Unfortunately I wasn't the only one who wanted to live in W11. Property was ridiculously expensive. Rents were sky-high. Council waiting-lists stretched off into infinity. In practical terms, it was out of the question.
But as soon as Sophie graduated, she and Miles decided to take out a joint mortgage on a garden flat in Holland Park — which didn't fool me because I knew it was simply another name for the posh end of Notting Hill — and that was it. The jaws of the trap sprang shut, except that somehow I'd been trapped on the outside, looking in.
'I don't know why you're so keen on living round here anyway,' said Sophie. Only the other day, she told me, she'd been followed down the road by a one-legged man who'd called her a trollop.
'Trollop's rather a nice word, don't you think?' I mused.
Sophie looked at me oddly. 'Not when it's applied to you, it's not,' she said. 'I mean, I can think of things I'd rather be called.'
'You mean like pussycat?' This was below the belt. It was public knowledge that pussycat was Miles's pet name for Sophie. We all knew that when your boyfriend started to call you pussycat and other affectionate little pet names, it meant that your sex life was on the skids.
Sophie winced. 'I hate it when he calls me that. I really do.'
'And how is Miles?' I asked, straining once again to sound casual.
'Miles needs to work out what he wants,' she said firmly.
What Miles really wanted, I thought, was to have both Sophie and his bit of Czechoslovakian cheesecake grovelling at his feet. There didn't seem to be much room left for anyone else in the equation, and the thought depressed me.
'What about what you want, Soph? What about you?'
'I know,' Sophie said in that tone which suggested she didn't know at all. She didn't know anything. In every other area of her life, Sophie was so completely in control that it sometimes took my breath away, but when it came to Miles, she had always let him walk all over her. When it came to Miles, she was the original please-wipe-your-feet-on-me doormat, and it made me mad.
I swallowed my rage and, before I could say something I might regret, marched over to inspect the French windows and asked what kind of curtains she was going to have fitted.
'Oh, something flimsy. You can't have anything too heavy or they'll get in the way when you want to open the windows…'
Her voice trailed off. I turned round and saw her frowning, lost in thought. I asked what was up.
'I just remembered,' she said, and told me about how she'd woken in the middle of the night and had got up to close the bedroom window, only to find it already shut. It wasn't exactly a fascinating anecdote. I mumbled something vague in response and started walking the length of the room at a slow, measured pace, pretending it was my own place and fantasizing about where I would put my furniture.
'There was a dividing wall,' said Sophie, 'but your friend Dirk knocked it down. I didn't ask him to. He just went ahead and did it.'
'Oh dear.'
'But it's probably for the best. It was one of those awful hardboard partitions. Now the place is more like it must have been originally. Before the house was divided into flats.'
I saw she was shivering slightly. 'Cold?'
'Maybe I should put the heating on.'
'But it's such a beautiful day,' I said.
'Does it feel damp in here to you?' asked Sophie.
I said it didn't feel damp at all, and suggested closing the windows if she was cold.
'Not with the paint fumes,' Sophie said. 'In fact, I should probably have those other windows open as well.'
I opened the other set of French windows while Sophie went off to look for a sweater. The only thing standing between me and a direct drop into the basement level was an ornamental balustrade. It was warmer outside than in — one of those typical spring mornings, crisp and bright, full of promise. The sort of morning that inspired you to hunt frantically around for someone to fall in love with. I was in love already, of course, but I'd been putting Miles on hold in the light of recent events, and I was always open to offers. Actually, I was desperate for them.
I was leaning out even further, trying to get a look at the rest of the building, when Sophie came up, buttoning up a beige cashmere cardigan.
'Who else lives here?' I asked.
'For God's sake be careful,' she said, joining me at the balustrade. 'The railing's wobbly. I doubt it could stand too much weight.'
'Thanks a lot,' I said. She just had to keep reminding me that I wasn't stick-insect thin like her.
'Don't be so touchy,' said Sophie.
I stared fixedly out of the window so as not to see her smiling, though I knew she was. Below us, the steps down to the basement were fenced off from the street by a row of iron railings, though these hadn't done much to dissuade passers-by from using the tiny patio area as a dumping-ground for empty crisp packets and crushed lager cans.
'The basement looks unoccupied,' I said hopefully.
'It's not,' said Sophie. There's a film director down there. Walter something. Walter Cheeseman.'
I felt a foolish flutter of excitement. A film director! 'Is he famous? What films has he made?'
'I haven't actually met him,' Sophie admitted. 'He's not often here. He's usually off somewhere making movies, Marsha says, but he occasionally comes back to pick up mail.'
'Marsha?'
'Marsha Carter-Brown. Ground floor. Big girl, nice and dependable. Maître d' at Cinghiale.'
My ears pricked up at the sound of that last name. Cinghiale was the swankiest Italian restaurant this side of town. It hadn't just been reviewed in the restaurant columns; photographs of the interior had been reproduced in the Sunday colour supplements, and the celebrity chef had appeared on Miles' arts programme, offering his opinion on the latest books and films. I confidently looked forward to Sophie getting matey with Marsha so we would be able to go to Cinghiale and sip dry Martinis at the bar and rub shoulders with TV personalities and fashion photographers and Marsha would greet us by our first names and the celebrity chef would come out of the kitchen and sit down at our table, and I would feel at home.
'Perhaps we could have lunch at Cinghiale sometime?' I suggested.
'It's not that great,' said Sophie, with the insouciance of someone who had sampled the mixed green salad and mineral water at every restaurant in town.
I determined to get to know Marsha nonetheless, and twisted my neck round, trying to get a look at the windows on the floor above us, though a decent view of them would have required putting more weight against the wobbly balustrade than was probably wise.
'What about up there?'
'Bloke called Robert,' said Sophie. 'Haven't met him either, but you can hear him bashing away on his typewriter.'
'You mean he's a writer?' A writer scored almost as many points as a film director. 'You live in a very creative house.'
'Sweetie, this is W11. Welcome to Bohemia.'
I felt that pang again. This was where I wanted to live, here in the throbbing heart of the city, in a cosmopolitan quartier full of fashionable bars and restaurants and galleries, where the cafes were crammed with movers and shakers discussing their latest novels and shows and films and exhibitions. I wanted to drink cappuccino and hatch creative projects in the company of creative people. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to participate. I wanted to contribute. I wanted to belong.
Chapter 3
I'd always considered Sophie my best friend, so when I discovered Miles was having an affair with someone who wasn't me, I felt I owed it to her to tell her what he was up to. It's what I would have expected of her if our roles had been reversed.