fucking perv to me,’ she said, leaning against the doorframe.
I remember how she smiled as I spun round to face her. She could say the meanest things and still look so angelic.
Of course I told Nic she was very wrong, and that Victor Hugo was an artist-genius type, and therefore eccentric/not appreciated until dead.
After an awkward silence (which I’m used to), there came the screams from the sitting room. I hoped someone had been mutilated, but they were only playing Twister. We found Vicky crushing Shelley Newman, who had straddled Isabelle Gaudion, whose skirt had somehow vanished. And they thought I had problems.
Nicolette looked at me, rolled her eyes and nodded to the stairs. She didn’t look back as I followed her up to her bedroom, she didn’t even turn round once we were inside – she just went and stood by the window with the light surrounding her. Then she raised up her arms to pull her hair off her shoulders and spun back, flashing all of her midriff. That was one of her little moves. She always wore short tops that gaped and therefore showed her skin.
‘Sit down.’
I plonked myself on the deluxe-goose-feather-down-duvet-you-can’t-even-buy-in-Creasey’s and watched Nic crouch in front of me. She was rummaging under the bed for something.
‘Your mum’s nice,’ I said, trying not to look down her bra.
‘She’s a dumb whore.’
I’d only ever heard of whores in the Bible and Jackie Collins, so I got a bit excited.
Then Nic stood up and I saw the bottle – whisky. It had been hidden in a sock. She unscrewed the top and took a long gulp, and then offered it to me.
‘Thanks,’ I pretended to examine the label. ‘Whisky is my favourite tipple.’
She laughed. ‘Do you always talk like an old man?’
People are generally impressed by my use of the English language, so I was annoyed and drank quickly and half-choked. It’s funny because now I can drink a small bottle of it a day, and often do. Well, that’s not funny. Anyway, as I coughed up my guts Nic sank onto her bed and twirled strands of hair around a finger.
‘Pathetic party, isn’t it? Next we’ll be pinning the tail on the donkey. I’d rather slit my own throat.’ I felt her eyes turn onto me. ‘You’re a funny one: always on your own, acting like you know better . . . how come you weren’t joining in downstairs?’
I focused on the glossiness of her lips.
‘Because I do know better and I don’t like games.’
She nodded. ‘Mum thought it was something else. She thinks you’re sad because your dad died.’
I stared at Nic’s lovely oval face. I scanned her chin with its tiny dimple, the glossy lips, the outlined eyes.
‘I don’t feel sad at all.’ I took another swig of whisky. ‘Besides, my dad always said we carry the dead with us, so in theory he’s right here.’
Nic blinked. ‘If you’re trying to freak me out it won’t work.’
I handed the bottle back to her.
‘Who taught you to do your make-up?’
‘Taught myself.’
I must’ve felt brave on account of the whisky.
‘Teach me.’
Nic pulled a shiny red bag off her dresser and made me sit up straight. We were suddenly very close, facing each other. She sucked her bottom lip.
‘Where to start?’
I stared into her eyes, probably (definitely) hypnotised. I remember how her bangles clinked against me, I remember the smell of her perfume (she called it Anus-Anus but actually it smelled like lilies). She had different coloured creams and powders and pencils and she used a bit of all of them. It was strange, letting her prod at my cheeks and pull back my eyelids, but it made me feel dead special.
Then Isabelle burst in and ruined it.
‘There you are! What are you doing? Oh-my-God!
Oh-my-God!’
(Isabelle was very keen on her amateur dramatics.)
She grabbed the whisky and threw herself on the floor, giggling.
Vicky was standing behind her.
‘A private party, is it?’
NB: A lot of Guernsey people end their sentences with ‘eh?’ or ‘is it?’, which I think sounds common-as-mud. Dad said it demonstrated the fact that we are more French than English.7 It is also possibly a sign that Vicky/French people are simple-minded.
‘Come on in,’ Nic was smudging blusher on my cheek, ‘I’ve finished. You look great, Cat. Much better.’
No one had ever called me Cat before and I liked it a lot, but Nic was so close it was like she was going to kiss me and I thought she had to be teasing me. There’d been some