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good figure when you have a face like this?” she moaned. You’d swear she was the Bride of Frankenstein or something. In fairness, though, she never complains that much about how she looks. None of us do. It should be one of those things that doesn’t matter between friends. Should be.
    I am still sipping at my Smirnoff Ice, perhaps in the hope that if I drink enough of it, I’ll be able to look in the mirror and think I look attractive.
    “You want me to introduce to you to people?” Sarah asks.
    I think about it. “No.”
    She laughs. “Not in the party mood?”
    “Not really.”
    “Oh, well. Stay in here for a while and talk to me.”
    “You should be out there mingling. You’re the hostess,” I smile.
    She rolls her eyes. “They’re getting along fine without me. There’s music, there’s drink, that’s all they need.”
    Our lives are veering dangerously close towards the land of teenage normality. I wonder if she realises this, and has opted to stay on the path anyway.
     
     

Chapter Thirty-Three
     
    We end up being social and friendly after all. Shane drags us out of the kitchen and in to talk to some of his friends. The conversation turns to football, and I watch, mildly amused, as the guys, and a couple of avid female fans, get all worked up about it. Caroline and I exchange we-could-be-here-for-a-while looks.
    It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. For the most part, the guys are moderately intelligent, and some are even speaking in whole sentences as opposed to grunts at regular intervals. I’m impressed.
    I find myself discussing all things musical with Hugh, one of the band members. He’s a U2 fanatic, so we debate which of their albums is the best, the three main contenders being The Joshua Tree , Achtung Baby and All That You Can’t Leave Behind .
    Hugh, being a drummer, is talking about Larry Mullen when Shane joins in. “Yeah, but come on now, they’d be nothing without Bono.”
    Hugh seems to have heard this before, many times. “Shane wants to be Bono,” he tells me conspiratorially.
    I grin. “How sweet,” I tell Shane. “We all need a hero.”
    “So who’s yours?” he asks, deflecting the attention from his own hero-worship.
    I shrug. I really have no idea. I mean, I love Sylvia Plath and all that, but I certainly have no intention of dying at thirty.
    “Lisa Simpson,” I finally say, half-joking.
    He grins. “Not Homer?”
    “I’m not the Homer type.”
    “No, I suppose you’re not.”
    What’s that supposed to mean? I want to ask, but don’t.
    The first thing Sarah asks me, once everyone’s gone, is what I thought of Shane.
    “He’s nice!” I say for what feels like the millionth time.
    “ Nice? That could be anyone.”
    It’s almost two in the morning. My vocabulary isn’t the best at this time of the day. “He’s interesting,” I add. And yeah, I suppose I’m telling the truth. But he’s a tad on the intimidating side and he can make me feel uncomfortable and I’m not exactly sure what I think of him, or what he thinks of me.
    “What did you think?” she asks Fiona.
    “The same,” Fiona yawns. “Look, Sarah, would you just admit that you fancy him and stop interrogating us!”
    “I don’t,” she protests.
    “Sure, sure,” Fiona and I say.
    “Besides –” she begins, and we all know that whenever anyone starts talking like that, it clearly means that they’re interested in someone, but are trying desperately to prove otherwise. “ Besides , even if I did , he’s not interested in me.”
    “How do you know?” Fiona demands. “Have you asked him?”
    “I just know,” Sarah insists. “I think he likes Abi.”
    “What?” I splutter. She’s clearly delusional.
    “Well, he was talking to you all night,” she says.
    “Yeah, me and Hugh and Caroline and anyone else that wanted to join in. You’re reading too much into this,” I tell her. “Besides, Caroline thinks he likes you.”
    “Well, he doesn’t,” she says