Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Hello,’ I said, a little shamefacedly. We must have seemed horribly rough, barging into the house last night and then Cal and Eck squaring up to each other.

  ‘Hi,’ she said softly.

  ‘So . . . er . . . good night?’ I asked, then felt stupid immediately.

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Cal. He is like the wind.’

  ‘What, quick and farty?’ I asked, but then realised that arty girls in love don’t always have the best sense of humour, so I pretended I’d been coughing and put the kettle on.

  ‘He must fly here and there . . . he can’t be tied down.’

  I thought she was putting a very romantic spin on the fact that Cal was basically a slut.

  ‘He cannot be tamed . . .’

  ’Cause he’s a feckless arse I wanted to say, but didn’t.

  She smiled ruefully, then her face took on a dreamy look. ‘Still, to be with him . . .’

  ‘Eck is lovely too,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Who?’ she said.

  ‘Eck. The other boy who lives here.’

  ‘The soldier?’

  ‘No, my boyfriend . . . never mind. Tea?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m just in to get two glasses of water . . . then, back to bed . . .’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Yeah, me too.’

  She looked up at me. ‘Have you . . . I mean, do lots of girls come through here?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. She was terribly pretty, in a wounded penguin kind of a way. Maybe this one would hang around longer than the rest. Longer than me, a little voice inside of me whispered, but I tried to ignore it, as I waited for the kettle to boil.

  ‘Good morning!’ I walked into the studio holding a cup of my usual café’s takeaway coffee. It wasn’t Starbucks, but I still felt oddly optimistic holding it in my hands as I walked - like a real working person, with a real job, that enabled her to buy coffee.

  Julius looked up from his camera.

  ‘How are you?’ I said.

  Julius grunted something into the lens of his Nikon. ‘You’ve perked up. Don’t tell me - bloke?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I started rearranging the costumes with a smile playing around my lips.

  ‘That guy yesterday? The vampire pirate? Dashing in to save you from the evils of tittage?’

  ‘Cal isn’t a vampire pirate,’ I said. ‘He just looks a bit like one. Anyway, no, not him. Someone much nicer.’

  I hugged the thought to myself. Someone nice. Someone lovely. Someone dependable.

  Julius raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, anyway. I’ve had a friend of yours on the phone.’

  ‘What do you mean, a friend of mine?’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Julius. ‘Look, you can’t let this get out, Sophie. If the whole fashion world knows I work glamour on the side . . . well, it’s bad for my image, innit?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Carena Sutherland.’

  ‘What? What about her?’

  He gave me a dark look. ‘She wants me to take her wedding snaps.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I told her, Julius Mandinski doesn’t take wedding snaps. But she wasn’t taking no for an answer.’

  ‘Well, that does sound like her . . .’

  ‘Julius Mandinski is a high-end fashion creator. I don’t need fucking weddings.’

  ‘Just Page Three.’

  ‘Page Three is a fuck of a lot more honest than most weddings. ’

  ‘There’s probably something in that,’ I said. ‘So, did you say no?’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She threatened me.’

  ‘Threatened you? What with?’

  ‘Exposure. She threatened to go to all the glossy mags and tell them about my little jobs on the side.’

  Only Carena would stoop to blackmail on her wedding day.

  ‘Tell her to fuck off! You don’t care! And by the way, I didn’t grass you up. She got it all from that cow Philly.’

  Julius looked a bit sheepish, kicking his expensive trainers. I forget sometimes, that just because I’ve had every bit of dignity and privacy stripped from my life, that other people might feel they had appearances to keep up.

  ‘Yeah, but, well, it’s useful, like.’

  ‘Won’t it do your career a lot worse to be seen taking wedding photos?’

  ‘She says it’s a big society bash, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’d have liked David Bailey.’

  Julius hated anyone mentioning David Bailey. He kicked the chair leg.

  ‘Plus, she’s offered a lot of money,’ he said.

  ‘She has a lot of money,’ I said. ‘Ask her for more.’

  ‘You’re invited to this wedding I take it?’

  ‘Me? No. No. Carena and I aren’t friends any more.’

  ‘That’s right, it were in the paper, weren’t it? She’s marrying your ex—’

  ‘Yes, well that doesn’t matter, I’ve got a new boyfriend now.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘How likely is she to carry out her threat?’ asked Julius finally.

  ‘Very. She is quite evil,’ I said, honestly.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Look, for what she wants . . . I’ll need a full-time assistant to take portraits of all the guests in groups, as well as “casual” shots. Posed and unposed.’

  My heart started to beat extra quickly and my brain was racing. Julius was going to take me out on a job! A proper one, with me working! But, but, but, but. It would be Carena’s wedding. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Of course not. It would be unthinkable, awful, upsetting.

  On the other hand. Did I care? I carefully prodded my heart to see how it reacted at the thought of Rufus getting married and Carena walking down the aisle towards him. There was a sting, definitely.

  And would Carena even let me come? I’d already been strongly disinvited, and I certainly wasn’t going to beg. On the other hand, what was she going to do, have me removed by security? Oh, yes, that wasn’t beyond Carena in the slightest.

  ‘I’ll pay you . . .’ And Julius named a figure that would - well, it would solve a lot of my problems. A lot.

  I blew out my cheeks. ‘OK, you’re going to do it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Julius.

  ‘And I can work with you on it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it. I’m going to text her and let her know.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. My fucking art, wasted on a wedding.’

  ‘A very expensive wedding,’ I pointed out, taking out my phone.

  ‘ Right, hurry up about it, Pinky and Perky are on the way.’

  As if on cue the twins burst in. ‘Sophie! Who was that totally hot bloke yesterday? He was at your party too!’

  ‘No one,’ I said. ‘My flatmate. No one, really. Someone with too much time on his hands.’

  ‘God, I’d love a bloke to charge in and tell me to stop doing stuff like that,’ said Grace.

  ‘What about that bloke in Southend last year?’ said Kelly.

  ‘Yeah, bozo, but that was like my stepdad. When I was fifteen. So it doesn’t count.’

  ‘Come on, you two,’ I said. ‘We’ve got rabbit costumes to get you into, and time’s a wasting.’

  ‘I want the pink one,’ said Grace.

  ‘The pink tail is for the smallest arse,’ said Kelly. ‘So good luck with that.’

  Eck left a text message on my phone. It just said: tx for lst night. dnr? Cant do posh restaurant again. Spag bol?

  I smiled to myself as I cleared up. I was going home to someone. Someone who would be pleased to see me. Someone who wanted to make me spag Bol. I really ought to learn to cook, I thought. I imagined us - I knew I was getting ahead of myself, but it was so long since I’d had something to hope for, I couldn’t help it - I imagined us, maybe, in a little house, like those cottages in Chelsea, maybe not quite in such a nice area. Though maybe Eck coul
d go do accountancy for one of those big firms that charge lots of money then get caught in billing scandals.

  ‘Hey!’ I said when I got home. Carena hadn’t texted back, but I had the right number, so I’d have to assume she’d seen it. Thinking about the wedding made me nervous and a bit excited at the same time. Somehow, being there with a camera round my neck, with Julius Mandinski - well, it showed I wasn’t begging in the gutter, didn’t it? Even if it didn’t show how close to the gutter I actually was.

  Eck smiled back at me, from where he was balancing two candles stuffed in wine bottles on the rickety kitchen table. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’ll just light these.’

  ‘I can’t believe you can cook,’ I said, looking at the two misshapen pots bubbling on the stove. He gave me a funny look.

  ‘It’s spag Bol, Sophie. That’s not cooking.’

  ‘It bloody is,’ I said. ‘Smells great.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I was going to bribe the others to go to McDonald’s to get them out of the house for the night.’

  ‘How old are they, four? Did you say they could have a happy meal?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have enough cash to bribe them. So I just resorted to begging. James has gone to the Campsie Fells anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. I could relax. We weren’t going to get interrupted by Cal bringing home a girl, or Wolverine snuffling around the skirting boards. I didn’t feel very relaxed, though. I suddenly felt nervous. Eck’s hair flopped over his brow as he concentrated on lighting the candles.

  ‘So, sweet girl,’ he said. ‘How was your day?’

  It had been a long time since I’d wanted to tell anyone how my day was. I felt my heart open and my cares fall away.

  ‘It was good!’ I said. ‘I’ve got a proper job! A wedding! Actually, Carena’s wedding!’

  And I told him all about it.

  ‘Won’t that be a bit strange?’

  I opened the cheap bottle of red wine that was sitting on the sideboard.

  ‘Have we got two glasses?’

  ‘Matching?’

  ‘No, that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Still, er, no. One pint glass nicked from a bar, one Arsenal mug.’

  ‘I’m a Chelsea supporter.’

  ‘You would be. Pint of red for you, then.’

  I poured out the wine.

  ‘Yes, it will be strange. A few months ago the idea of it would have made me want to hide in a cupboard for a week. But, actually . . . I think it’ll be OK.’

  ‘I think it will too.’

  I smiled, enjoying the couple-at-home-fantasy.

  ‘So tell me about your day, darling,’ I said, expansively.

  ‘My day was . . . interesting,’ said Eck. He gave me a sideways glance, going back over to stir the bubbling sauce. ‘I thought a lot about you.’

  ‘Oh yes? You may have crossed my mind too.’

  Eck smiled, then came over and kissed me. I kissed him back as enthusiastically as I could manage whilst trying to balance a pint glass and an Arsenal mug full of wine.

  ‘Ooh,’ I said, when he’d finished.

  ‘And . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to freak you out.’

  ‘Why? Have you got a gimp mask under your bed?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  He looked at me. ‘This sounds stupid . . . well, anyway, it’s nothing to do with you. OK, how does that sound?’

  ‘Fine . . .’ I said, not sure what to expect.

  ‘You know, if I applied for jobs now I could start after the final show,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve thought about all this, just today?’

  Eck looked pained. ‘I knew this would freak you out.’

  ‘No, no, it’s interesting.’

  ‘It’s just, well, when we were talking last night . . . I felt I kind of admitted it to myself. I’m no artist, Sophie.’

  ‘Except of spaghetti Bolognese,’ I said, as he dished me up a plate.

  ‘Be serious, please.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s been going round my head for a long time, but talking to you . . . I mean, the degree show is in a couple of weeks, then I could find a job over the summer, then . . .’ He glanced up at me. ‘Well, I might look for a flat somewhere, and you never know, you might . . .’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ I said. ‘You figured all this out today?’

  ‘It was a quiet day,’ he admitted.

  ‘Every day is a quiet day in the world of gigantic metal spiders.’

  Eck’s hand went to the back of his neck. ‘I know . . . I know . . . sorry . . . I just . . . I couldn’t help myself . . . after last night.’

  I thought about it. I mean, obviously he was projecting far ahead, but his enthusiasm was galvanising.

  ‘No, I’m teasing,’ I said. ‘I think it’s brilliant. If you’re sure. If you’re sure it’s what you want?’

  ‘I think it is,’ he said. ‘Don’t panic, I was just lying awake, thinking about my future, that’s all.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  He looked at me, over his nearly finished pasta.

  ‘Actually, forget all that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s only one thing I want,’ he said. ‘You.’

  And I took a final swig of the rough red wine, then we went to bed. And it was sweet, and comfortable, and oddly familiar, and I drifted off to sleep feeling as warm and cosy and safe as I think a girl can living on nothing on the Old Kent Road.

  It rained every day that week. I didn’t mind at all. I hurried home every night, and Eck would have something delicious simmering on the stove and we would sit and have dinner and after the second night we had to have the rest of the boys in, because otherwise they would just hover round the kitchen door looking pitiful and starving. The situation with Cal seemed to have settled down - it’s amazing how boys can do that. Square up for a fight then forget all about it. Whereas when girls fall out it’s omertà for about two years. Sometimes I wish I was a boy. Cal was annoyed that Eck hadn’t mentioned he could cook.

  ‘I’ve been living off frozen peas for three years.’

  ‘Well, I knew if you guys knew I could cook I would have to cook every day, like Sophie has to do the cleaning.’

  I smiled weakly. Actually, since I’d moved into Eck’s bed I’d practically stopped doing the cleaning. Nobody seemed to have noticed yet.

  Cal tucked into his shepherd’s pie.

  ‘How’s the polar pixie?’ I asked mischievously.

  ‘Inga? She’s good, I think.’ He grabbed another piece of bread. Poor Inga. ‘So, Eck, ready for the show?’

  Eck shrugged and looked down at the teapot he was holding.

  ‘Oh, kind of. I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean, “I don’t know ”?’

  Cal looked over and explained to me. ‘You realise this is our degree show? Our one chance to get into the West End, to get proper buyers to come and have a look at it? You’re not bamboozling him with hot moves and stopping him working are you?’

  ‘I am not!’ I said. ‘I think he should be there too!’

  ‘I’m just not too sure . . .’ mumbled Eck. He’d talk to me about his future, but not to the others. ‘I’m not sure I’m really cut out for trying to pursue an artistic life.’

  There was silence round the table.

  ‘Eck. You’ve been at art school for three years,’ said Cal. ‘This is not the time.’

  ‘I know,’ said Eck. ‘I know.’

  ‘I mean, this is what all this is for, isn’t it? Our Bohemian lifestyle . . . living like this . . . so we could follow our artistic dreams.’

  Eck nodded reluctantly.

  ‘So why are you here?’ I asked James, who was scarfing down shepherd’s pie like he’d been freezing his arse off on manoeuvres for forty-eight hours while surviving only on packet soup.