West End Girls

by Jenny Colgan

  “I know who he is,” said her grandmother suddenly. “He’s a hottie.”

  “Oh, OK,” said Lizzie, “well, it’s his fault. In Bridget Jones’s Diary he says he loves Renée Zellweger just the way she is. But he doesn’t really. In real life, his wife is really, really, skinny and looks like a model and speaks nine languages. And in real life Renée Zellweger is super thin and gorgeous. I don’t think hotties really do have to settle or love someone just the way they are.”

  “Renée Zellweger settled down,” observed her grandmother.

  “Hey, I thought you were crazy and a bit out of it and stuff,” said Lizzie, surprised by her gran’s grasp of celebrity gossip.

  “I am,” said her grandmother. “Why do you think I have to sit about all day taking drugs and reading People’s Friend?”

  “Hmm,” said Lizzie, shaking the Boggle box. “Well, anyway. Now I just have to decide how low to lower my standards. Every year they have to drop about five percent, I reckon. Every year and every pound over eleven stone.”

  Her grandmother looked at her. “Is Wayne Rooney free yet?”

  “I could never pull Wayne Rooney,” said Lizzie. “Why am I depressed about that? I don’t know. I find something constantly depressing in being unable to pull people I don’t even fancy.”

  “How’s your sister?”

  “She’s madly in love with a gorgeous successful artist and adores her new job,” said Lizzie. “Apart from that, you know, just about all right.”

  The old woman sniffed. “Nice of her to come and see me. Or maybe she did come before—was that her?”

  “No,” said Lizzie. “That was me.”

  “You’re not identical? Are you the little twins?”

  Her grandmother’s eyes were closing.

  “Yes,” said Lizzie. “Yes, we are.”

  Penny was in heaven. Minty and Brooke had asked her out on another drinks night too. This time Lizzie, strangely, had declined. Penny had felt quite at home relaxing on the large brown sofas of the Sloaney Pony, letting boys in stripy shirts buy them champagne and make remarks. The girls had been very interested to hear all about Will, and she’d been delighted to talk all about it until, on their way out, Minty had cornered her in the toilets.

  “So, it’s all going swimmingly,” said Minty, touching up her flawless skin with a tiny amount of rose blusher. Penny was thwacking the bronzer on as usual, and wondered, for the first time, if she was going about her makeup quite right.

  “Yes,” said Penny, smiling.

  “Well, be careful,” said Minty, smacking her lips. “I’m only telling you this for your own good, Penny, but that Will’s a user.”

  “What, like Pete Doherty?”

  Minty swung her golden ponytail disdainfully. “I’m just warning you, that’s all. He’s trouble. Bad news. Stay away. That’s all I’ll say.”

  Poor Minty, thought Penny. So jealous. Will had dumped her and she’d never gotten over it. Well, the two of them were different.

  Lizzie, meanwhile, was finding that between work and visiting Gran her world was, if anything, shrinking—she didn’t even see her old friends now, it was all too much for them to make the trek. She had had one night out with Grainne, in a too-loud pub on the King’s Road, music thumping around them, and gorgeous teenagers copping off with each other. It hadn’t gone well.

  “God, everything sucks,” said Lizzie as a conversation starter, gingerly helping herself to another prawn cocktail crisp. She’d been off crisps for a bit—Georges wouldn’t have them in the café—and she couldn’t believe how strong and fake they tasted.

  “Yes,” Grainne had said. “It really sucks, living in a castle in Chelsea and running a restaurant. I’d hate to live in Chelsea and get off with celebrities and be a millionaire.”

  Penny grew rosy and happy with love—for the first time, as far as Lizzie could see. There were outdoor assignations, weekends away, parties that Lizzie, after the horrors of Brooke and Minty’s, refused to go to.

  Lizzie worked hard, ate fresh food, went to bed early. Penny danced all night. Georges left Lizzie to her own devices more and more, which she supposed was a compliment of sorts.

  Penny and Will were lying entwined near the Serpentine. It was a perfect evening in a perfect park. People were feeding ducks and flying kites; taking strolls and generally, Penny suspected, feeling pleased with themselves and the world.

  “I think,” said Penny, lolling, “you should paint me in the nude. You know, like Kate Winslet in Titanic.”

  “Like who?”

  “You know. In Titanic. Everyone’s seen it.”

  “I haven’t,” said Will, eyeing the ducks.

  “You must have,” said Penny, shocked. Lizzie had cried so hard snot had come out of her nose. Dwaneesa had called her pathetic in front of everyone. Penny had laughed. She felt slightly ashamed of that now.

  “Nope,” said Will.

  “OK,” said Penny. “Well, what happens is a boy takes a girl to a nice room, and she gets naked and he paints a really beautiful picture of her in the candlelight.”

  “Really,” said Will, leaning over to give her a quick tickle. “Why did I think it was about a big ship sinking and lots of people descending to their watery deaths?”

  “Well, those are the kind of detaily things that happen later on.”

  Penny peered up at him and gave a hopeful look. Will sighed. He would like to take her home, he really would but . . . it just wasn’t the right time. He had to be careful. It was such a big step. He changed the subject.

  “So, what do you like?” Will was saying. He was playing with a stick, watching the clouds and trying to work out what colors he’d use to paint them.

  “Raindrops on roses and whiskers . . . hang on, that’s not right, is it?” said Penny.

  “No,” said Will, smiling. He couldn’t get over how much fun Penny was, how much he enjoyed being with her. She wasn’t like any of the other girls.

  “I mean, what do you want? Out of life.”

  Penny smiled. “Like a Rolex watch? Or true love.”

  “Or both,” said Will.

  “Both then,” said Penny. “A big house and a garden and a lovely home and a lovely family and, you know. Normal stuff. Not having to worry. That kind of thing.”

  “But you’ve got a big house,” said Will.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Penny. She should come clean, she really should, but her feelings for him had grown so strong. She wanted desperately for things to work out, she wanted to meet his posh family, and spend time in his gorgeous apartment and meet more of his friends and . . . but to her amazement, it wasn’t just about that, about what he drove and how wide his television set was. It was about how he made her feel—pretty, yes, but she was used to that. Smart, funny, and, more important, safe. Nothing bad had ever happened to Will, it was obvious. He was comfortable everywhere. He had money, and ease, and had always been sure of himself, and treated her as if she were just the same.

  He’d never had to steal for a bus fare, or pretend to have been on an expensive holiday with his dad (Lizzie had loyally refused to deny it, even with Dwaneesa’s taunting about her pasty skin still ringing in her ears). Will was secure. He made her feel secure. He was everything she’d never known she wanted. And it was scaring her to death.

  She had to convince him she was the girl for him because . . . well. Because she thought she was. Because she wanted to fit in. Because she didn’t want to be rejected.

  She swallowed suddenly. The ground seemed to be shifting under her feet. Or was the sky tilting? Suddenly she felt incredibly light-headed.

  “Oh, Will,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, I just feel a bit . . .”

  She stood up, but that was worse. She felt terribly sick and bleary.

  “Oh, Will, I think it must have been that hot dog.”

  “I can’t believe you ate a hot dog from a man in the park.”

  Penny had bought one,
and wolfed it down—she’d been starving—without even noticing Will staring at her, aghast. Well, now she knew. Smart people didn’t buy hot dogs from a stand in the park. She filed it away as a mental note, just as she suddenly, definitely, knew she was going to be sick. And soon.

  “Will, I’ve got to go,” she said.

  “Well, let me come with you.”

  “NO! I mean, no, don’t, I’ll be fine.”

  “But I’ll need to get you home to see you’re all right.”

  “No, you don’t . . .” She was practically running out of the park now. “See you later . . .”

  Lizzie was attempting to dust around the fourteen ornamental toilet-roll holders on the floor of the bathroom when she heard Penny enter.

  “Pen?” she yelled. “Are you still doing it outside all the time? It’s disgusting, and it’s getting grass all over the silver dog bowl collection.”

  “Out of my way,” said Penny, only just managing to push past Lizzie and make it to the toilet in time, where she threw up copiously. Lizzie watched her in silence.

  “Oh, OK,” said Lizzie. “Forget what I said about the grass being disgusting.”

  Penny ignored her, continuing to hurl down the lav. Lizzie went over and patted her on the back.

  “What’s the matter with you, then?”

  Penny shook her head. “Bleeaarrggghhhh.”

  “Dodgy pie?” said Lizzie.

  “No . . . Bllleeeaaggh.”

  “Dodgy foie gras? Bad glass of champers?”

  Penny didn’t answer and Lizzie handed her a towel.

  “Here you go, sport. Don’t tell me, Will peeled back his perfect skin and revealed he’s actually a lizard?”

  Penny shook her head vigorously.

  “Is he here?”

  The shaking was even more vigorous.

  “OK, OK. Are you finished? Would you like some water?”

  But Penny waved her away.

  Twenty minutes later she emerged, looking sheepish, into the sitting room.

  “How are you feeling?” said Lizzie, looking up from Hello!, which she’d borrowed from her grandmother.

  “Really terrible. I ate a hot dog in the park.” Penny sounded shocked, like she couldn’t believe something as strange as feeling bad could happen to her. She slumped down onto the couch.

  “Ah, well,” said Lizzie, who considered herself quite hot on health and safety these days. “If you will . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Penny, smoothing down her fitted tank top. “I wouldn’t normally. It’s just not like me, but I was so bloody starvin’.”

  Lizzie raised an eyebrow. “Did you miss lunch?”

  Georges believed sitting down to lunch was a hallmark of a civilized society and that the plastic-wrapped all-day-breakfast sandwich was an abomination. Sloan believed in the lunch break too, though only for him, and for different reasons.

  “Well, I have to, don’t I? Will’s hardly going to want to go out with some porker. No offense.”

  “There wasn’t any,” said Lizzie, “until that bit at the end, just there, where you said ‘No offense.’”

  Penny propped herself up on a weak arm. “Is it just me, anyway, or are you looking a bit thinner?”

  “That’s because I’ve been puking my guts up,” said Lizzie, still stung. “Oh no, that was you.”

  “Stavros is obviously having a good effect on you.”

  “His name is not Stavros,” said Lizzie. “And I’ve hardly seen him.”

  “Whatever,” said Penny. “Oh God, I feel awful. I’m going to bed.”

  The following morning Penny crept out into the sitting room, looking, if anything, worse.

  “Oh God, I still feel terrible.”

  Lizzie, making a lemon tea, looked up as Penny jumped up and ran through to the bathroom again.

  “There’s nothing coming up,” she said when she came back in. She was pale and white-faced, with beads of sweat showing on her forehead.

  “Oh dear,” said Lizzie. “Sit down.”

  Waiting for the kettle to boil, Lizzie glanced through the huge windows over into the houses opposite. Those houses were beautifully furnished—polished tables and Persian rugs and untouched pianos in orderly rooms–and often empty as their owners flitted to the south of France, or skiing, or the Caribbean, or anywhere else Lizzie imagined they went. A minor chord was striking in her breast.

  Penny was staring at the floor, a small island of pink pajamas amid the sea of junk. She couldn’t look up and meet Lizzie’s gaze; her heart was beating a million times a minute and her hands were feeling clammy.

  “Well,” said Lizzie.

  Penny blinked rapidly. She couldn’t, couldn’t . . . I mean, it was so ridiculous.

  “I wonder,” said Lizzie, still looking out of the windows, “I wonder if there’s some kind of test you could buy from a chemist if you were throwing up in the morning.” She looked at Penny, who grimaced back at her. Lizzie noticed her eyes were red.

  “Of course not,” said Penny. “I mean, almost certainly not . . . I mean, it would be really unlikely . . .”

  “Haven’t you been doing tons and tons of alfresco knobbing?” said Lizzie.

  Penny looked guilty.

  “You know, scientists have discovered you can get pregnant doing it standing up.”

  “Is this the time for jokes?”

  “You were careful, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes. You know, mostly. Nearly all the time.”

  Lizzie looked at her.

  Boots on a Saturday morning on the King’s Road was heaving with beautiful young tourists. Lizzie couldn’t quite believe she was doing this. The only time she’d even had a scare was one night with Felix when they’d had sex so stupefyingly dull that afterward neither of them could remember a thing about it, including the contraception.

  The queue was incredibly long, as they stood trying to look innocuous while carrying a big blue box.

  “You’re going to be fine,” said Lizzie. “We’re probably infertile anyway.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know. The papers keep saying everyone’s infertile, don’t they?”

  “Well . . .”

  “And we’re nearly thirty. And we drink cocktails and live in a built-up area with fumes and sleep with boys who’ve been drinking water that the pill gets flushed away in and stuff. I think we missed our chance to get pregnant when we were fifteen.”

  “D’you think?”

  Lizzie nodded fiercely and, even though it was stupid, Penny felt comforted.

  “It’s true,” said Lizzie. “The only way we’re ever going to get pregnant is via IVF. Everyone knows that. It costs thousands of pounds and makes you really moody.”

  “You do that for nothing,” said Penny, smiling weakly.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Lizzie, glad to see a ghost of a smile return.

  “Yeah?” said the disinterested checkout girl, chewing her gum slowly in their faces. And I couldn’t find a job, thought Lizzie to herself.

  Penny held out the pack, hand shaking.

  “Thirteen ni-ee nine,” said the girl. The twins stood there.

  “Go on then,” whispered Lizzie.

  Penny turned to her. “What?”

  “Pay her.”

  “What with? I don’t have any money, do I? Sloan hasn’t paid me yet this month, and I owed Dwaneesa sixty quid.”

  “Well, I don’t have it, do I?” said Lizzie, exasperated. It cost her more than that in bus fares up to Barnet, and she only had twenty pounds to get her through till Monday. Which she hadn’t brought with her.

  “You got it or wot?” said the checkout girl. Penny gave Lizzie an anguished look. “I don’t, OK?” said Lizzie. “Can’t you put it on your credit card?”

  “They chopped it up in Argos.”

  Behind them the queue was getting distinctly restless. Lizzie hoped Penny wasn’t going to do something embarrassing, like ask them all for a quid.


  But then she saw Penny’s face, and it didn’t look tough at all. In fact she looked as if she was about to cry.

  “Come on,” said Lizzie. “Let’s just go home.”

  “You put that back,” said the checkout girl.

  “Really,” said Lizzie, dumping the test on the counter and manhandling Penny out of the store with uncustomary vigor. Maybe all these rude Londoners were having an effect on her after all.

  Back home, Penny was quiet at first.

  Lizzie sank down beside her on the sofa and put her arms around her.

  “Sweetie.”

  From Penny came a great racking sob.

  “How could I . . . how could it? I know I am. I just know it.”

  Lizzie patted her gently on the shoulder.

  “I mean, this is just bollocks . . . this isn’t how it’s meant to happen at all.” Penny, bleak with despair, shook her head, then covered her face with her hands.

  They were startled by the phone as it rang. Lizzie couldn’t help thinking, It’s for Penny, it always is.

  “Hey,” said Will. “How are you? Are you feeling OK? It’s going to be a gorgeous day. Absolutely wonderful. I propose a picnic, with smoked-salmon bagels, cream cheese, and some diet Fanta for you. You can read Heat magazine, then I’ll snog you in the long grass. How does that sound?”

  It sounded like heaven.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” said Penny. “I’m not feeling too well.”

  “Really?” He sounded concerned. “Would you like me to come over and look after you?”

  Penny glanced around.

  “No!” she ordered, panicked. “I’ll . . . I’ll call you later, if I’m feeling better.”

  “OK, sweetie pie.”

  Penny put the phone down and turned to Lizzie.

  “What . . . What am I going to do now?”

  Lizzie looked at her, helplessly.

  “I don’t know, Penny. What, you think this is the kind of thing that happens to me every day?”

  “Maybe I should ask Brooke.”

  “That’s right,” said Lizzie. “Posh people are much better at dealing with life’s problems. That’s why they’re always going into rehab and insane asylums. Why don’t you just ring Mum?”