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places … cocksucker?’

      ‘Well, yeah,’ Alex stammered. ‘Yeah, I moved around a bit, saw a few states. Bumming around, mostly.’

      ‘Really? How unusual … for such a rampant arsehole.’

      ‘MEL!’ shouted Alex, coming through to the kitchen. ‘How long do I have to put up with this?’

      ‘As long as it takes … buttcheeks.’

      ‘Buttcheeks? That’s complimentary, surely?’

      I blushed. ‘Shut up and take in this tea. And try and make it up to Fran.’

      ‘I didn’t do anything to Fran.’

      ‘What, you want to get on her bad side? Be nice.’

      He sighed, hung his head, and we carried in the tea.

      ‘I like knobchop’s new fake accent,’ Fran said to me. ‘Do you remember when he came back from Goa? He talked about his karma all the time and wanted to be a hippie. Gosh, wasn’t it jolly funny! What a wankfox!’ And she laughed a tinkly little Amanda laugh.

      ‘Fran, give me a break!’ said Alex. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, goddamnit.’

      ‘Gimme a break! Ah’m sawry, gawdamnit.’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop it!’

      ‘Stawp it!’

      ‘OK, OK, OK.’ He got up and made to leave the room.

      Fran wasn’t finished. ‘So what are your plans now, worthless anal wart?’

      He looked at me and then at the floor.

      ‘To make it up to Melanie and never leave abruptly again and be a good human being and find a good job and become respectable, SUH!’

      Fran nodded slowly, winked at me, and smiled at Alex, who gradually sat down again. Then she launched into filling us in on the gossip. It looked like things were going to be OK.

      And they were. Alex and I swanned about London, doing all the things we normally couldn’t be bothered with, like Art and Culture, for example. I cooked us fabulous meals, to which I politely asked Linda. However, she didn’t seem to fancy them. She’d had another big parcel, anyway, and stayed in her room a lot, not really giving me a chance to thank her for doing the washing-up.

      Alex did have some plans. This pop-star bloke was apparently lined up to get him some work here in the record business, so it was all going to be cool and he might even try and get a band together. I nodded supportively … For the moment, I was simply happy to keep playing Hide the Trousers and didn’t really care.

      Eventually, I phoned Amanda back about the party. OK, I was happy, but it didn’t stop me feeling an urge to get a gloat in, given half a chance.

      ‘Darling, hi. I’ve just got a call on the other line – give me a second.’

      Crap. This meant she must already have heard and had gone into defensive mode, which meant I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of relaying the news.

      ‘There,’ she said, ‘now what’s all this about Alex? I couldn’t believe it when I heard. Really, Melanie, haven’t you ever thought of playing hard to get?’

      Every time.

      ‘No, it’s great,’ I said. ‘We’re really … happy to be back together, get everything sorted out, you know. We worked out we wanted to be together.’

      ‘Oh!’ she squealed. ‘Tell me you’re going to get married too! We could have a joint celebration.’

      She knew damn well I wasn’t.

      ‘No, of course not. That’s for grown-ups. Which reminds me, we’re coming to your do on Saturday night.’

      ‘OK … well, Alex will know everyone, I suppose. You know it’s black tie?’

      ‘Uh huh.’

      ‘OK, darling. Well, improvise as best you can. Must dash! We’ve got a Teletubby stuck in a lift! Bye, darling!’

      By the following Saturday, I knew for a fact that everything was all right with the world and I was ready to hit Amanda’s engagement do. I had it all worked out. No doubt there’d be a lot of nudging. Someone might even say, ‘Hey, it’ll be you two next!’ and I’d blush modestly and do a shy smile, and Alex would look at me tenderly and say, ‘Well, you never know … maybe one day, if I’m lucky!’ and that’d get all round the party and I’d be the queen! By the time my imagination had supplied a huge circular staircase down which we could descend to mass applause, I had to pretend to be Fran and tell myself not to be so silly. But, oh – look how wonderfully compatible we were! We hadn’t fallen out once, all week. He’d grovelled, he’d done his bit. He was home again, he was beautiful, and he was mine. Everything was brilliant.

      Amanda’s party turned out to be a pretty swish affair. Fortunately, what with all the shagging and healthy gourmet meals, I could get into last year’s grey silk frock. And if I kept my right-hand side to the wall, the wine stain scarcely showed. Alex had shoved on his usual T-shirt and jeans, but looked gorgeous anyway.

      I’d begged Fran to come, but she’d absolutely declined, on the grounds that I would be snogging Alex all night and everyone else would be horrible.

      The party was in an exclusive club on the Thames: all noisy gravel and ginormous bouquets of unnaturallooking yellow flowers clustered around a bunch of braying men and sharp-lipsticked women. Everyone was taller than me and knew everyone else, and before I was two steps through the door, my carefully groomed confidence started to plummet, until once again I was Melanie Pepper, unruly loudmouth of 2C, worrying about puppy fat and what would happen if George Michael didn’t want to marry me after all. (Well, who knew?)

      This was definitely not my race, this mob of anorexic, complacent, poshtastic freeloaders. I caught sight of myself in the enormous gold-tinted mirror opposite, surrounded by the glitterprati. I looked like I was wearing my mother’s shoes, en route to the dentist.

      I turned round for the consolation of having the handsomest man in the room on my arm. But my heart sank again. How could I forget? Alex’s hair flopped! He went skiing! His parents couldn’t remember his first name! He was One of Them! Even before I had grabbed my first free glass of champers (Don’t grab, Mel! You have a right to be here, remember?), he was practically being mobbed.

      ‘Al! Al, darling! Where have you been?’

      ‘Alex! Sara said she bumped into you in LA – had a few fantastic days, I hear?’

      ‘Oh, come over and see Benedict and Claire – we haven’t seen you since the pool party!’

      I too had been at the pool party, having a thoroughly miserable time. I too hadn’t seen any of these poncey poseurs since then. I pretended to look politely interested and waited for Alex to re-introduce me.

      ‘Guys, you remember Melanie, don’t you?’

      A blonde horse glanced at me cursorily, and I wished – for God’s sake! – that my name was a little less common.

      There was a short pause in the conversation as they gave me simpering nob smiles and enquiring looks, then they fell back into loud guffaws as Alex recounted his adventures yet again, cast me one apologetic glance, then hurled himself into dissecting the rugby season and knocking back the ’poo.

      So much for the grey silk dress. The entire circle, defying the laws of physics, appeared to have its back to me, and I felt out in the cold. Deflated, I wondered what had happened to my fantasy big night at Amanda’s party. I would have made my excuses and left, but there was no one to give my excuses to. So I wandered off, pretending to be in search of a toilet, and wondering whether or not to go and have a little cry by myself.

      Weighing up my options, I spotted Amanda. After all, she was the hostess, she had to talk to me! I wandered up to her group in

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