Alice, I’m not going to ask anyone to do it. I’ll meet someone in my own time. Besides, it’s not like you two are exactly romantic role models.’
Although Alice has never been dumped, she’s also never managed to choose anyone remotely worthy. They’re always these hopeless wastrels who want her to give their barren lives some semblance of meaning. They send her Auden poems in the post and hang around outside the doorway making cow eyes and mooing. Luckily her social-worker streak is currently in remission: I just hope that when she re-enters the fray she’ll make a better call. But then, I don’t know if I’ll ever believe anyone’s good enough for my twin.
‘At least we don’t live on our own!’ I point out. ‘You just sit around eating beans on toast, watching Buffy box sets.’ Rufus’s crestfallen face tells me I’ve gone too far. ‘Sorry, I know you hang out with Richie and Nigel a lot.’
‘Yeah, I do. We’re going to a programming conference in Malvern in a couple of weeks.’
‘Great!’ I tell him encouragingly. ‘But think about it, Rufus. It’s only because we love you.’ I pause, looking at my watch. ‘Oh Christ, I’m really late for Zelda.’ I’ve promised her I’ll go and work through our initial ideas for the overall look of ‘Last Carriage to Avon’ before she pitches it to the director next week. Her favourite way to work is deep into the night, aided by a stream of fags and a bottle of good red wine. I love Zelda, but she’s temperamental, and one thing she hates is unpunctuality. Alice can see I’m panicking. My car’s still parked outside the old flat and I’ve got to get to deepest South London.
‘Why don’t you just take the van?’ she suggests. ‘You’ve only had one glass of wine.’
‘Are you on drugs? There’s no way I can drive that thing. Anyway, I’m not insured.’
‘News flash: we’re identical. Just take my driving licence.’
It’s true that the only thing that sets us apart is the mole on the side of my left cheek. We’ve both got thick black hair, which we wear longish so we can make ourselves look sufficiently different if we need to. Our noses are bigger than we’d like them, a trait all three of us have inherited from our dad, but in compensation we’ve got our mum’s spookily green eyes. We’re the right side of curvy, although my bum definitely looks bigger without the assistance of Lycra (thank you, God, for blessing us with Spanx). So unless you’re peering at my face, or my naked arse, you’ll have next to no chance of telling us apart.
Before long I’ve let Alice talk me into it and I’m nervously guiding the huge vehicle out of our narrow street. Oh God, I hope I don’t crush any ‘original residents’ under its enormous wheels. Despite my shaky start, I gain confidence as I tootle towards Tower Bridge, but as my belief in my driving ability soars, my belief in myself starts to plummet. Feeling myself getting rapidly sucked into the depths of the dumpee doldrums, I turn the radio up loud and sing along determinedly to ‘Like A Virgin’. But even Madonna starts to depress me as the lyrics send me into a neurotic tailspin about how long it’ll be till I have a gentleman caller again. I’m definitely going to need more than lurid fantasies about Jake Gyllenhaal to see me through the long winter nights.
It takes me at least ten minutes to park the van outside Zelda’s tall South London townhouse. I arrive on the doorstep sweaty and stressed, but the anxiety starts to melt away when she envelops me in an enormous hug. She’s been laid low with a bug, so it’s been a good three weeks since I’ve seen her. She can be as scary as a hurricane when she’s angry, but she’s also the warmest, most caring person you could hope to meet.
‘You clever girl!’ she says, taking in the wonkily parked monstrosity. ‘You’ll be driving the costume van to set before we know it.’
She takes me down to her huge, messy kitchen, which is very much the heart of the house. Her myriad awards are randomly displayed above the Aga, alongside photos of her two sons.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ she says, starting to pour a bucket of wine out of the open bottle.
‘Oh, Zelda, go easy,’ I say, holding my hand over the glass.