intelligent,’ she adds. Again.
Hmm. She sounds a little Stepford Wife-y and she’s not meeting my eye, but I decide to agree with her.
‘You’re right. Lucky you, darling. So important to have someone kind and intelligent.’
There might be something wrong here, but I’m not going to push it. Kate doesn’t talk about her feelings unless she wants to. She has that nice reserved thing going on; not in a cold way—she’d do anything for any of us. I think it’s shyness. You never know if she’s really great or utterly miserable until she wants you to. I wish I wasn’t such an open book. My mother can read my mood by how many rings it takes me to answer the phone.
‘How are you feeling about Posh Mark, anyway, Sass?’ says Kate. I rang her on Tuesday night and bawled, embarrassingly.
‘Oh, fine,’ I say truthfully. ‘He was, you know, a life raft. Better than drowning in a sea of self-pity and vodka.’
‘Nicely put,’ grins Kate. ‘So where’s off the list now?’
‘Eight Over Eight, because that was our first date place,’ I say, taking a thoughtful bite of my burger. ‘And Julie’s, because we used to go there for brunch when we stayed at his place.’
‘Are there any brunch places near your place that aren’t tainted by ex-boyfriends by now?’ Kate says, laughing. She professes to not understand why I refuse to go back somewhere that reminds me of someone who dumped me. Especially as the list is getting slightly ridiculous.
‘None,’ I reply honestly. ‘Pimlico is one big no-go zone for me these days. I may have to move.’
We move on to gossiping about people we know, and talk about the party at Mitch’s place tomorrow night. The guestlist seems to be snowballing, with lots of people I haven’t seen in ages. Yay. I siphon off the back part of my brain and leave it to go through my wardrobe and plan an outfit. We finish our burgers, pay the bill and decide to go outside to finish our beers with a fag.
‘God, I miss smoking,’ sighs Kate.
‘Mwhy mdya qvit?’ I say, talking with my cigarette in my mouth as I light hers. So classy.
She takes a drag and exhales happily. ‘Tray hates it, and he IS right. It does kill you.’
‘Yes, he is right. It does.’
There seems nothing more to say. See? Even saying his name halts conversation.
‘How’s the world of accounting?’ I ask.
‘Scintillating,’ says Kate crisply. ‘At least I’ll never be out of a job, no matter what happens to the economy.’
‘Why?’
‘Accountants are always needed. We’re like prostitutes. One of the world’s oldest professions.’
This, from Kate, is outrageous. She’s in a funny mood tonight. Funny odd, not funny haha.
‘Oh well, that’s good,’ I say, starting to laugh. ‘What are you doing on Sunday? I’ve probably got the flat to myself all weekend as usual, so we could have an all-day movie fest. We’ll start with Sixteen Candles , then Overboard’ —did I mention I have a thing for Goldie Hawn? I totally do—‘then Dirty Dancing , then Pretty Woman , then 13 Going On 30. Holy shit, that film makes me cry.’
‘ 13 Going on 30 makes you CRY?’
‘Yes. Whenever Jennifer Garner cries I lose it. I don’t know what it is. I saw her cry on Alias once, and I had only just flicked over from another channel, so I had no idea what was going on, and I cried my arse off…though we could sub in Old School and end on a high. Marvellous film.’
‘Marvellous,’ agrees Kate happily. ‘Don’t you feel, though, that chick flicks are all the same?’
I splutter in mock outrage.
‘The SAME?’
‘Yah, you know…the same. They all kind of suck.’
‘So? Christmas kind of sucks and is always the same, too. Do you hate Christmas?’
Kate starts to laugh. ‘No…’
‘Actually, chick flicks DON’T suck. In fact, Katiepoo, the chick flick is a formula designed to satisfy, but always with small subtle variations. The girl is somehow identifiable. The guy is somehow
Hmm. She sounds a little Stepford Wife-y and she’s not meeting my eye, but I decide to agree with her.
‘You’re right. Lucky you, darling. So important to have someone kind and intelligent.’
There might be something wrong here, but I’m not going to push it. Kate doesn’t talk about her feelings unless she wants to. She has that nice reserved thing going on; not in a cold way—she’d do anything for any of us. I think it’s shyness. You never know if she’s really great or utterly miserable until she wants you to. I wish I wasn’t such an open book. My mother can read my mood by how many rings it takes me to answer the phone.
‘How are you feeling about Posh Mark, anyway, Sass?’ says Kate. I rang her on Tuesday night and bawled, embarrassingly.
‘Oh, fine,’ I say truthfully. ‘He was, you know, a life raft. Better than drowning in a sea of self-pity and vodka.’
‘Nicely put,’ grins Kate. ‘So where’s off the list now?’
‘Eight Over Eight, because that was our first date place,’ I say, taking a thoughtful bite of my burger. ‘And Julie’s, because we used to go there for brunch when we stayed at his place.’
‘Are there any brunch places near your place that aren’t tainted by ex-boyfriends by now?’ Kate says, laughing. She professes to not understand why I refuse to go back somewhere that reminds me of someone who dumped me. Especially as the list is getting slightly ridiculous.
‘None,’ I reply honestly. ‘Pimlico is one big no-go zone for me these days. I may have to move.’
We move on to gossiping about people we know, and talk about the party at Mitch’s place tomorrow night. The guestlist seems to be snowballing, with lots of people I haven’t seen in ages. Yay. I siphon off the back part of my brain and leave it to go through my wardrobe and plan an outfit. We finish our burgers, pay the bill and decide to go outside to finish our beers with a fag.
‘God, I miss smoking,’ sighs Kate.
‘Mwhy mdya qvit?’ I say, talking with my cigarette in my mouth as I light hers. So classy.
She takes a drag and exhales happily. ‘Tray hates it, and he IS right. It does kill you.’
‘Yes, he is right. It does.’
There seems nothing more to say. See? Even saying his name halts conversation.
‘How’s the world of accounting?’ I ask.
‘Scintillating,’ says Kate crisply. ‘At least I’ll never be out of a job, no matter what happens to the economy.’
‘Why?’
‘Accountants are always needed. We’re like prostitutes. One of the world’s oldest professions.’
This, from Kate, is outrageous. She’s in a funny mood tonight. Funny odd, not funny haha.
‘Oh well, that’s good,’ I say, starting to laugh. ‘What are you doing on Sunday? I’ve probably got the flat to myself all weekend as usual, so we could have an all-day movie fest. We’ll start with Sixteen Candles , then Overboard’ —did I mention I have a thing for Goldie Hawn? I totally do—‘then Dirty Dancing , then Pretty Woman , then 13 Going On 30. Holy shit, that film makes me cry.’
‘ 13 Going on 30 makes you CRY?’
‘Yes. Whenever Jennifer Garner cries I lose it. I don’t know what it is. I saw her cry on Alias once, and I had only just flicked over from another channel, so I had no idea what was going on, and I cried my arse off…though we could sub in Old School and end on a high. Marvellous film.’
‘Marvellous,’ agrees Kate happily. ‘Don’t you feel, though, that chick flicks are all the same?’
I splutter in mock outrage.
‘The SAME?’
‘Yah, you know…the same. They all kind of suck.’
‘So? Christmas kind of sucks and is always the same, too. Do you hate Christmas?’
Kate starts to laugh. ‘No…’
‘Actually, chick flicks DON’T suck. In fact, Katiepoo, the chick flick is a formula designed to satisfy, but always with small subtle variations. The girl is somehow identifiable. The guy is somehow
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