Stiff Lips

'I see you're branching out into beige,' I said, picking up another two bags and threading them onto my arm with the first.

Sophie failed to spot the irony in my tone. 'It's not beige,' she said. 'It's ecru.'

Sophie was the only person I'd ever known who could wear beige successfully, though she normally referred to it as ecru or taupe or oatmeal or stone or cream or mushroom or off-white or Chinese brown or camel, whatever it was being called that season. She even wore beige lipstick and nail polish. On her it looked classy and French. On me it looked drab, as though I were too chicken to wear anything brighter.

'You're a shopaholic,' I said. 'You need help.'

'Actually, I think I'm agoraphobic,' Sophie said cheerfully, again forced to relinquish her grip on some of the shopping so she could hunt in her handbag for keys. 'I can only bear to leave the house when there's the prospect of a reward. If it weren't for the trophies at the end of the trek, I'd probably never go out.'

Once inside, she made it clear that she had things to do, but offered me a cup of tea for the road. 'By the way,' she said. 'Remember that record you found?'

I asked her to be more specific.

'The one with the psychedelic cover,' she said. 'The Drunken Boots.'

'Boats.'

'Do you still have it?'

I explained that the records were currently with Dirk and Lemmy. 'You did say you didn't want them in the house,' I reminded her.

She looked as if she were about to say something else, then changed her mind. I tried to pump her for information, but she was still being mysterious. I also dropped a wagonload of hints about how it was time she had a housewarming, but it wasn't until a week or so later that she rang to issue an invitation, as though she'd been mulling over my suggestion and had at last decided it made sense.

Almost before I'd replaced the receiver, I was whooping with delight. There was nothing I liked better than to hobnob with members of Sophie's social circle. I was already looking forward to an evening spent trying to wangle invitations to weekend house-parties in the Cotswolds, or even to farmhouses in Languedoc or villas in Tuscany, though the only invitation I'd received to date had been a seat at the Contemporary Dance Centre for a transvestite production of Swan Lake.

I'd expected some flicker of activity to be visible from the street, but the first thing I noticed was that, though there were lights on above and below, Sophie's windows were dark. There was no sign of life, no indication at all that anyone was at home, or indeed living there at all.

But Sophie was in, because when I rang her bell and hollered into the entryphone she did something which released the lock on the front door. I pushed it open, stepped inside, and found myself face-to-face with Sophie's downstairs neighbour — a big-boned, affable woman with tawny hair and a face that was slightly horsey, but in the nicest possible way. She would have been the sort of friendly pony you would pat on the fetlocks and feed with apple-cores and lumps of sugar.

I liked Marsha Carter-Brown from the outset, perhaps because it was obvious that our lives trundled along parallel tracks, which meant there would be no danger of one of us being crossed by the other. Marsha wanted nothing from me, nor did I want anything from her. Except of course for a table at Cinghiale.

She finished locking her door and scanned me approvingly. 'You look as though you're going somewhere nice.'

I nodded, but didn't elaborate. Marsha, swathed in a fake fur coat with zebra stripes, appeared to be on her way out for the evening. I didn't want to put my foot in it by suggesting there was a party on the premises to which she hadn't been invited.

'You must be Marsha,' I said. 'I'm Clare. Sophie's friend.'

Marsha Carter-Brown had a handshake that would have cracked walnuts. 'Nice to meet you, Clare. Sophie's settling in nicely, isn't she?'

I nodded. 'It's a nice house. Wish I lived here.'

'You do?' Marsha arched her eyebrows. 'Maybe you should have a word with our agents.'

Before I could react, she added, 'About number four.'

I did a quick mental calculation. 'Top floor?'

Marsha nodded. 'Robert's place. Ask the agents about it. Sophie'll have their number.'

'Is he moving out?' I asked, but she'd already opened the front door and didn't hear me. 'See you!' she shouted back over her shoulder. 'Have a nice time.'

Sophie greeted me at the top of the stairs. 'You met Marsha? She's nice, isn't she?'

'Very nice,' I said. One more nice, I decided, and I would need to have my stomach pumped. I had been intending to ask Sophie about the top flat, but as soon as I saw what she was wearing, the intention was replaced by a more pressing concern. I'd taken all afternoon to get ready. After hours of deliberation, I'd finally selected a simple black dress with tasteful sequin trim, spaghetti straps and a low-cut neckline. But as soon as I saw Sophie, I realized I'd got it wrong. Again. Sophie was in a plain white T-shirt and beige trousers. Her casual wear might have been the equivalent of another girl's Sunday best, but I still felt overdressed, even if underdressed might have been a more appropriate word for it — I was acutely conscious of having exposed far too much bare flesh.

'Uh-oh,' I said, sparkling party mood instantly reduced to ash. 'Don't tell me I got the wrong day.'

'Poor Clare,' said Sophie. 'No you got it right. Don't worry, it hots up later.'

I headed straight for the living-room, which was as dark and deserted as it had looked from the street, and empty of furniture apart from the plastic-wrapped sofa and the record player, though Dirk and Lemmy had left a rickety stepladder and some cans of paint.

'Perhaps if you run into your friends, you could remind them they haven't finished the picture rail,' Sophie said in a neutral tone. 'I really would like to make use of my living-room at some point.' I mumbled a reply, certain that Dirk and Lemmy thought they had finished. Sophie suggested we move through into the bedroom, where it was cosier.

It wasn't particularly chilly, but my bare arms were covered in goose-pimples, so Sophie lent me something to cover up with. Her beige sweater made me look as though I were suffering from some form of liver malfunction, but I thought I could probably get away with it once the harsh glare from the overhead light had been replaced by the gentler glow of the bedside lamp.

Sophie poured wine, and we picked at bread and cheese and fruit, and I went on picking at the bread and cheese long after she had pushed her plate to one side, and then, because I was still hungry, I raided her kitchen and munched through a packet of Bath Olivers and a jar of peanut butter as well.

The bedroom was indeed cosy. Sophie had installed a small television at the foot of the bed. It was fine for the two of us, propped up against a mound of pillows, but I could see it was going to get uncomfortably cramped when everyone else had arrived.

'What time are you expecting the others?' I asked.

'There are no others,' said Sophie.

'No others?' I yelled.

'Not in the way you mean. We're on our own here, kiddo.'

I felt the blood rush to my head. I wanted to shake Sophie until she squealed. Two hours I'd spent on my make-up alone. But it wouldn't do to let her know how much I'd been looking forward to the evening, so instead I asked, rather lamely, 'So what are we supposed to do?'