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Authors: Alex Marwood
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Nikki’s stuff,’ says Collette. ‘I don’t really know where to put anything. I can’t help feeling she might want it all back, some day.’
Cher looks around at her former friend’s familiar belongings. Waste not, want not, she thinks. If Nikki doesn’t want it… ‘Well, anything you want to send my way…’
Collette whirls round, looks shocked. ‘I can’t do that! It’s someone else’s stuff!’
Cher shrugs. ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere, is it? If she comes back, I’ll give it her.’ She waves a hand at the sweatpants, the emerald green vest top Collette is wearing. ‘And anyway, it’s not like
you
mind helping yourself, is it?’
Collette blushes, looks at the floor. ‘I’ll get them laundered,’ she says. ‘It’s just till – you know. All my clothes are dirty. I’ve been travelling. It’s just till I…’
Cher dismisses the protestations with a cackle. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell if you don’t. So… We having a drink, or what?’
Collette springs into life like a clockwork doll, starts bustling about, pantomiming busyness. ‘Of course. Yes. Let me just…’ She picks the pile of Nikki’s clothes off the single armchair, drops it against the wall behind. ‘I don’t know where the glasses live, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay.’ Cher goes straight to the left-hand wall cupboard of the kitchenette, gets down two tumblers. ‘I know my way around. Plates and stuff are down here,’ she pulls open the door by the sink, ‘with the saucepan, and there’s this drawer here, for knives and forks and stuff. Have you got any ice?’
‘Ice?’
‘Nikki always had ice.’ She crouches down in front of the little fridge and opens the freezer compartment. A half bag of frozen peas, and an ice tray. ‘Thought so. You might want to throw that milk away without opening it. It’s probably been here since before she went away.’
She gets out the ice tray and runs it under the tap. Bangs a couple of cubes into each glass and fills them up with Irish cream. Takes a big gulp from one, sighs and tops it up again. ‘There. That hits the spot.’
Collette sits down on the bed. She looks hopeless, tentative. ‘I got crisps as well,’ Cher says, handing her a glass. ‘D’you want me to put them in a bowl?’
Collette takes the glass and looks at it as though she’s never seen the stuff before. ‘Nah,’ Cher answers herself, ‘what’s the point in making washing-up?’ and flings herself into the armchair, hooks a leg over an arm and takes another swig. ‘Trouble with this stuff,’ she says, ‘is it doesn’t really feel like booze at all, does it? And once you start drinking it, it slides down your throat like it’s coming out of a spittoon.’
Collette takes a sip, raises her eyebrows. ‘I’ve never drunk this stuff before. I though you just put it in cocktails, like curaçao.’ She takes another sip. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘Never drunk it? Girl, where’ve you
been
?’
The look Collette gives her is startled, suspicious. It’s like we speak a different language, thinks Cher. ‘Oh, you know, here and there,’ Collette replies, eventually. Then adds: ‘It’s been Cristal champagne for me, 24/7.’
They fall awkwardly silent and sip their drinks, eying each other. She looks like my friend Bonny, thinks Cher, only older. I wonder what happened to Bonny? She was meant to be going back to her dad, but I know she didn’t want to go. Not like
that
matters to social services.
‘So how are you settling in, then?’ she asks, to fill the silence.
Collette shrugs. ‘Oh, you know. Okay. It’s all a bit strange.’
‘Better once you’ve got your stuff.’
‘Yeah,’ says Collette, and looks away again. That can’t be it, wonders Cher. That tiny bag I saw her with earlier? No one moves in somewhere with that little stuff, do they? And then she remembers the duffel bag she’d arrived with herself, seven months ago, and does an internal shrug. Hossein
Cher looks around at her former friend’s familiar belongings. Waste not, want not, she thinks. If Nikki doesn’t want it… ‘Well, anything you want to send my way…’
Collette whirls round, looks shocked. ‘I can’t do that! It’s someone else’s stuff!’
Cher shrugs. ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere, is it? If she comes back, I’ll give it her.’ She waves a hand at the sweatpants, the emerald green vest top Collette is wearing. ‘And anyway, it’s not like
you
mind helping yourself, is it?’
Collette blushes, looks at the floor. ‘I’ll get them laundered,’ she says. ‘It’s just till – you know. All my clothes are dirty. I’ve been travelling. It’s just till I…’
Cher dismisses the protestations with a cackle. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell if you don’t. So… We having a drink, or what?’
Collette springs into life like a clockwork doll, starts bustling about, pantomiming busyness. ‘Of course. Yes. Let me just…’ She picks the pile of Nikki’s clothes off the single armchair, drops it against the wall behind. ‘I don’t know where the glasses live, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay.’ Cher goes straight to the left-hand wall cupboard of the kitchenette, gets down two tumblers. ‘I know my way around. Plates and stuff are down here,’ she pulls open the door by the sink, ‘with the saucepan, and there’s this drawer here, for knives and forks and stuff. Have you got any ice?’
‘Ice?’
‘Nikki always had ice.’ She crouches down in front of the little fridge and opens the freezer compartment. A half bag of frozen peas, and an ice tray. ‘Thought so. You might want to throw that milk away without opening it. It’s probably been here since before she went away.’
She gets out the ice tray and runs it under the tap. Bangs a couple of cubes into each glass and fills them up with Irish cream. Takes a big gulp from one, sighs and tops it up again. ‘There. That hits the spot.’
Collette sits down on the bed. She looks hopeless, tentative. ‘I got crisps as well,’ Cher says, handing her a glass. ‘D’you want me to put them in a bowl?’
Collette takes the glass and looks at it as though she’s never seen the stuff before. ‘Nah,’ Cher answers herself, ‘what’s the point in making washing-up?’ and flings herself into the armchair, hooks a leg over an arm and takes another swig. ‘Trouble with this stuff,’ she says, ‘is it doesn’t really feel like booze at all, does it? And once you start drinking it, it slides down your throat like it’s coming out of a spittoon.’
Collette takes a sip, raises her eyebrows. ‘I’ve never drunk this stuff before. I though you just put it in cocktails, like curaçao.’ She takes another sip. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘Never drunk it? Girl, where’ve you
been
?’
The look Collette gives her is startled, suspicious. It’s like we speak a different language, thinks Cher. ‘Oh, you know, here and there,’ Collette replies, eventually. Then adds: ‘It’s been Cristal champagne for me, 24/7.’
They fall awkwardly silent and sip their drinks, eying each other. She looks like my friend Bonny, thinks Cher, only older. I wonder what happened to Bonny? She was meant to be going back to her dad, but I know she didn’t want to go. Not like
that
matters to social services.
‘So how are you settling in, then?’ she asks, to fill the silence.
Collette shrugs. ‘Oh, you know. Okay. It’s all a bit strange.’
‘Better once you’ve got your stuff.’
‘Yeah,’ says Collette, and looks away again. That can’t be it, wonders Cher. That tiny bag I saw her with earlier? No one moves in somewhere with that little stuff, do they? And then she remembers the duffel bag she’d arrived with herself, seven months ago, and does an internal shrug. Hossein
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