“Bad different?”
“No. You look kind of…glam. I dunno. Words aren’t coming out right. Do you want something to drink?”
I follow her into the kitchen where she busies herself with a selection of fresh fruit and the blender.
“You on a health kick?” I ask as she chops bananas.
“Nah, just another diet. Wish I had your figure. So how’ve you been? You went all quiet on me for a while; I wondered what was going on?”
“Oh, just busy. I fell behind with a few essays and had to camp out in the library for weeks on end.”
“Ugh, yeah, I know what you mean. I started the year all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, handing everything in on time, doing all the research. Now I can barely be bothered to write my name at the top of the page. Must be some kind of syndrome.”
“Apathy Syndrome.”
“Yeah, that’ll be it. Listen, you should have come down the Arms last night. Guess who was there.”
“Paris Hilton? Osama bin Laden?”
“Ha ha, yeah, who knew they’d get together? No, Adam Ellwood.”
“Oh right.” I nod neutrally. Adam Ellwood. The Mother of all Crushes. Two years above me in school but so far beyond attainability that he might as well have been a 1940s matinee idol.
“And…he’s split up with Lollipop Head. Single, Beth. On the market.”
“But I’m not.”
Caitlin waves her knife in the air with excitement.
“You dirty dog! I knew there’d be more to it than an essay crisis. Honestly, one week you’re never off Facebook and then I don’t hear from you for, like, a month. I said to myself, Caitlin, my girl, cherchez l’homme!”
I collapse into a giggle of blushes. L’homme. Ah, Sinclair, my lover, my man. I’m afraid to tell her the unvarnished truth though. I don’t want an earful of gasps and tuts about how old he is.
“Come on then! Names, vital stats, scores out of ten for snogging etc.” She looks at me expectantly, poised to switch on the blender.
“He’s called Sinclair.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“A nice name! And he’s tall and gorgeous and gets a million out of ten for everything.”
“Wow.” She turns on the blender with an impressed blink and we watch the red, green and yellow fruits get beaten to a pulp. “Is he on your course?” she asks, pouring the gloopy result into two glasses.
“Er, yeah,” I hedge. Well, he is, in a way. “What about your lot? Any potential?”
She sighs. “A few cuties. But nobody wants to look at a fat fucking heifer like me.”
“Get lost! You aren’t fat.” She isn’t either. She’s a well-proportioned size 14 with a sheeny shiny black bob and perfect skin. She could pull Prince bloody William if she would stop being so down on herself.
“Easy for you to say,” she snaps and I am taken aback by the ragged edge of her voice.
We move on up to her bedroom and loll on her bed watching DVDs for the rest of the afternoon. I am grateful for the plentiful cushioning but even more grateful that I am reminded of Sinclair every time I shift position. I feel so lucky.
&n
bsp; Chapter Twelve
Monday, hair down, no knickers, internet blogs by people in relationships like mine and Sinclair’s. Some of these are real eye-openers, placing Sinclair and I at the tamer end of the spectrum. I love what we already have; I love the tremble in my stomach when he says ‘Come here’ in that authoritarian tone; I love the way that all his rules and regulations are aimed towards my self-improvement; I love that he accepts nothing less than my best effort and that he is consistent in the way he disciplines anything weaker. He has high expectations of me and I long to be able to meet them; I know I will be able to meet them.