LITMIR.BIZ

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lights a fresh cigarette, the glow of the flame illuminating her porcelain skin. ‘So, what I’m wondering, Raven…’

      I flinch. ‘That sounds really odd to me.’

      ‘You’ll get used to it. So what I’m wondering is, I have this great date with Hughey Chicken and he’s got a friend he’s supposed to meet tonight in Camden. So I’m thinking that maybe you’d like to come along too. A kind of double date.’

      ‘You mean a blind date.’

      ‘Yeah, well. I guess, if you want to look at it that way’

      What other way is there to look at it?

      ‘Actually I have a boyfriend. He’s a graphic artist at CMU.’

      She looks at me. ‘And…?’

      ‘Well, I’m not into being unfaithful or anything. I mean, we’re probably going to live together when I get back.’

      ‘Relax! I wasn’t suggesting you offer him bed and breakfast. We were just going to hang out. After all, it’s London! Don’t you want to meet people? Have fun?’

      I hesitate.

      Obviously the cool thing to do is say yes. But what if he turns out to be ugly? Or weird? Or even not ugly and weird but out of my league—handsome and cool? I think of Jonny; of his funny, crooked smile. If it’s only to hang out, I guess it doesn’t matter. He’s not possessive. And it’s not like I’m going on my own…But what would I wear? I’ve only just got here; I haven’t even unpacked.

      Robbie’s smiling at me, swinging her legs. ‘So, what do you think? We’re going to meet in this pub and then go on to see a band at the Camden Palace.’

      ‘I…I don’t know.’

      ‘Rave…’ She’s already shortening it. I now have a nickname from a name that isn’t mine. ‘Rave, the thing is, I don’t know Hughey either. See? So it’ll be fun. An adventure!’

      I don’t know why this makes sense but it does. (The sidecars may have something to do with it.) ‘OK, sure. To keep you company, that’s all. But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll use my own name tonight.’

      She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Fine. But I wouldn’t mention your last name if I were you.’

      The front door opens.

      ‘Hello!’

      ‘We’re in here!’ Robbie calls. ‘Getting drunk!’

      A young girl in an ill-fitting brown coat peers in. She looks about fifteen, with heavy, straight, shoulder-length hair pinned back from her face by a bright pink barrette, and enormous round blue eyes. She’s carrying a stack of books—a thick, leather-bound reprint of Shakespeare’s first quarto, a Penguin guide to Romeo and Juliet, a copy of The Seagull and a well-thumbed edition of Chekhov’s short stories.

      ‘Hi.’ She crosses the room and holds out her hand. ‘I’m Imogene Stein.’

      I stand up. ‘Evie Garlick. Pleased to meet you.’

      ‘Evie’s coming with me to meet Hughey Chicken!’ Robbie beams, raising her mug.

      ‘Better you than me,’ Imogene carefully places her books on the floor and shrugs off her coat. Underneath, her dress is a drop-waisted pinafore affair, at least two sizes too big and her shoes are the kind of solid, brown oxford lace-ups my grandmother favoured. ‘What are you drinking?’

      ‘Sidecars. Want me to make you one?’

      ‘Yes, please.’

      Robbie gets up and Imogene collapses onto the sofa. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a fag?’ she pleads. Robbie chucks her the packet before heading into the kitchen.

      I watch as she lights up. There’s something wrong with this picture. She looks like a Laura Ashley poster child but sucks deeply and greedily, throwing her legs over one another like a forty-year-old prostitute after a long night.

      ‘So,’ I take a stab at conversation. ‘You’ve been out?’

      Nothing like stating the obvious.

      She passes a hand over her eyes. ‘Rehearsing. The Seagull.’

      ‘Yeah? Which scene?’

      ‘The last one. You know, ‘I’m a seagull. No, I’m not. Yes, I am.’ She takes another drag and for a moment it looks like she might inhale the whole thing in a single go.

      ‘That’s a great scene.’ I try to sound encouraging. ‘And a killer speech.’

      She nods, exhaling a stream of smoke from her nose. ‘Yep. I am a seagull. I am definitely a seagull.’

      We sit in silence.

      Maybe she’s a method actress. Method actresses take their work very seriously.

      I catch her eye and smile.

      She stares at me. And then, to my horror, her eyes begin to fill with tears.

      Shit. If she thinks she’s a seagull, we’re in real trouble.

      ‘I love him. I love him and he doesn’t even know I’m alive!’ She buries her face in her hands.

      Is she in character? Should I be improvising with her? I stand up. ‘I think I’d better unpack or…something…’

      ‘But I love him! I know he’s the one! I just know it!’

      Robbie comes back in and hands her a teacup minus a handle. ‘He’s gay, Imo. Everyone knows it. Sorry. We’re out of mugs.’ She refills my drink from a tarnished silver gravy boat.

      ‘He’s not gay!’ Imo hisses. ‘Just English!’

      ‘He wears cashmere socks, thinks football is violent and lives with a man named Gavin. Who’s an organist,’ Robbie adds. ‘Face it. He’s gay. Of course, you don’t have to believe me but I did grow up in the Village and if I can’t spot a gay man then I must be blind.’

      ‘Who are we talking about?’

      ‘Imo’s scene partner, Lindsay Crufts. He’s very handsome, extremely well-spoken and a total ass jockey’

      ‘Robbie!’ Imo glares. “Ass jockey” is not a term I want to hear again to describe the love of my life!’

      Robbie winks at her. ‘Golly but you’re cute when you’re angry!’

      ‘You know’—Imo shakes her head—‘for a girl who’s about to shag some loser by the name of Mr Chicken, you’ve got a lot of nerve!’

      Robbie giggles. ‘You are so jealous!’

      ‘Yeah, right!’

      I’m on the edge of this conversation, dying to join in. I raise my mug grandly. ‘And while you’re shagging Mr Chicken, I’ll be stuck shagging Mr Chicken’s mysterious friend!’

      They both look at me and laugh.

      I laugh too. But I don’t know why.

      Imo pauses for breath. ‘You don’t have any idea of what shagging means, do you?’

      ‘Sure,’ I flounder. ‘It’s dating, right?’

      ‘Fucking,’ Robbie explains. ‘Shagging is English for fucking. Makes it sound like a carpet.’

      I dismiss it like it’s old hat. ‘Yeah, I knew that. I just got…confused.’

      They exchange a secret smile.

      I’m not sure I like them. I hate the way they both know how to smoke and mix drinks and the bathroom’s disgusting…maybe I should find my own place.

      There’s a knocking, or rather a pounding, at the front door. ‘Hello!

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