West End Girls - Jenny Colgan Page 0,3

eventually. Whether a works’ night out, or a divorcing couple meeting for a child handover, all sorts of people ended up prodding uselessly at the Death by Chocolate with triple-brownie fudge ice cream and chocolate sauce supreme. And she could spot them a mile away; they’d look slightly perturbed about walking in, wouldn’t know what to do with the sparklers in their drink, ask if she had fizzy water or salad (“There’s our bacon-bit surprise, sir,” she would say insouciantly), and she’d check out their shoes, or their watch, then play the comely wench a bit more. There weren’t many well-off single men in Brandford—one or two footballers in nearby Saffron Walden, but the competition for them tended to be intense and exhausting—but serving four hundred covers a night very often yielded results, as well as occasionally spectacular tips, which made Lizzie green, particularly as she had an indoor job, in an office and everything.

“I’m off,” shouted Penny, heading for the door. Her mother was at home again today. She’d been having horrible problems with her varicose veins—standing up doling out big scoops of cabbage, and nowadays chicken twizzlers, to ungrateful schoolchildren for nearly thirty years had pretty much done for her legs. Making it through to Friday tended to be a bit on the tricky side.

“Penny?” shouted her mother as Penny slunk past the sitting-room door. Fat and florid, she lay with her feet higher than her head, and an enormous flask of tea—made by Lizzie—by her side. “Where were you last night?”

“Why?” said Penny sulkily. For goodness’ sake, she was twenty-seven, not fourteen. “I went to Paris to visit Kylie Minogue.”

“Well, could you let me know when you’re going to be so late? I worry about you, you know.”

“Well, you should stop, I pay housekeeping, don’t I?”

“Not very bloody much,” said her mother. “Wouldn’t keep a mouse in cheese.”

Penny rolled her eyes. “I’m running my own life, OK?”

“Just a bit of consideration, darling. That’s all I ask for.”

Penny heaved a sigh. She and her mother had been having this argument for ten years. “What are you watching?”

“The 1979 RSC Macbeth,” said her mum. “Ian McKellen and Judi Dench. One of the best ever.”

“Right. God, that crap is so boring. Do you want me to bring you back some salad?”

Her mother’s face brightened. “Oh, go on then, sweetheart. And what about some potato wedges? And some of the fried chicken?”

“Mum! It’s horrible! I’ve told you where it’s from! It’s not even all real chicken! And the doctor told you to lose weight.”

“I know,” said her mother, looking slightly ashamed. “But it tastes so good.”

Penny tutted, and left the house.

Lizzie marched into work in an even worse mood than usual for a wet Thursday morning.

Stamp importing wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind when, after a school career of almost total mediocrity spent entirely in the shadow of her misbehaving sibling, she’d landed a proper office job in Brandford—and she hadn’t planned to be there for ten years either, but it was undemanding as jobs go—processing stamp orders from overseas. She’d made a friend, Grainne, who controlled reception and the import desk.

Grainne’s hobbies were cats and crisps. It was an undemanding friendship. But it was nice, for once, not to be the shy one, especially when she’d been the one with a boyfriend for a change too. Felix had been tall and slim and handsome, and Lizzie couldn’t believe her luck when she pulled him at an awful party Penny had dragged her to one night. It had taken her six months to realize he was actually as dumb as a stone box full of rocks. Lizzie had thought he was just amenable. His constant mumbled “Whatever you like” to films, TV, and sex had eventually grown tiring, even for Lizzie, for whom the novelty of a real live boyfriend was something that took a while to wear off. And she missed having something to talk to Grainne about; now they were back to pussies and Pringles.

“Nice evening?” said Grainne as she walked in.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Why haven’t you washed your hair? Were you out with a new man?” Grainne lived in fear of Lizzie getting a boyfriend and leaving her.

Lizzie slung her bag in the corner of her desk. It had taken her ages to get back to sleep again when Penny had bowled off to bed, and she felt fuzzy and out of focus.

“No,” said Lizzie. “How’s your cat? Bought her any new outfits?”

“Miss Friss is fine, thanks,” said Grainne.