West End Girls

by Jenny Colgan

  Lizzie watched her in horror as she stretched up to undo her dress top. Over on the sofa Brooke was sitting watching complacently, with a cream-licking smile on her face.

  Suddenly the doorway was blocked by a large, bear-like figure. Lizzie glanced over in desperation.

  “What is this?” came the accented voice. “This is a kind of seedy party, is it?”

  Penny turned around and focused unsteadily.

  “Ah,” said Georges. “The famous Lizzie’s sister. You are cold, yes?”

  And just as she let her hands—and the top of her dress—fall to her waist, Georges whipped off his coat and pulled it around her shoulders.

  “Much warmer now.”

  The boys started to boo, until Georges silenced them with a lift of one of his heavy brows.

  “You live upstairs?” he said to Lizzie. “Shall we go there?”

  “I’m not going home!” said Penny, struggling with the coat. “I have to show Will what a good time I’m having when he doesn’t give a toss.”

  “No, we will go home,” said Georges. Lizzie looked at him, and felt a little thrill in her stomach.

  “Yes, Penny,” said Lizzie. “Let’s go home.”

  “While Will is fucking some fucking slut in the back bedroom?” said Penny. The room fell silent.

  “While I’m doing what now?” said Will, leaning against the wall. Minty slipped out behind him, looking sulky and petulant.

  Penny’s face crashed. This wasn’t how it was meant to be at all. This wasn’t her lovely party. Now everyone was looking at her like she was making a fool of herself. She stared at Will’s gentle face one more time.

  “Come on,” said Lizzie. “Let’s just go.”

  And for once, Penny knew when she was beaten.

  “Don’t bring your girlfriend to our allotment,” yelled Beulah. The three of them left the party in silence.

  Upstairs, Georges looked aghast at the apartment, as Lizzie moved a collection of broken dog figurines off a broken chair and set about making tea.

  “This is your home?” he asked incredulously. Looking around, Lizzie realized how quickly she’d gotten used to it.

  “It’s not really,” she said. “It’s our grandmother’s. She would go crazy if we moved or touched anything.”

  She noticed Georges looking askance at an enormous open tea chest filled to the brim with macramé owls.

  “Crazier.”

  She put the kettle on for tea. Penny was sitting glumly at the table, completely deflated and most of the way through a pint of water.

  “My head hurts,” she said.

  “Don’t take drugs,” said Georges.

  “It was an accident,” said Penny. “My nose fell on them.”

  Georges shook his head. “You girls are a real teapot of fish.”

  Lizzie nodded, just as the doorbell went.

  “Oh, God,” said Penny. “It’s downstairs, for sure. You know they want to be evil about me. In fact, I think I need a glass to hear what they’re saying.”

  “I don’t think you want to know what they’re saying,” said Lizzie.

  “Don’t answer the door. If it’s Brooke asking about the carpet . . .”

  “What did you do to the carpet?”

  “Nothing. Red wine. Whatever. Oh God. I hate my life,” said Penny.

  “You are a very unusual person,” said Georges.

  “I’m sure loads of people hate their lives,” groaned Penny.

  “I think he meant ‘evil’ person,” said Lizzie. The knocking at the door sounded again, more vehement now.

  “Oh God, I’m not evil,” said Penny. “Am I? Maybe that’s why I don’t get what I really want. Why a lovely bloke like Will won’t talk to me. Maybe I should change my ways, be a bit less selfish. Do you think I’m selfish, Lizzie? Maybe it is all my fault.”

  Lizzie returned from the doorway.

  “It’s Will.”

  Penny leapt up, a huge shiny grin spreading over her face.

  “Fantastic.”

  She hurried to the door, shrugging up her dress, leaving Georges’s coat pooling in a pile on the floor.

  Penny put on her best contrite face as she closed the door behind her and stepped into the well-kept hall. She was definitely going to play modest; no way was he going to get into her apartment tonight. It was simply too grim. She’d have to pretend it was lovely, then move into his groovy artist’s pad as soon as was humanly possible.

  “Hi,” she said, hanging her head.

  “Hi,” said Will, looking equally contrite.

  “I wanted to apologize,” said Penny. “I was jealous and acted like an idiot.”

  He looked at her, amazed.

  “But . . .” he said, “I came to apologize to you. We were meant to be on a date and I completely deserted you.”

  “Well, there is that,” said Penny.

  “Minty is . . . well, she wanted to tell me about how depressed she was and how she’d become dairy intolerant and stuff, and all about her parents’ divorce, and every time I tried to get up she’d start crying, and . . . girls cry a lot, don’t they?”

  “I never cry in front of boys,” said Penny.

  “I bet,” said Will. “Anyway, I am sorry. The whole Minty thing was . . . a terrible mistake. So don’t be surprised if she disses me a bit.”

  “Apology accepted,” said Penny cheerfully.

  “Although, you know, if the reverse were true I probably wouldn’t have started stripping, then screeching like a fishwife.”

  “Oh, yeah, course you would have.”

  “And I think Minty wants to kill you,” he continued.

  “OK, well, if she comes at me, I’ll blow at her and she’ll fall over and get carried away by a high wind.”

  Will smiled and looked a bit embarrassed. “Can I come in?”

  “No,” said Penny.

  “Good,” said Will.

  “Why’s that good?”

  “Cause if you didn’t want to get off with me you wouldn’t give a toss about whether I came in or not.”

  Penny paused for a minute and thought about it. “Bollocks.”

  Will looked around. “This hall’s pretty nice though. Soft lighting, carpet, pictures on the wall . . .”

  But Penny was already kissing him.

  Georges and Lizzie sat in the kitchen, looking at each other.

  “This is a very exciting fun party,” he said. “I’m having a wow time.”

  Lizzie stared into her teacup, too embarrassed to answer. What on earth must he think of them?

  Georges looked at the array of shocking junk piled up in the kitchen.

  “You have lived here for a long time, yes?” he said. “Maybe one century. Are you a wampire?”

  Lizzie giggled. “I’m not a wampire.”

  Georges smiled. “That’s better, huh? You look so worried all the time. Which is how I would expect a wampire to look.”

  “It’s vampire.”

  “Wampire. That’s what I said.”

  “Yes,” said Lizzie. “That’s what you said. Well, I’m not one.”

  “So. This is your grandmother’s house?”

  Lizzie nodded. “We’re staying here while she’s sick.”

  “And then you’re going again?”

  Lizzie shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Back to where?”

  “Brandford, I suppose. If, I mean, when she gets better. She’s very old.”

  “You like Brandford?”

  “I hate it,” said Lizzie savagely. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it. I suppose. I just . . . I mean, it just doesn’t suit me.”

  “But here in Chelsea you feel much better?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t fit in anywhere.”

  Georges tutted. “Oh, Lizzie. Do not be so stupid.”

  “I know,” said Lizzie. “I can’t even do self-pity right.”

  Georges looked at her for a second and she felt most uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
This was ridiculous. He was a chubby café manager who couldn’t pronounce his V’s. Why should she always feel she wasn’t quite living up to him?

  “I think it is time for me to go,” he said. “I am up early, of course.”

  “Thanks for coming,” said Lizzie, getting up.

  “Not at all, it was . . .”

  He let the end of the sentence trail off as he opened the door and saw Penny and Will literally all over each other in the hallway. Panicked, Penny immediately pushed the door back shut again before Will could turn around and see into the flat.

  “OK,” said Georges. “Well, maybe I didn’t really want to leave yet anyway.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Lizzie. Georges looked toward the windows.

  “Second floor,” said Lizzie. “I wouldn’t jump. More tea?”

  “No,” said Georges. “I would like to go home. Could you tell your sister to take her boyfriend in or out or somewhere else, please?”

  Lizzie twisted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’d rather not.”

  “She bites?” said Georges.

  “No,” said Lizzie.

  “Then you can just tell her, no?”

  “I don’t want to get in the middle of something . . .”

  “Have you got a water hose?”

  Lizzie twisted in embarrassment. She’d never hear the end of it if she ruined Penny’s night.

  “OK, we sit here waiting for Penny to finish doing exactly what she pleases? Are you a welcome mat, Lizzie?”

  “You mean doormat.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “OK,” said Georges. He looked at his watch complacently. Lizzie was suddenly furious with him and leapt up. She flung open the door. Penny and Will had vanished.

  “Just go!” she yelled. “Happy now?”

  “Lizzie, I just . . .”

  “The doormat says goodnight!”

  Georges left, giving her the same aghast look he had when he’d found her in the gutter. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Nobody could ever understand. She had to look out for her sister, that was all. Which meant that sometimes people . . . not anyone in particular, just sometimes . . . people should pay attention and notice that just because she was being sisterly didn’t automatically mean she was being a doormat.

  The doormat went to bed, thought about her terrible social skills, thought about being sad and lonely for the rest of her life, thought of the four thousand canapés she’d consumed at the party even though no one else had eaten any, and cried herself to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Spring was definitely springing, and as far as Penny was concerned, the sap was rising. She bounced to work in the morning, then Will, with his delightfully relaxed artistic schedule, would come and hang around at closing time and they would go off and wander and have chats and talk about things. It was so unusual, and so delightful.

  Not only that, but she was discovering a previously undiscovered knack for selling paintings. Years of hard pushing to the front of nightclub queues and shameless yelling had given her a certain tough edge when it came to alternately charming and bullying customers, men in particular. And the added incentive of Will’s face every time she sold one of his pictures meant she was, for the first time in her life, in a job that didn’t make her want to kill everyone in the place with a blunt instrument.

  The only thing confusing her and slightly getting in the way was the fact that she and Will hadn’t . . . done it yet. There’d been long sessions of snogging, cuddling, a bit of wandering hands here and there, but just as she’d expect him to invite her back to his place, nothing had happened.

  It crossed her mind briefly that maybe there was someone else at home, but he didn’t seem at all as if he had something to hide, or give any indication that he had something better to be doing. He didn’t hide his mobile or glance at his watch or say, “I was out with . . . uh, nobody really.”

  “So what’s your place like?” she asked him, as they wandered through Hyde Park one unseasonably warm evening in March. Everywhere couples were waltzing through the daffodils, and throwing bread to the ducks. Jumpers were being shrugged off; anoraks tentatively spread on the still wet winter grass.

  “What’s yours like?” he countered immediately.

  “You’ve seen it,” she said.

  “I snogged you outside of it. That’s not the same thing at all.”

  “I’d like to see your place.”

  “Why? Do you want an ice cream?” he asked as they passed a van.

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent. They do Loseley.”

  “What? Can I just have a ninety-nine?”

  “But that’s their horrible aerated stuff. They’ve got tubs of proper ice cream.”

  “But I want a ninety-nine!”

  “OK,” said Will.

  “I want a ninety-nine and I want to see your place.”

  Will smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing really.”

  This wasn’t going according to plan. Penny took her ice cream and stuck her tongue in it in a very suggestive fashion.

  “A mystery, huh?” she said. “Are you on day release from prison?”

  “No!”

  “Are you gay?”

  “Yes,” said Will. “I’m gay. That’s why I just bought you that ice cream. I was hoping you might set me up with Sloan.”

  “So . . .” said Penny. The sun was setting over the far side of the Serpentine Gallery. It was hard for her to believe she was within walking distance from home, just about. That London could be so beautiful, rather than filthy and dangerous and noisy . . . it was amazing, she thought. She’d already forgotten about her grandmother, really. She was such a distant figure. Lizzie was off visiting her again, thank goodness. They were spending their evenings playing Boggle. It was great Lizzie had something to do. And meanwhile, this . . . here . . . was home.

  She flashed Will her widest smile.

  “Well,” she said, “pardon a girl for being forward. I just . . . I just wondered, you know, if you ever felt like being alone with a woman.”

  Will raised his eyebrows at her. The evening sun was making her gold hair gleam, and she looked absolutely gorgeous. Why on earth hadn’t she invited him home? How hard to get was she trying to be? He hoped she wasn’t after an engagement ring or something equally ridiculous. But, goodness, he was desperate to . . .

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Penny, giving her ice cream a big lick. “I was just thinking about something grown men and women do . . . in private. In the privacy, in fact, of their own homes.”

  “What’s that, then?” said Will, moving toward her.

  “Uh, you wouldn’t like it,” said Penny.

  “Perhaps you could show me now,” said Will. He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the path and into the shadow of a huge oak tree. Then he took a huge lick of her cheap ice cream and started to kiss her long and hard, sharing it between them.

  “Who are you?” The old lady was staring at her again. Lizzie wouldn’t have thought it possible, but this place was worse on a glorious evening like tonight than when it was pouring with rain.

  “I’m Lizzie, Gran. I’m Stephen’s daughter.”

  “One of the little twins?”

  “That’s right. I’m one of the little twins.”

  The old woman glowered and peered at her closer. Lizzie geared herself up to explain the whole thing twice more. Maybe next time Penny could visit. Lizzie laughed hollowly to herself. She was exhausted. For the last few weeks, she had worked her head off in the café. To her utmost annoyance, Georges, while paying her hardly any attention at all, had started taking loads of time off. OK, it was his business and everything, but he’d come in in the morning, start things off, then disappear. As she’d vowed to behave frostily toward him it was frustrating to say the least.

  Slowly, and grudgingly, she was bloody well having to learn to cook. And Georges said he was going off on busin
ess somewhere but she didn’t believe him. He was just mooching about, enjoying her hard work, which was still netting her only the minimum wage, plus the odd pound some of her regulars slipped her here and there.

  The fact that it was about a hundred times more interesting and stimulating than the stamp importers hadn’t cheered her up that much.

  “Are you a happy little twin?” asked her grandmother.

  Funnily enough, she had caught herself feeling something close to happiness just that morning. Georges had shown her how to make a wonderfully fresh-tasting bruschetta—which she’d never tasted in her life; she’d thought it was just garlic bread showing off—and pretty much every customer who’d sampled it had mentioned how delicious it was. It had taken her a second or two to realize that she felt proud of herself.

  “I’m all right,” she said stiffly.

  “Just all right? Not enjoying Chelsea, then? Your dad used to love it.”

  “Did he?” said Lizzie eagerly.

  “Oh, yes. I used to take him down the Embankment, you know, and we’d watch the boats go by. They still had the barges then. After he lost his daddy . . .”

  Lizzie knew about this; that her grandfather had died in an industrial fire. His settlement had bought the flat. Secretly she wondered if this meant it was cursed.

  Gran was musing. “He was all I had, little twin. You’ll understand one day when you have your own, how much you love them. And he was all I had left. I spoiled him. Yes, I spoiled him. Then I lost him.”

  “We lost him, too,” said Lizzie.

  “Aye, I know that,” said her grandmother. There was a long pause.

  “Well, to other matters,” said Gran eventually. “Have you got a nice young chap?”

  “No,” said Lizzie.

  “Have you got a horrid old chap?”

  Lizzie looked at her grandmother for signs of smirking.

  “No,” she said.

  “Quite right,” said her grandmother. “Don’t settle.”

  “Let’s face it though,” said Lizzie. “I’m going to have to settle, aren’t I? Everyone says don’t settle, like there’s a million fabulous blokes out there looking for slightly below-average women. There’s no doubt about it at all. I blame Colin Firth. He’s an actor, Gran . . .”