The Cheek Perforation Dance. Sean Thomas

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      — Raisins …

      Murphy:

      — Raisins? Really? Oh, for God’s sake. Did I ask for raisins? Did I say please can you put some fucking dried fruit in my fucking chicken sandwich?

      Rebecca’s friend is making an I’ve-had-enough face. Rebecca notices Murphy’s ankle chain. Sighing, exhaling, Murphy squints at the sandwich, looks at Rebecca, squints at the sandwich. With a decided air Murphy bags the sandwich, leans back, takes aim, and expertly lobs the sandwich bag into the nearest bin.

      Clapping her hands Murphy sits up straight, cross-legged again, triumphantly laughing; Rebecca laughs, too: feeling happy in the sun. Making a cunning face Murphy does a blatant grab for the last of Rebecca’s lunch; successfully filching from the other paper bag a chocolate bar. With a shrug Rebecca watches as her best friend eats the bar; Murphy is talking with a mouth full of chocolate:

      — Anyway. What about the boyf?

      — Him …?

      — Yeah. Neil. Supergeek. You gonna give him another chance?

      Rebecca moues, as if to say: enough said. Sat back on straight arms Rebecca turns and glances over at the guy who hasn’t shaved for a few days. He isn’t glancing at her. He is busy with his own sandwiches, washing them down with a can of cola, idly flicking through his big newspaper. Occasionally he seems to look up and stare vacantly at the Fifties brickwork of Birkbeck. Trying her hardest Rebecca wills him to look at her: look at me, look at me, look at me … please?

      As if commanded, he turns his face … and looks at the bike sheds behind Birkbeck College. Offended, rolling over, Rebecca says to Murphy, who is examining her stomach for a tan mark:

      — I’ve seen him here a few times now

      —Who invented cellulite?

      — That guy …

      — I mean you never hear Jane Austen banging on about it, do you? Did Elizabeth Bennett freak out in case Darcy saw her orange peel?

      — He often eats his lunch here

      — So when did cellulite start? The Sixties? I blame feminists. I reckon lesbian feminists must have invented it. To put us off getting naked with guys. Woman-hating bastards. Chop their tits off I say

      — How old do you reckon he is?

      — Are you still banging on about that … thug? He’s gross, Becs, he looks like he’d mug your mum

      — He’s quite … sexy …

      — You’re such a slapper, Jessel

      — He looks … interesting …

      — Psychotic

      Rebecca shakes her head and goes to answer but Murphy is checking her ironically big plastic watch. The watch with the knowingly naff boy-band motif. Looking up, tongue clicking, Murphy says:

      — Gotta go

      — But … it’s not even two

      — It’s called work, girl

      — … Stay …?

      A certain pause. Murphy looks over; Rebecca looks back. Rebecca notes that Murphy’s face is nicely tan, her eyes green, her nose stud silver in the early summer sun. Murphy is laughing, as she makes a spastic voice, as she lodges her tongue behind her bottom lip:

      — Derrr … Werrrk

      — Unfair!

      — What’s it like being a Hampstead heiress with nothing to do but check your bikini line?

      — I do do the occasional PhD

      — Yeah?

      With a somehow sarcastic expression, Murphy reaches and lifts another of the books that have slipped from Rebecca’s Prada bag. Slow, ironic, Murphy recites the title:

      — The Broken Spears. The Aztec Account of the Conquest of Mexico

      Rebecca is shrugging; Murphy:

      — … Call me a stupid cow with skates on, but I thought you were doing the Crusades?

      — Well

      — Too easy was it? Thought you’d tackle a few more subjects? Brainiac

      Murphy looks like she’s thinking of another insult; to stop her Rebecca picks up the paperback that Murphy was reading. Slowly Rebecca recites the title, in a similarly stilted way:

      — Veiled Voices, an anthology of Arab women’s poetry

      Murphy looks vaguely abashed; and a tiny bit proud. Rebecca says:

      — Not exactly the lightest of reading … – Checking the title again – Any good?

      Murphy shrugs and says:

      — Actually, it is … it’s very good, kinda horny

      — Kind of horny?

      Murphy laughs:

      — Well it’s … interestingly confessional – A glance between them; then Murphy shrugs again – OK so I’m easily aroused …

      Before Rebecca can ask her next question, her usual question about Murphy’s love life, Murphy has barked

      — Fuck, Becs, I have to go. My boss’ll be chewing her arm off. Conceptual dustbin lids don’t sell themselves y’know …

      Rebecca smiles:

      — No. Hold on. I’ll come with you, I’ve got to buy something from Waterstone’s

      — K

      Preparing to go, they look around.

      — Er …

      — Golly …

      Hands on hips they assess the mess they have somehow made. Surrounding their lunch spot is a fairy ring of mobile phone cards, choc-bar wrappers, doodled-on diary pages, and bits of cigarette packet. And Aztec history books, scrunched-up tissues, hay-fever nasal sprays, empty mocha coffee cups, Hello! magazine, OK! magazine, Arab women’s poetry paperbacks, and splinters of smeared almond. Murphy laughs; Rebecca laughs. Laughing as one, they stoop to it: with a burst of zeal and energy they bend to collect the rubbish, bag the books, collate the other stuff, and spend a minute mutually grooming grass stalks. Then and only then do they start walking. As they leave Rebecca checks the corner of the lawn where he was; he isn’t.

       Ah well …

      But he is already just a memory, a memory almost forgotten as they stroll happily across the grass and down the steps that lead under Birkbeck College. This is their СКАЧАТЬ