Spitting Feathers. Kelly Harte

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СКАЧАТЬ I pass the test?’ I wanted to know, and she and the African Grey nodded their heads in unison.

      2

      The two Cs—Miss Cordial and Miss Congenial—were in the flat by the time I got back to Shoreditch. They were a couple of Home Counties fee-paying-girls-only-school types, who thought it was ‘a lark’ to live in a part of the city famed for its artists, Asian restaurants, and Jack the Ripper—although strictly speaking the fame of the latter is mostly associated with neighbouring Whitechapel. At least that was what they said, but my guess is that they’d far sooner have been within strolling distance of a branch of Waitrose and an exclusive little frock shop if their Daddies’ allowances had only run to it. They were budding would-be It Girls who worked in advertising and marketing respectively, read Tatler avidly, and who both had ambitions of marrying some wealthy, possibly polo-playing chinless wonder who would take them away from the stresses and strains of earning their own living.

      Apart from their usual conspicuous consumption, their favourite occupation was making fun of my northern accent. Sophie, my fellow Mancunian, had been in London long enough to soften the edges of hers slightly. Besides which she is very good-looking, wears a thirty-four Double-D cup bra, and has a habit of dating the sort of men the two Cs could only dream about. Which had earned her a certain amount of grudging respect.

      How she came to be sharing a flat with two such unlikely females was down to an overheard conversation between what had then been a couple of strangers. In a pub not far from where she worked, Sophie had listened to Jemima and Fiona—as they are known to each other—cattily discussing the recent departure of their former flat-sharer. She’d been swept off her kitten-heel-shod feet by a Brazilian backpacker, apparently, who’d whisked her off to Buenos Aires, and Sophie, desperate for accommodation and never one to miss an opportunity, stepped into the breach.

      She told me she could put up with them because the flat was not only handy for work it was also surprisingly comfortable. It was a council flat, as a matter of fact, sublet by the official tenant—which was strictly against the council rules but, since the rent was cheap by London standards, the Cs hadn’t asked any awkward questions when they took over the place. It was a scam, basically, but as I’d seen their landlord—a big burly bloke with a tattoo of a spider’s web on his cheek and a serious attitude—I didn’t blame Sophie for not asking questions either.

      They stopped talking when I entered the sitting room and I knew they’d been having one of their bitches about me. Another favourite occupation was pretending to trip over the tools of what I hoped would soon be my trade in order to make a point about clutter.

      ‘Good news,’ I announced as I slumped on the couch opposite them. They were still in their work clothes, almost matching black suits, and sipping Chardonnay from glasses that were almost as frosted as the atmosphere. They looked at each other and then back at me with narrow-eyed suspicion.

      ‘I’m moving out at the weekend.’

      ‘Well, that is good news,’ Jemima said with a smirk.

      ‘Never mind, dear,’ Fiona piped in pityingly, ‘you tried your best.’

      ‘I’m not moving back to Manchester, if that’s what you mean,’ I said, in no rush to get to the good bit.

      ‘Oh dear, you’re not moving into a hostel, are you?’ Jemima sneered. ‘You’ll have to be careful with that equipment of yours. Those places are full of undesirables.’

      ‘Try again,’ I suggested, and I pulled the elastic band out of my hair and shook it loose. It was well over my shoulders now, and in need of a trim, but that was another thing that would have to wait until I’d earned some money. The two Cs both had expensive hairdos: one short and spiky, one bobbed—both bottled blonde.

      ‘A cardboard box?’ Jemima quipped.

      ‘Hampstead,’ I said with a lazy sigh as I heeled my shoes off my aching feet.

      They glanced at each other, then glared at me.

      ‘Hampstead!’ they repeated as one.

      ‘’Fraid so,’ said I with a sigh. ‘But someone’s got to live there, I suppose.’

      They naturally assumed that this was an example of northern humour.

      ‘Where are you really going?’ Fiona wanted to know, trying to smile now.

      ‘Hampstead,’ I repeated patiently, crossing my budget-trouser-covered legs. ‘That place with the Heath—surely you know it?’

      They did another quick exchange of glances, and then seemed to lose the use of their tongues for a while. Except as an aid to swallow large gulps of wine. I watched as they fumbled for something to say, and was glad I was me and neither of them. They might have nice clothes and well-paid jobs, but they were essentially soulless. And my hair might need a trim, but at least I didn’t have to touch up the roots every three weeks. At least my almost-though-not-quite blonde hair was natural.

      ‘I expect there are bad parts even in Hampstead,’ Jemima eventually said, but she didn’t sound quite so cocksure now.

      ‘I expect there are,’ I agreed as I stretched my arms over my head. ‘But where I’m going isn’t one of them.’

      It was getting on for six o’clock now. I was later back than I should have been, due to the fact that I’d spent a couple of hours mooching around what was to be my new stomping ground. Before that Mrs Audesley had shown me over the house and assured me that I was welcome to use as much or as little of it as I liked. I think she was a bit hurt at first, to discover that her one-woman African Grey had taken a shine to another. She kept glancing at me curiously, as if trying to work out what it was about me that had captured Sir Galahad’s heart. She told me he’d only taken to one other person in his thirty-nine years. This was her gardener, whom she’d said she would contact later in order to fix up a time for us to discuss our shared parrot-sitting duties.

      And then she said something about her great-nephew, the one who worked at the bank with Sophie. And I’m not sure why but it was still bothering me even now.

      ‘So when exactly are you going?’ Jemima asked, interrupting my thoughts.

      ‘Saturday morning. You could give me a lift over in your car, if you like.’

      Normally there would have been a stock reply to such a wild suggestion that included words like ‘dreams’ and ‘in your’, but I could see she was battling between her natural inclination to be rude and unhelpful and desperate curiosity about my apparent turn of fortune. She skilfully managed to overcome the dilemma with her eventual reply.

      ‘Well, if it will get you and your junk out from under our feet any quicker I don’t see why not.’

      Fiona, who didn’t have a car and was a little less sharp than her partner in malice, looked and sounded appalled. ‘You’re not really going to help move her awful stuff in your car?’ she demanded of Jemima.

      ‘That way she gets to see my new gaff,’ I answered for her. ‘But it’s okay, Fiona, you don’t have to come.’

      She got it at last, and twittered a bit before insisting on helping with the move, at which point Sophie got back and, shocked at this display of co-operation, asked what was going on.

      I hadn’t got round to ringing СКАЧАТЬ