Sin City by Wendy Perriam Page B

clean, English, insured, and right of centre.) Perhaps someone picked them up, a dirty stranger or left-wing foreign tramp.
    I hate the smell of stocks now – smell of death. Even the next day, I could still smell their sickly scent, as if it had seeped into my bloodstream, or was oozing from my pores.
    â€œCarole …”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI wish you’d stop those pills, love. You just don’t concentrate. I’ve asked you – twice – do you want an egg?”
    â€œNo, thanks.” I did miss supper, actually, but I hate to be a sponger. Jan doesn’t earn too much and that lemon cheesecake must have cost a bomb, with those piped rosettes of cream on top and that ruff thing round the middle. I hope he likes it.
    â€œYou don’t mind if I eat, do you?” Jan brushes bits of laurel off the table, removes them to the bin.
    â€œCourse not. Pig yourself. Aren’t you cooking for him, though?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh, nothing.” Jan’s staring at me, frying pan in one hand, corn oil in the other. I think she suspects I’m going really nuts, keeps watching me for signs. It’s spoiling our friendship. She doesn’t quite trust me any more, seems always a bit wary and reserved. I’ve noticed it when she visits. We don’t giggle like we used to, and sometimes there are actual silences, which we’ve never ever had in fourteen years.
    I ease up from my chair, go and sprawl on her divan. I feel utterly flaked out, as if I’ve just lived through that funeral day again, carrying a corpse made of cornflowers and sweet williams. I’m also feeling queasy, the smell of cooking oil seeping through my stomach like greasy fish and chips through newspaper.
    â€œHey, mind that bedspread, Carole. I only washed it just last week. And look, please don’t take this wrong, love, but could you try and phone before you come? I’m really pushed this evening. Once I’ve had my supper, I’ve got to have a bath and wash my hair and …”
    â€œGo ahead. Wash it. Wash the fucking bedspread, if you like. I’m not stopping you.”
    I’m really hurt. Jan’s never turfed me out before just because she needed to tart up. In fact, we always shared the bathroom, dried each other’s hair, played our favourite records while we messed about with eye gloss. And why the paranoia about that cheap and tatty bedspread? I suppose she washed it in his honour, plans to lie there with him later, when I’ve gone. I can see the cosy pair of them, curled up in each other’s arms; no room or thought for me. He might own a place himself, invite Jan to live with him, even propose. Jan’s the type to marry early, settle down with some boring decent guy, raise her 2.5 children. I’d lose her then, completely. Married friends are different, don’t need you any more; share things with their husbands, not with you.
    I watch her crack an egg, neat again, the white a perfect circle. My fried eggs tend to run or break, or get little black bits on them. God! I envy her. Even at school, she was form captain, flower monitor, always wore her hat, had loads of eager girlfriends. Maybe it’s not a guy at all, but a girl, another room-mate, one who pays the rent this time, shares all the expenses, doesn’t let the side down by nicking things, landing up in loony bins. Jan’s probably learnt her lesson, found a different sort of friend; some high-powered career girl who needs impressing with clean hair and party food. Hell! She must be really greedy if she plans to polish off that cheesecake. I’m so empty, I can hardly bear to look at it.
    I punch Jan’s pillow, lean back on it against the wall. All my past is breaking up – first my father and now Jan. I’ve known her all my life, for heaven’s sake. She’s part of my whole childhood. Why should I lose her to some odd acquaintance?
    â€œHey, Jan