unusual combination, which largely leaves her dissatisfied. She’s a little taller than most women are (five foot nine) and a little thinner (UK size ten), achieved through the constant fidgeting rather than gym visits. Therefore she’s slim but untoned. She bewails her wobbly upper arms and potbelly but hasn’t, in the fifteen years I’ve known her, ever seriously considered stomach crunches or lifting weights (unless you count carrying heavy shopping bags). She’s a natural blonde: eyelashes and brows prove it. Therefore she doesn’t tan but has a sprinkling of freckles on her (wide) nose and (slim) shoulders. She has the sexiest mouth in the Western world. It’s broad and red. Women describe her as stunning. Men are diametrically opposed; they either fail to notice her at all, her paleness rendering her invisible, or they want to be her knight in shining armour and put her on a pedestal. I don’t think either of these responses suits her. Issie’s fierce intellect and brutal honesty ought to be dignified with something more than indifference or insulation. But then there’s a lot of things that ought to happen and won’t. I don’t hold much hope for Issie finding a man that is worthy of her. Especially since her optimism has overpowered her intelligence and she has spent her adult life in a stalwart but senseless crusade to discover hidden depths in the men she dates. I’ve explained on countless occasions that there isn’t a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
It’s really Josh who is responsible for Issie’s and my friendship. He spotted her at Freshers’ Week and developed an intense crush on her. He begged me to befriend her. I did. By the time I discovered how much I liked her and how ethereal and fragile she was, Josh had slept with half of the students in Withington and Fallowfields. I decided that she was far too special to allow him to have his wicked and transient way with her. I discouraged both parties, in what I admit to be a Machiavellian manner. I pointed out his shortcomings to her and other women’s attractions to him. It was a successful ploy.
I still think I made the right decision.
If they’d wanted each other so much, they’d have found a way to make it happen.
We settled into a healthy flirty relationship where we often confused who fancied whom. Instead of any of us sharing each other’s beds, in the second and third years, we shared a student house. Just the three of us, loath to let anyone else into our inner sanctum. This was sensible, as arguments over who bought the last loo roll and put an empty milk carton back in the fridge put a full stop to any romantic notion any one of us harboured.
We were typical students. We avoided lectures, joined clubs and societies – rugby (Josh), Literary Soc. (Issie), wine appreciation (me); we drank copious amounts in the Uni. bar, relied on last-minute cramming for exams and shagged relentlessly. We were atypical in that none of us fell victim to the statistic that says one third of all graduates meet their long-term partner at university. We were all hopeless at anything long-term. Issie fell in love with every man she shagged. It was a warped attempt at respectability. She shagged until the men she was shagging got fed up with her reading metaphysical poetry as foreplay. Josh fell in love with every woman he screwed, at least until he’d eaten breakfast and sometimes for days on end. He was forever breaking hearts. I never fell in love and often got bored before the first post-coital cigarette.
This youthful pattern set us on the path we would follow throughout our twenties and, likely as not, until we draw our pensions. This thought doesn’t bother Josh or me. The law chambers which he so successfully wafts around offer enough intelligent and willing women for him to fall in and out of love ad infinitum. The same can be said of my job in the media. The abundance of loose-moralled young men is a necessary criterion for any job offer I accept. I have no illusions about commitment, which makes me a deeply attractive proposition to men who have no intention to commit – 99.99 per cent of them. So I use and abuse. It’s easier all round. Actually, I don’t do too much abuse. To abuse someone they have to be emotionally involved and in my experience men are happy to