Stiff Lips

'I was on my own,' I repeated. 'Honestly.'

'It's OK,' said Marsha, 'I won't tell anyone.'

'There's nothing to tell,' I said, getting a bit annoyed.

But it was as though Marsha was equipped with a filter that blocked out everything she didn't need to hear. She'd pounced on one of my sketchbooks and was now flicking through it, uttering complimentary little cooing noises as she did so. 'These are nice. You're so clever. Ooh, look at that. I wish I could draw.'

Sophie peered over her shoulder at my rough sketches of the dead tulips, Dirk staring into his beer, the view from the window, and the odd feeble attempt at self-portraiture.

'So what are you working on right now?' she asked.

For a microsecond I thought about lying. But it was no good. 'Puddings.'

Sophie sniggered, and I realized she'd known the answer all along. She'd just wanted to hear me say it.

'Not still on the puddings! Poor puddingy Clare! You must be so sick of them.'

'They pay the rent,' I said.

'You're not paying rent,' Sophie pointed out.

'I'm still paying it in Hackney.'

'What puddings?' asked Marsha.

I slid the latest batch of step-by-steps out of my folder and spread them out over the table-top with a certain amount of pride. The work might have been lacking in glamour, but it looked slick and professional. By following my illustrations, a person really could learn how to bake.

'Good Lord,' giggled Sophie, pointing to the nearest. 'What in heaven's name is that?'

'Victoria Sponge,' I said.

'The well-known soap actress,' said Sophie.

I ignored her. 'And that one's Tarte au Praline.'

'You did all these?' squeaked Marsha. 'But they're so neat. You are so talented. I can't tell you how jealous I am.'

'It's nothing,' I said, wondering whether it might not be a smart move to swap my friendship with Sophie, long-standing as it was, for a more confidence-boosting association with Marsha.

'The things people eat,' said Sophie, staring with horrified fascination.

I picked up the Tarte au Praline sequence and stared intently at it. 'My style has changed, don't you think?'

Sophie asked, 'What do you mean?'

I ignored the warning note in her voice. 'Don't you think my drawings are getting darker, more intense?'

'You mean a darker, more intense kind of pudding?' Sophie scrunched up her face, trying to focus on the finer details. 'You've got better at hands,' she observed. 'Some of your earlier efforts looked like clumps of fish-fingers.'

I felt disappointment welling up. 'You don't think they look at all sinister? Or surreal? As though something horrible might intrude into the frame at any moment?'

'This one's scary enough as it is,' said Sophie.

'I think they all look delicious,' said Marsha. 'You must give me the recipes.'

I offered to get her some of the cookery books that had already been published.

'You mean people actually eat junk like this?' asked Sophie.

Marsha persevered, sunny as ever. 'Don't you ever cook, Sophie?' she asked.

'Yes, but proper food. Not crap like this.'

'This isn't crap,' said Marsha, without antagonism. 'They're traditional recipes, exactly the sort of thing we serve at Cinghiale, only English rather than Italian. Oh, but Clare — these drawings really are brilliant.'

I was dreading what Sophie would come out with next, but all of a sudden she was looking beaten, as though Marsha's implacable niceness had finally worn her down.

'Maybe you're right,' she muttered. 'I suppose there's nothing wrong with a bit of tradition.'

And I saw her drag the fingers of one hand through the roots of her hair, several times. It was a new habit, and she didn't seem aware she was doing it, but it left her hair in the most frightful tangle.

The more time Sophie and I spent together, the cattier she became, though I suppose the two things might not have been unrelated. I was also spending more time with Carolyn and Charlotte and Grenville and Toby and Isabella as well, and although I didn't feel altogether at ease in their company, they seemed to accept me as one of them, even if nobody took much notice of me. I told myself that anyone looking on from the outside would have been hard-pressed to spot the difference.

There was a difference, though, and I was constantly being made aware of it. One hot night in August, we all trooped off down the road in search of a bar with air conditioning, which ruled out the Barrio and the Bar Belle.

'There's the Rhumba Bar,' I pointed out as we approached it. Sophie had been pointedly ignoring me, but I wasn't going to let her get me down.

'I can't go in there,' said Toby.

'Yes you can,' said Carolyn.

'No I can't,' said Toby. 'They banned me.'

By now we were clustered in the open doorway of the Rhumba Bar. An unnatural breeze caressed our overheated faces as we peered inside. It was crowded, but not too crowded.

'But tell you what,' said Toby. 'That was an awful long time ago.'

He swaggered in like a gunslinger entering a saloon. We followed in a pack. A man in a collarless shirt was pouring drinks behind the bar and glanced up as we entered, but didn't look as though he had enough energy to throw anybody out. Carolyn went up to him and ordered drinks.

'What do you mean, banned?' asked Isabella as we clustered behind Carolyn.

'They banned me for playing Social Whirligigs,' said Toby.

Everybody chortled, except me. I hadn't a clue what Social Whirligigs was, or how you played it.

'Social Whirligigs is a gas,' said Grenville. 'Man, I love it.'

Charlotte giggled and punched him playfully on the arm.

'Me too,' I said impulsively, desperate to join in.

They all stopped laughing and turned to me and stared. Sophie was suddenly paying me more attention than she'd paid me all evening. 'You play Social Whirligigs, Clare?' she asked.

'Well, not very often,' I said, regretting my recklessness and trying to back down a little. 'I mean, I haven't played it for years.'

Charlotte, Grenville and Toby looked at one another and burst out laughing. Isabella looked baffled, Carolyn a bit uncomfortable. But Sophie was smiling maliciously. 'Show us.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Show us how you used to play Social Whirligigs. We'd all like to see how it's done.'

'That's enough,' said Carolyn, though she couldn't stop the edges of her mouth from curling up. 'Don't worry about it, Clare.'

Sophie pouted, playing to the gallery. 'But I was so looking forward to seeing Clare play Social Whirligigs.'

'I'll show you how to play Social Whirligigs!' shouted Toby, planting his legs apart. He unzipped his fly, took out his penis and waggled it around.

Isabella let out a spirited whoop.

'For God's sake, put it away,' Charlotte said in a been-there-seen-it voice.

There was a slow eddy of excitement as other customers saw what was going on. Not to be outdone, Grenville had unzipped his trousers and was now foraging purposefully in his boxer-shorts. 'Get your dick out, and we're finished,' hissed Carolyn. 'For ever.'

'Men are such children,' said Sophie, looking at me and smiling triumphantly. 'Don't you think so, Clare?'

'I must have got Social Whirligigs muddled up with something else,' I muttered.

'Yeah, like Trivial Pursuit,' said Charlotte.

The man in the collarless shirt came storming round the bar and tapped Toby authoritatively on the shoulder. 'Right you are. Zip it up and get the fuck out of here. You're banned.'

'Gotcha!' Toby guffawed, stuffing his penis back inside his pants. 'You can't ban me, because I'm banned already.'