'Out of what?'
'A hundred! 33 out of a hundred!'
'Oh Lissy. That's crap.'
'I know,' says Lissy seriously. 'I'm ugly. I knew it. You know, all my life I've kind of secretly
known , but-'
'No!' I say, trying not to laugh. 'I meant the magazine's crap! You can't measure beauty with
some stupid index. Just look at you!' I gesture at Lissy, who has the biggest grey eyes in the
world, and gorgeous clear pale skin and is frankly stunning, even if her last haircut was a bit
severe. 'I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid mindless magazine
article?'
'A stupid mindless magazine article,' says Lissy, as though it's perfectly obvious.
I know she's half joking. But ever since her boyfriend Simon chucked her, Lissy's had really
low self-esteem. I'm actually a bit worried about her.
'Is that the golden proportion of beauty?' says our other flatmate Jemima, tapping into the
room in her kitten heels. She's wearing pale pink jeans and a tight white top and as usual, she
looks perfectly tanned and groomed. In theory, Jemima has a job, working in a sculpture
gallery. But all she ever seems to do is have bits of her waxed and plucked and massaged, and
go on dates with city bankers, whose salary she always checks out before she says yes.
I do get on with Jemima. Kind of. It's just that she tends to begin all her sentences 'If you want
a rock on your finger,' and 'If you want an SW3 address,' and 'If you want to be known as a
seriously good dinner-party hostess.'
I mean, I wouldn't mind being known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess. You know. It's
just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.
Plus,
Jemima's idea of being a seriously good dinner-party hostess is inviting lots of rich
friends over, decorating the whole flat with twiggy things, getting caterers to cook loads of
yummy food and telling everyone she made it herself, then sending her flatmates (me and
Lissy) out to the cinema for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at
midnight and make themselves a hot chocolate.
'I did that quiz,' she says now, picking up her pink Louis Vuitton bag. Her dad bought it for
her as a present when she broke up with a guy after three dates. Like she was heartbroken.
Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heart-broken.
'What did you get?' says Lissy.
'Eighty-nine.' She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long blond hair back and smiles at
herself in the mirror. 'So Emma, is it true you're moving in with Connor?' I gape at her.
'How did you know that?'
'Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.'
'Are you moving in with Connor?' says Lissy incredulously. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I was about to, honestly. Isn't it great?'
'Bad move, Emma.' Jemima shakes her head. 'Very bad tactics.'
'Tactics?' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'Tactics? Jemima, they're having a relationship, not
playing chess!'
'A relationship is a game of chess,' retorts Jemima, brushing mascara onto her lashes.
'Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the
wrong move, you've had it.'
'That's rubbish!' says Lissy defiantly. 'A relationship is about like minds. It's about soulmates
finding each other.'
'Soulmates!' says Jemima dismissively, and looks at me. 'Just remember, Emma, if you want a
rock on your finger, don't move in with Connor.'
Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting
Prince William at a charity polo match.
'Still holding out for Royalty?' says Lissy. 'How much younger is he than you, again,
Jemima?'
'Don't be stupid!' she snaps, colour tinging her cheeks. 'You're so immature sometimes, Lissy.'
'Anyway, I don't want a rock on my finger,' I retort.
Jemima raises her perfectly arched eyebrows as though to say, 'you poor, ignorant fool', and
picks up her bag.
'Oh,' she suddenly adds, her eyes narrowing. 'Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?'
There's a tiny beat of silence.
'No,' I say innocently.
'I don't even know which one it is,' says Lissy, with a shrug.
I can't look at Lissy. I'm sure I saw her wearing it the other night.
Jemima's blue eyes are running over me and Lissy like some kind of radar scanners.
'Because I have very slender arms,' she says warningly, 'and I really don't want the sleeves
stretched. And don't think I won't notice, because I will. Ciao.'
The minute she's gone Lissy and I look at each other.
'Shit,' says Lissy. 'I think I left it at work. Oh well, I'll pick it up on Monday.' She shrugs and
goes back to reading the magazine.
OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima's clothes. Without asking. But in
our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Lissy, it's a basic
human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others' clothes. She says it's
practically part of the unwritten British constitution.
'And anyway,' adds Lissy, 'she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all