Jess is in that age-old crap situation which, considering she’s the smartest of us all, is quite difficult to fathom – the unhappily unmarried mistress. If Basil Asquith’s constituents only knew what he is thinking when he advocates corporal punishment (being attached to his antique king-size bed with handcuffs), they may take their vote elsewhere. But Jess is inexplicably attracted to him.
Their affair started four years ago, when she took a post as his researcher, and has motored along, fuelled by endless promises to ‘re-evaluate his marital situation’. Meanwhile, Mrs Asquith poses quite happily with him at their country estate in endless editions of House and Garden. The irony is that Jess is gorgeous (she always reminds me of Julianne Moore), successful and fiercely intelligent. She’s also second only to Kate in being grounded and innately sensible. The whole Basil thing is obviously an episode of diminished responsibility from which she’ll recover at any time.
She visibly shrugs off her melancholy and turns the over-table light so that it shines in my face. ‘Anyway, Cooper, it’s your turn. Spill the story.’
I’d almost forgotten I had something to share.
The others are staring at me in anticipation.
I pause for effect, then reach into my bag and pull out two letters and my purse.
‘This,’ I say placing the first letter down on the table, ‘is my letter of resignation. Goodbye bog rolls.’
I place down the next letter, amused at the three confused faces around the table.
‘And this is a note to my landlord, terminating the lease on my flat.’
Confusion is now approaching astonishment.
‘I’ve decided that by the turn of the century, I’m going to have found the love of my life and the first place I’m going to look is in my past. So these…’ I hold up my credit cards, ‘… are going to take me around the world to find every poor bugger who has ever had the misfortune to have exchanged bodily fluids with me. Ladies, we have a mission. We’re going in and we’re taking no prisoners…’
6 The Only Way Is Up – Yazz and the Plastic Population
I arrived back in Glasgow on a cold January morning, having spent the whole flight in a catatonic state of misery. It must have been obvious because the air hostesses removed all sharp objects from my dinner tray.
I had no idea what I was doing there, where I would go, or what alien life-force had possessed me and transported me back to the very place I had fled only eighteen months before. And I missed Joe already. I wanted to phone him and tell him to come and rescue me, that it had all been a mental aberration caused by bad seafood, or the ozone layer, or something, anything that would excuse the fact that I’d deserted him. I commandeered a taxi and gave the driver my parents’ address. On the way there, we passed my old school and my spirits lifted as I thought of the girls and wondered what they were doing.
I was beginning to relax when we stopped at a junction and I was confronted by a huge billboard with a gorgeous dark-haired female with blue eyes the size of billiard balls lounging on a sofa. A slogan underneath said, ‘Lie on something soft and warm tonight.’ As I pondered it, I looked closer and shrieked so loudly that the driver swerved and narrowly missed a rather well-dressed lady with a poodle.
‘That’s Carol,’ I screamed. ‘She did it, she really did it!’
I could see that the driver was wondering whether to take me to the address I’d given him, or just drop the shrieking girl here and write off the fare.
‘You don’t understand,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘That’s one of my best mates up there.’
‘Of course it is, and my day job is commander of the space shuttle,’ he added dryly.
I didn’t care. I suddenly felt that I was back where I belonged, and excitement was washing away all the doubt and regret.
We arrived at my parents’ and I jumped out, giving the driver a huge tip in case the poodle sued for emotional distress. I rummaged in the back porch for the house key and let myself in. Security isn’t exactly watertight in our street.
My mum was cremating bacon in the kitchen and lost control of her spatula when she set eyes on me. To her credit, she looked pleased to see me and didn’t launch into an immediate interrogation as to why I was there and how had I messed up this time. I had a feeling that would come later.
‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.
‘Callum and Michael are still in bed and your dad was last seen comatose on the lounge sofa. He’s probably still there unless he’s discovered a pub that opens at 8 a.m.,’ she added, with an automatic tut of disapproval. No change there, then. These two needed a United Nations peacekeeping force.
I bounced up the stairs and through the first door, where Callum lay sleeping in the middle of a room that looked like it had been ransacked. I launched myself at him, doing a belly flop of a landing that ended with a thud that sounded like plaster cracking. Shit, I’d forgotten about the broken leg.
He yelled, ‘What the f—’ before stopping mid sentence, his face lighting up. ‘Carly, babe, you’re back!!!’ He’ll make a great detective.
I smothered him with kisses, then went next door to Michael’s room. At fourteen, he had well and truly embraced the teenage life and he was sleeping soundly in his Rambo T-shirt and boxer shorts, with one leg hanging out of the bed. I ruffled his hair and tickled the end of his nose. He thwacked my hand away, still sleeping. I stuck my fingers in his ears. That did it. He opened his eyes and squinted, desperately trying to focus on his attacker. Then recognition dawned and he jumped up, tripped on the duvet and landed spread-eagled on
