psychiatrist, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll go under without meaning to. Getting sozzled might be one way.’
‘I’d have gone bonkers alone,’ Christian said suddenly. ‘I was a raving drunk when Markus met me. Plus the cocaine. Ever tried it?’
‘No!’
‘He pointed out that if I carried on I’d ruin my looks and end up in the gutter before I was thirty. I was so confused about being gay. He rescued me. I adore him.’ He cast a mocking, loving glance in Markus’s direction, but the older man kept his head down.
‘Talking of drinkers,’ Hetty said brightly, ‘can you tell me anything about our other neighbours? The ones who live in number four – that’s below you, isn’t it?’
‘The Bridget Joneses?’ Markus hooted. ‘Ah, you were involved in that commotion. I hear you were quite the heroine.’
‘She’s okay. They let her out later that day. What did you call them?’
‘The Bridget Joneses. The three BJs, when we’re being cruel. Don’t you know Bridget Jones’s Diary ?’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ Hetty answered dubiously. ‘I’ve never read it. I prefer Joanna Trollope myself.’
‘Three girls live there. The would-be suicide, Annabel, is the oldest. Her father bought the flat so the others have to tolerate her,’ Christian explained. ‘That’s not the first time she’s tried it. Usually it’s such a spectacular and public event that she’s bound to be discovered. But one of these days she’ll go too far and there’ll be a tragedy.’
‘She said the man she loved thought she was too fat, and was in love with Flo.’
‘Flo’s the youngest and prettiest. She’s black. Flirty. If I wasn’t gay, I could fancy her.’ Christian winked, but Markus frowned. ‘Shelagh’s the one with red hair, from County Wexford. She pretends to be bog-Irish, but actually her family are sausage-barons. Quite wealthy.’
‘And why,’ Hetty was determined to find out, ‘do you call them the Bridget Joneses?’
Markus smiled. ‘Because they spend their whole time yearning for men, usually totally unsuitable specimens, never manage to pin one down long enough to marry any of them, are frequently plastered, and seldom take anything seriously for five minutes. Least of all themselves.’
‘You’re being too hard on them, Markus,’ Christian chided. He had opened another bottle and poured it before Hetty could prevent him. ‘They’re great fun, and quite harmless. You could have far worse neighbours, Hetty. Now, are you going to have a house-warming? And are we invited?’
‘Heavens …’ Hetty considered. ‘D’you think I should? Who would I ask?’
‘Us, for a start,’ the young man said. ‘Unless you’re afraid you’d catch something nasty from a pair of raving queers.’
Hetty punched his arm playfully. ‘Stop it. I’ve already grovelled and I’m not going to keep on doing it. Should I ask the BJs?’
‘Of course. And their men – then you can see what we mean. Send them home at eleven, though, or they’ll sleep where they fall,’ Markus advised. Then, gently, ‘It’s a splendid idea. People can easily get lost in flats in London, especially after a crash-landing like yours. You feel like you’ve been thrown out with no parachute, right? You could stay in night after night nursing your wounds, and never speak to a soul. I know – I’ve been there. But if you reach out and are friendly, anything might happen.’
‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ Christian cried. ‘You see why I worship him? And you’ll meet my family when you come to the first night, Hetty. My grandmother adores Markus. There’s a little party afterwards. You will come, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Hetty. ‘I’d love to. Goodness, aren’t you kind? What do I wear?’
The Wandsworth Studios, Rosa said, were easy to find: in the middle of Putney, behind Young’s Brewery, near the bridge. Hetty, unused to finding her way on foot around London, soon became lost. For over forty minutes she
‘I’d have gone bonkers alone,’ Christian said suddenly. ‘I was a raving drunk when Markus met me. Plus the cocaine. Ever tried it?’
‘No!’
‘He pointed out that if I carried on I’d ruin my looks and end up in the gutter before I was thirty. I was so confused about being gay. He rescued me. I adore him.’ He cast a mocking, loving glance in Markus’s direction, but the older man kept his head down.
‘Talking of drinkers,’ Hetty said brightly, ‘can you tell me anything about our other neighbours? The ones who live in number four – that’s below you, isn’t it?’
‘The Bridget Joneses?’ Markus hooted. ‘Ah, you were involved in that commotion. I hear you were quite the heroine.’
‘She’s okay. They let her out later that day. What did you call them?’
‘The Bridget Joneses. The three BJs, when we’re being cruel. Don’t you know Bridget Jones’s Diary ?’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ Hetty answered dubiously. ‘I’ve never read it. I prefer Joanna Trollope myself.’
‘Three girls live there. The would-be suicide, Annabel, is the oldest. Her father bought the flat so the others have to tolerate her,’ Christian explained. ‘That’s not the first time she’s tried it. Usually it’s such a spectacular and public event that she’s bound to be discovered. But one of these days she’ll go too far and there’ll be a tragedy.’
‘She said the man she loved thought she was too fat, and was in love with Flo.’
‘Flo’s the youngest and prettiest. She’s black. Flirty. If I wasn’t gay, I could fancy her.’ Christian winked, but Markus frowned. ‘Shelagh’s the one with red hair, from County Wexford. She pretends to be bog-Irish, but actually her family are sausage-barons. Quite wealthy.’
‘And why,’ Hetty was determined to find out, ‘do you call them the Bridget Joneses?’
Markus smiled. ‘Because they spend their whole time yearning for men, usually totally unsuitable specimens, never manage to pin one down long enough to marry any of them, are frequently plastered, and seldom take anything seriously for five minutes. Least of all themselves.’
‘You’re being too hard on them, Markus,’ Christian chided. He had opened another bottle and poured it before Hetty could prevent him. ‘They’re great fun, and quite harmless. You could have far worse neighbours, Hetty. Now, are you going to have a house-warming? And are we invited?’
‘Heavens …’ Hetty considered. ‘D’you think I should? Who would I ask?’
‘Us, for a start,’ the young man said. ‘Unless you’re afraid you’d catch something nasty from a pair of raving queers.’
Hetty punched his arm playfully. ‘Stop it. I’ve already grovelled and I’m not going to keep on doing it. Should I ask the BJs?’
‘Of course. And their men – then you can see what we mean. Send them home at eleven, though, or they’ll sleep where they fall,’ Markus advised. Then, gently, ‘It’s a splendid idea. People can easily get lost in flats in London, especially after a crash-landing like yours. You feel like you’ve been thrown out with no parachute, right? You could stay in night after night nursing your wounds, and never speak to a soul. I know – I’ve been there. But if you reach out and are friendly, anything might happen.’
‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ Christian cried. ‘You see why I worship him? And you’ll meet my family when you come to the first night, Hetty. My grandmother adores Markus. There’s a little party afterwards. You will come, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Hetty. ‘I’d love to. Goodness, aren’t you kind? What do I wear?’
The Wandsworth Studios, Rosa said, were easy to find: in the middle of Putney, behind Young’s Brewery, near the bridge. Hetty, unused to finding her way on foot around London, soon became lost. For over forty minutes she
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