Sin City by Wendy Perriam

ever leaving, feels she couldn’t even run her home.
    No one understands, though. Even my brainy friend, the barrister-to-be, was pretty scathing about what she called the nutters. I didn’t let on that I was technically one myself. She might have refused to help. As it was, she was really very decent, said she’d get more details, look up all the books for me, type out what I needed. Once I’ve got her letter, got the whole thing clear, I’ll march to Matron’s office and confront her with the facts.
    I spoon a few limp noodles from the bottom of my mug. Is it really worth the fuss? More rows and confrontations? To tell the truth, I’m feeling rather scared inside. In one way, I’m wild to go to Vegas, break out of my straitjacket, look forward to something more than ginger cake. And yet … Oh, I don’t know. Winning’s like so many things: it sounds wonderful until it really happens, or until you read the small print. The small print on this holiday is fine, in fact – exceptionally generous, with no hidden extras, as they say. It’s the small print in my head which is causing all the problems, the secret doubts and fears. I’ve never won before; well, just a steam-iron once, and a game of Chinese chequers as a runner-up, but nothing big, nothing like a holiday. I didn’t even known where Vegas was – America, of course, but I thought it was California, or maybe Mexico. Nevada sounds much duller, and it’s not that hot at all. I looked it up. It’s a furnace in the summer, but only fifty-five or so in winter. I’d rather have the furnace, so hot you’d just lie flat and think of nothing. I can’t stop thinking since I won – or Norah won, I should say. That’s the worst part. Supposing they find out she never entered, doesn’t even smoke? It’s like shoplifting again, stealing someone’s name. And I have to keep pretending so she won’t refuse to go, pretending it will be fun and hot and wonderful and that we’ll get on well together when she’s miles older than I am and …
    â€œJan …”
    â€œMm?” She’s talking to her flower-arrangement. If I were a birch twig or a spray of dwarf chrysanthemums, I’d have her full attention.
    â€œLook, I’d take you if I could, Jan – if it was left to me, I mean. It would be something in return for all you’ve done for me. You know I’m … grateful, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, ’course. You’ve said it twenty times.”
    She still sounds cross – no, not exactly cross, just on edge, as if she doesn’t really want me there. She’s wearing her best skirt and I’ve just noticed a fancy lemon cheesecake thawing on the side, which she hasn’t offered me. Is she expecting someone? A bloke, maybe? And if so, why hasn’t she mentioned him? We always confide about our boyfriends – or used to, anyway. I suppose she doesn’t trust me any more. I’m batty, like poor Norah. Must be, mustn’t I? Only loonies live in psychiatric hospitals.
    I don’t know why I came, really. I suppose I imagined she’d support me, back me up, sympathise at least. And I felt so overwrought, I needed to get out, confide in my best mate. Now I just feel flat, and in the way.
    I glance around her room – three walls painted orange, the fourth one papered in blue and yellow squiggles. I suspect the landlord got both paint and paper cheap – offcuts or odd lines which no one else would buy. The chairs look reject too, faded cretonne poppies blooming over broken springs. Jan’s done her best, prettied up the surface with ornaments and bits and bobs, hung a few small flower prints. The room looks bigger, somehow – perhaps because it’s tidy, far tidier than it ever was with me there. My sleeping bag is rolled up in a corner, my books and knick-knacks banished to a box. It’s as