Read Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend Online
Authors: Jenny Colgan
Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend (10 page)
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Kitchen first. I don’t think I’d ever seen a more depressing room in my life. It was just so miserably dark and grim, with the cheapest, nastiest work surfaces, specially designed to trap germs and grot. Orange, brown and green tiles fought for space on the wall. The fridge looked like one of those fridges that could appear in newspapers with odd-looking women saying, ‘I bought this fridge in 1952 and it’s still working!’ Or, it could have if it had been looked after or - I sniffed suspiciously - was actually working.
I found an egg-spattered radio - maybe Capital would have something perky to cheer me up.
‘Welcome back to Indie Boys Radio,’ intoned a voice. ‘And now our Smiths’ marathon continues with “Never Had No One Ever”.’
I tried to find something else, but only came up against static, or hollering pirate stations broadcast from the tops of nearby tower blocks. It was a very old radio. But that was not going to matter! It was all about keeping a positive attitude. I just had to get through this, and the next couple of months, then I could go home - with my new, rock-hard biceps - come into my inheritance, and show everyone how amazingly well I was doing. I was thinking about setting up some kind of memorial charity for my father. For heart disease maybe - oh no, they already had quite a few of those. Well, I’d find something. Something in his name and I could hold a big fundraising party every year and all the mags would cover it and Daddy would have been so proud of me. It felt like an admirable aim to have. In fact, I thought, tying back my hair, I could almost see it now - me saying, ‘I can understand the struggle people have to cure and heal; to work their way through every day. I’ve scrubbed floors. I’ve been down on my hands and knees . . .’ Oh, no that didn’t sound so good. How about, ‘I’ve known the blood, sweat and tears . . .’
I was running my hand under the tap trying to fill a bucket, but it didn’t seem to be getting any warmer. This wasn’t the best of starts. All round the sink were piled bowls of cement-hard cereal. Why do people eat stuff that dries up like that? They must have insides like quarries.
I was just deciding who was going to draw the raffle - I liked Stephen Fry personally, but maybe Neil Morrissey at a push - when Cal pushed his way through into the kitchen, yawning wildly. He was wearing an unbuttoned striped pyjama top which should have made him look stupid but actually only enhanced the leanness of his torso - no hair - and a flat, narrow stomach. Most of the boys I knew were wide and barrelchested; big, farmer’s boys with years of rugby behind them. This scrawny, indie look, of a boy brought up on jam sandwiches and glue sniffing, was new. I couldn’t help but find it a bit sexy, especially with his black hair sticking up all over his head.
He looked surprised, then briefly pleased, to see me in his kitchen.
‘Hello!’ he said. ‘I forgot all about you, Cinders.’
‘I’m not Cinders,’ I said, crossly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not till you realise that you have to turn on the water heater for hot water. You’ll be waiting to fill that bucket a long time.’
I said, ‘Oh,’ as if I’d known that all along, and turned on a strange-looking white machine which shuddered and juddered loudly and spouted out a thin line of scorching hot water that made me shriek slightly in a daft posh girl kind of a way. I tried to turn it into a cough.
‘It’s two o’clock,’ I said. ‘Were you in bed?’
Cal smiled broadly. ‘No. This is what I wear to my top office job in the city. Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘The kettle isn’t there any more.’
‘Oh yeah, we were using it for tie-dye. Hang on.’
He stretched his long arms over me. He smelled sleepy - not bad, just warm and rumpled and a bit sexy. It was a good smell.
‘Here we go,’ he said, taking it down from a cupboard. He peered in it as he nudged me away from the sink. ‘Could probably do with a clean itself.’
The interior of the kettle was completely white, silted up with chalk, with red stripes in it.
‘You think?’
‘Maybe they’re friendly bacteria?’ said Cal doubtfully.
I set to it with the boiling water. Maybe we could just fill the teapot straight from that.
‘It’s great you’re here,’ said Cal and I felt myself soften up a bit. ‘We really need someone to look after us. Like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’
‘No!’ I said. ‘That’s not what it’s like. It’s just helping pay my way till I get my old job back.’
He looked at me lazily. ‘You have a job?’
‘Have you?’
‘I’m a sculptor.’ He shrugged. ‘Michelangelo thought it was quite a cool calling actually.’
‘Oh, really? Are you as good as Michelangelo?’
He smiled. ‘No. No, Sophie, I’m not as good as Michelangelo. Can I still have a cup of tea?’
I smiled back at him and poured water in the kettle. Cal stretched sleepily like a big cat.
‘Up all night?’ I asked, saucily. To my amazement, I suddenly found I was tempted to run my fingernails down his chest. I looked at my nails. I hadn’t had a manicure in goodness knows how long. Maybe he wouldn’t mind.
‘Hey, is there one for me?’
I interrupted my Cal’s chest/my nails interface fantasy at the sound of a young voice with a heavy accent, possibly Spanish. There was a tiny, dark-haired girl with huge bosoms and a large bottom. In my circle we’d have considered her fat, but actually it was clear she was really very sexy. She had long messy black hair strewn over her face, and glossy olive skin, and black circles under her eyes which should have looked bad and which I’d have got sorted out at the dermatologist straight away but actually made her look sexy. She bit one of her huge pillowy lips.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ I said, a little stiffly. All my nail-based fantasies dropped into the sink with an ‘uh-urr’ type noise.
‘This is Sophie, the cleaner,’ said Cal. The girl raised her eyebrows slightly.
‘I’m not “the cleaner”,’ I said. ‘I live here. I’ve moved in. I’m helping out with the cleaning for a bit.’
‘The bathroom is deesgusting,’ said the girl. ‘Deesgusting. The whole flat is deesgusting.’
‘Well, I haven’t started in there yet,’ I said, feeling annoyed. It wasn’t my fault that the place was a pig heap. The girl had immediately lost interest in me and wandered off, which was incredibly annoying, seeing as if she’d turned up at any of the parties I used to go to, nobody would have spoken to
her
.
her
.
‘Here’s the tea,’ I said. Cal peered in the pot suspiciously. ‘Do you normally only put one teabag in a pot of tea?’ he said. ‘Is that what you do where you come from?’
‘No,’ I said, reddening. OK, OK, OK. I hadn’t wanted to admit it. But it was true. Between Esperanza, my preference for Starbucks and/or champagne, and the fact that we went out all the time . . . OK. I’d never made tea before. I’d only seen it done on
EastEnders
. I never wanted to admit this to another living soul.
EastEnders
. I never wanted to admit this to another living soul.
‘You do it then,’ I said. ‘I’ve got bathrooms to clean apparently. ’
The girl turned round. ‘Ooh, your cleaner’s quite stroppy.’ ‘I’m not the cleaner!’ I said.
‘Sorry,’ she said, not looking sorry at all but wandering over to Cal. She snuggled under his shirt and - grrr - ran her nails down his chest.
‘Can we go back to bed?’
‘In the absence of tea,’ said Cal. ‘I say, yes, why not?’
He opened the wobbly fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine and the two of them disappeared, leaving me standing there with a teapot full of tepid brown water I didn’t want to drink.
Four hours later I felt empty - like all the core of Sophie had been hollowed out and replaced with scouring powder and greyness. I’d given up on my nails long ago; they were gone, maybe for ever.
But the kitchen was
clean
, goddam it! Bucket after bucket of filthy water, crumbs, hairs, unidentifiable grungy bits, some pockets of smells that I couldn’t believe were even legal, and it was getting there. The cabinets weren’t brown, actually, they were beige, once I’d removed the patina of tomato soup. Still hideous, but not actually a contact hazard in themselves.
clean
, goddam it! Bucket after bucket of filthy water, crumbs, hairs, unidentifiable grungy bits, some pockets of smells that I couldn’t believe were even legal, and it was getting there. The cabinets weren’t brown, actually, they were beige, once I’d removed the patina of tomato soup. Still hideous, but not actually a contact hazard in themselves.
The floor turned out to be black and white diamond patterned lino, which reminded me of our black and white marble entrance hall in Chelsea, but I wasn’t going to think about that. The main thing was that, though the oven wasn’t exactly silver, it was no longer exactly black either, and had a lot fewer crispy black cheese boogers hanging off the side of it. I’d polished the tiles, scraped the drawer handles, washed and dried all crockery and cutlery (after first washing and drying all the tea towels, which looked like a tramp’s underwear collection).
It was disgusting. It was revolting. I’d hated every second of it, without having to pretend I was even dimly aware (although thankfully they were
reasonably
quiet - I heard a couple of yelps, but was really doing my very best not to listen) that two flimsy walls away there was some skinny pale-bodied indie-boy sex going on, and I was incredibly curious, despite myself, to know what that was like. Rufus had been great fun, but, apart from the spanking, actually a bit of a wimp in bed.
reasonably
quiet - I heard a couple of yelps, but was really doing my very best not to listen) that two flimsy walls away there was some skinny pale-bodied indie-boy sex going on, and I was incredibly curious, despite myself, to know what that was like. Rufus had been great fun, but, apart from the spanking, actually a bit of a wimp in bed.
But a cigarette-smoking sculptor . . . well, it gave me something to think about whilst I did the scrubbing.
When I stood back to look at my work, however, something changed. As I looked round I couldn’t help it. I felt
pleased
. And a bit proud. It smelt nice and looked, if not good, at least borderline habitable. I’d taken something horrible and made it good. It wasn’t like me at all. It wasn’t bad.
pleased
. And a bit proud. It smelt nice and looked, if not good, at least borderline habitable. I’d taken something horrible and made it good. It wasn’t like me at all. It wasn’t bad.
Not
that I was going to make a habit of it. And if the boys all poured in and threw beans all over the place, I certainly wasn’t going to start over tomorrow. Not that I could anyway, I had to get a job so I could stop this cleaning nonsense as quickly as possible.
that I was going to make a habit of it. And if the boys all poured in and threw beans all over the place, I certainly wasn’t going to start over tomorrow. Not that I could anyway, I had to get a job so I could stop this cleaning nonsense as quickly as possible.
Just after six, Eck came bounding through the door, throwing his keys onto the side.
‘Oh wow,’ he said, stopping short. ‘Look at this.’
I felt a bit of a grin rise up towards my face which I tried to dampen down again. What an absurd reaction to some soapy water.
‘Wow,’ he said again, running his fingers along the cabinets. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen . . .’ He smiled at me. ‘Well done, Sophie, it’s brill.’
I smiled back. I couldn’t help it, his enthusiasm was infectious.
‘Welcome!’ he said. ‘Wow. If you keep making it nicer, they’ll probably put the rent up.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, wishing I wasn’t covered in utter filth. ‘Had a hard day at the spider coalface?’
He grimaced. ‘Don’t ask. It’s my last year, so I’m about to find out if the last three weren’t a complete waste of time.’
‘People love spiders though.’
He winced again. ‘Oh God, stop, it’s not funny. I should never have left accountancy.’
‘An artist/accountant,’ I said. ‘It’s very romantic.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Eck. ‘Till I got my first student loan through. Being good at sums doesn’t really help.’
‘I thought Bohemians didn’t do sums.’
‘Bohemians don’t eat either. But I am starving.’
‘I don’t cook,’ I said.
Eck laughed.
‘What?’
‘Just your face when you thought I might be asking you to cook.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘That’s OK, but you looked at me like I’d just handed you Cal’s snake.’
‘He doesn’t really have a snake,’ I said fiercely.
‘No, he doesn’t. And you don’t really have to cook, so put the broom down.’
‘What’s up?’
It was James, bounding into the kitchen too; he seemed to have loads of energy, like a puppy. He was in his army gear and covered in mud and camouflage.
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