to admit there wasn’t much of it. She’d down it in three or four mouthfuls. And all she’d eaten today was a tuna salad with her dad and a couple of sips of champagne. She knew there was some ice cream in the freezer. How many calories could there be in a couple of tiny scoops? It would just bulk the Slim-Fast up a bit, that’s all. Plus it was her firm belief that food consumed in private had no calories (along with food licked off spoons when cooking and anything consumed at the cinema, which was part of the entertainment package and didn’t count).
She poured the shake into the blender and began chipping away at the Cherry Garcia Ben and Jerry’s. She looked at the fruit bowl, where a speckled overripe banana was just crying out to be eaten. She unzipped it and threw it in too, along with an inch of full-fat crème fraîche she had left in the fridge. It seemed a shame to waste it. She blended the whole thing up and stuck her finger into the mixture. Not bad. But it could do with something to counteract the sweetness. A bottle of Bacardi, left over from Christmas, was sitting on the counter. Perfect. It would also give the whole thing a bit of a kick into the bargain. After all, she’d had a shock today, a bit of alcohol would be medicinal. She reached for the bottle and sloshed a couple of inches into the shake. But by then the bottle was virtually empty, so she added the rest. She blended the whole thing one more time and poured it back into the glass. There was still masses left in the container. She would finish it later.
She went into the living room and sat herself down on the sofa. As she sipped her “Slim-Slow,” she looked round the room and thought about how much she loved it. With the help of the
Changing Rooms
CD-ROM, the Ikea catalogue and an oversize, over-the-top crystal chandelier that Lady Axminster had found when she was clearing out her attic at Slapton Gusset, she had created a twelve-by-fourteen monument to what she liked to think of as funky minimalism.
She’d moved in six months ago and had spent virtually every weekend decorating. She’d steamed off the ancient mint green woodchip, lined the walls and painted them white, sanded and polished the floorboards. The only time she’d needed professional help was when it came to hanging and wiring the chandelier. All she needed now were blinds. Roman, she’d decided—in a slightly milkier shade of white. But not so milky that it would clash with the white marble of the fireplace, which had a slightly grayish tinge to it. On the other hand, if she went too gray it wouldn’t work against the rich yellow-gold floorboards. Best thing would be to go to John Lewis, get some swatches and stick them to the walls and floor. One was bound to speak to her.
“But, Becks,” she could hear Jess say the moment she saw the swatches. “They’re all identical. White is white is white.”
Then she’d beg her to go for a more practical color that didn’t show the dirt, like maroon.
Although she adored the marble fireplace, what Rebecca loved most were her sofas. She had two—bought on credit from Ikea. One was very long, low and bright pink. The other—black leather with stainless steel legs—was equally angular and self-consciously trendy, only smaller. Right now, she was sitting on the pink one. She closed her eyes, rested her head on its unyielding back and began caressing the soft woolen pile. Like all her girlfriends, she recognized there comes a point in a woman’s life—round about when she discovers the Naked Chef and acknowledges Tom Jones may be cheesy, but has a really great voice—when seating gets sexy.
Her friend Mad, who was doing a fine-art course, had provided paintings. She specialized in huge, highly abstract nudes and had given Rebecca two as a flat-warming present. She’d hung one—a bloke with a triangular head, whose pubic hair was made up of thousands of lowercase letters—over the mantelpiece. The other, which was
She poured the shake into the blender and began chipping away at the Cherry Garcia Ben and Jerry’s. She looked at the fruit bowl, where a speckled overripe banana was just crying out to be eaten. She unzipped it and threw it in too, along with an inch of full-fat crème fraîche she had left in the fridge. It seemed a shame to waste it. She blended the whole thing up and stuck her finger into the mixture. Not bad. But it could do with something to counteract the sweetness. A bottle of Bacardi, left over from Christmas, was sitting on the counter. Perfect. It would also give the whole thing a bit of a kick into the bargain. After all, she’d had a shock today, a bit of alcohol would be medicinal. She reached for the bottle and sloshed a couple of inches into the shake. But by then the bottle was virtually empty, so she added the rest. She blended the whole thing one more time and poured it back into the glass. There was still masses left in the container. She would finish it later.
She went into the living room and sat herself down on the sofa. As she sipped her “Slim-Slow,” she looked round the room and thought about how much she loved it. With the help of the
Changing Rooms
CD-ROM, the Ikea catalogue and an oversize, over-the-top crystal chandelier that Lady Axminster had found when she was clearing out her attic at Slapton Gusset, she had created a twelve-by-fourteen monument to what she liked to think of as funky minimalism.
She’d moved in six months ago and had spent virtually every weekend decorating. She’d steamed off the ancient mint green woodchip, lined the walls and painted them white, sanded and polished the floorboards. The only time she’d needed professional help was when it came to hanging and wiring the chandelier. All she needed now were blinds. Roman, she’d decided—in a slightly milkier shade of white. But not so milky that it would clash with the white marble of the fireplace, which had a slightly grayish tinge to it. On the other hand, if she went too gray it wouldn’t work against the rich yellow-gold floorboards. Best thing would be to go to John Lewis, get some swatches and stick them to the walls and floor. One was bound to speak to her.
“But, Becks,” she could hear Jess say the moment she saw the swatches. “They’re all identical. White is white is white.”
Then she’d beg her to go for a more practical color that didn’t show the dirt, like maroon.
Although she adored the marble fireplace, what Rebecca loved most were her sofas. She had two—bought on credit from Ikea. One was very long, low and bright pink. The other—black leather with stainless steel legs—was equally angular and self-consciously trendy, only smaller. Right now, she was sitting on the pink one. She closed her eyes, rested her head on its unyielding back and began caressing the soft woolen pile. Like all her girlfriends, she recognized there comes a point in a woman’s life—round about when she discovers the Naked Chef and acknowledges Tom Jones may be cheesy, but has a really great voice—when seating gets sexy.
Her friend Mad, who was doing a fine-art course, had provided paintings. She specialized in huge, highly abstract nudes and had given Rebecca two as a flat-warming present. She’d hung one—a bloke with a triangular head, whose pubic hair was made up of thousands of lowercase letters—over the mantelpiece. The other, which was
Similar Books
