or just being, whatever that may be. But what they don’t allow for are women like me, who simply panic if given an extra twenty minutes in the morning; whose fragile balance of identity can no longer negotiate a world filled with unanticipated freedom in any form without transforming it immediately into an obstacle course of right and wrong choices.

      All because Ally took Alex to school today.

      Enough. The twenty minutes are long gone now and I’m late again anyway. Part of me is relieved to default to my normal panic stations mode. And as I tear the silk scarf off my neck, fling the contents of the cute handbag back into the enormous canvas holdall that’s normally welded to my arm and shove my feet into a pair of black, stretchy pull-on boots which cover all sorts of leg-wear disasters and have for years and probably will for years to come, I feel the comforting rush of adrenalin through my veins. Better the chaos you know.

      I force myself to leave my bedroom, averting my eyes to the mayhem I’m leaving behind (there’s no time, there’s no time, the voice chants over and over in

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