‘We haven’t discussed it,’ said Amy. ‘And what happened doesn’t really count.’ Her mind went back to a brief drunken encounter on top of a pile of coats with Eric Townsend at a party he’d thrown while his parents were in Tenerife. She’d been sick on the coats shortly after and had crept out while he was snoring contentedly.
A knock on the bedroom door announced Toyah, Chantel’s mum. ‘I’m popping to the shops,’ she said, poking her head round the door. ‘You girls want anything? I could pick up some of those fishcakes you like Amy, if you fancy staying for dinner?’
‘Tim’s cooking for me tonight,’ said Amy, a little proudly. ‘Spaghetti bolognese.’
‘A handsome musician who can cook,’ said Toyah. ‘I don’t suppose he has a single brother?’
‘Mum!’ exclaimed Chantel.
‘I was thinking of you,’ laughed Toyah. ‘Although a toy boy does sound rather appealing . . . ’
‘He’s an only child,’ said Amy. ‘Sorry to disappoint.’
‘Probably for the best,’ said Toyah. ‘We can’t have the Smith girls fighting over a man.’ She smiled. ‘Right, I’ll be off. I’ll stock up on pineapple juice for you, Amy. I’m sure you’ll be back tomorrow to give us all the details.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Amy, as Toyah disappeared.
‘So Tim’s cooking you dinner tonight?’ prompted Chantel. ‘Maybe tonight’s the night.’
Amy looked down. She’d been thinking the same thing.
‘Oh, I bet it is,’ said Chantel, reading her face. ‘What are you going to wear?’
‘That blue velvet dress,’ said Amy. ‘With my wedged boots.’
‘Good call,’ said Chantel. ‘You look hot in that.’ She paused. ‘And underwear?’
‘Of course,’ said Amy, a little shocked.
Chantel laughed. ‘No, I mean which underwear? You can’t have those white cotton knickers with the flowers on that you insist on wearing, with that awful beige bra. You need something sexy.’ She went over to her chest of drawers and began rummaging through it. ‘Ah ha,’ she said, triumphant. ‘This is what you want.’ She pulled out a lacy black bra and a matching thong.
‘I couldn’t . . . ’
‘I’ve never worn them,’ said Chantel. ‘Never had the chance. Bloody Dean Chapman, cramping my style. And it’s not like I’d waste them on him.’
‘But then he’d know . . . he has seen my bra already,’ she admitted. She imagined her embarrassment if things did go further and he saw that underwear. He’d think she’d been planning it. For some reason, even though she wanted to, the idea of him thinking she’d dressed up specially made her feel mortified.
‘He’s seen that monstrosity and he’s still interested?’ said Chantel. ‘Maybe he isn’t gay after all. In which case . . . ’ Chantel opened another drawer and began to rummage. ‘Here we are,’ she said, then frowned at the box. ‘Only a month till they go out of date. How tragic is that. The Chantel of a year ago was clearly over-optimistic.’ She chucked the condom box to Amy, who immediately buried it deep in her handbag, colouring at even the idea of such things being in her possession.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Chantel came over and gave her a hug. ‘I know I tease you,’ she said. ‘But it’s just jealousy. He’s a great guy and I’m really happy for you. You’re brilliant and he’s very lucky.’
Amy hugged her back. ‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘You’re the best.’
‘And I want to know every detail,’ continued Chantel. ‘No fobbing me off this time with excuses about being too drunk to remember.’
‘I won’t be drunk,’ said Amy. But Chantel had given her an idea. ‘I’ve got to get going,’ she said, kissing her friend on the cheek. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Like you need it.’
Amy stood in the wine aisle at the small supermarket, wishing she’d saved the bottle from the night they met. Now all she could remember was that it had been red wine with a screw top and that the bottle had a lovely soft green glow to it from the moonlight. She could hardly tell the bored-looking assistant stacking shelves that and expect any help.
It would be more romantic if she could remember what it was, but the thought would still count if she bought any nice bottle of wine. Her eyes scanned the shelves, but she knew nothing about wine and the only criteria she had to go on was price. She had a ten-pound note in her purse from when she’d babysat Teresa next door. That would buy something good. Something special.
She selected a bottle with a pretty line drawing of the Tuscan hills that was reduced from £11 to £6.99. It had a cork, so she picked up a corkscrew too, just in case. He’d laugh at that; it was even better than a screw top. She’d not been to Tim’s flat before, but his flatmates had gone away on a lads’ trip to watch the football in Manchester and he’d invited her. He’d cook, he said. She’d rarely been cooked for before by anyone other than her grandmother or Toyah. And she didn’t count the hurried meals that her parents provided between shifts, or the microwaved cheese and ketchup on toast that was Chantel’s speciality.
She took the bottle to the till, feeling very grown-up. She was going to have dinner at her boyfriend’s house and she was bringing wine. Boyfriend. Even that sounded sophisticated. She had been too shy to use that word herself, but then he’d introduced her as his girlfriend to his band mates and she’d glowed merrily. After that she used the word as often as she could, feeling a little echo of that glow every time.
The woman at the till pursed her lips at the bottle. She was about the age of Amy’s mum but wore large gold hoop earrings that Amy could never imagine her own mother wearing. ‘ID?’ she asked.
‘What?’ said Amy. ‘I’m eighteen.’ It was true. She’d celebrated her birthday last month.
‘Course you are, love. You need to prove it.’
Amy rummaged in her handbag. Her student card for art college hadn’t arrived yet. She didn’t
