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Extract 3

OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima’s clothes. Without asking. But in our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Lissy, it’s a basic human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others’ clothes. She says it’s practically part of the unwritten British constitution.

“And anyway,” adds Lissy, “she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you.” She looks up from an article on Nicole Kidman. “So what are you doing later on? D’you want to see a film?”

“I can’t,” I say reluctantly. “I’ve got my mum’s birthday lunch.”

***

Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they’ve moved out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a village about five minutes’ drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.

I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They’ve both got the same feather-cut hair – although Kerry’s is highlighted more strongly than Mum’s – they’re both wearing brightly coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they’re both laughing. On the counter, I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.

“Happy birthday!” I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I feel a little thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can’t wait to give it to her!

***

We’ve been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we’ve heard is Kerry’s.

“It’s all about image,” she’s saying now. “It’s all about the right clothes, the right look, the right walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is ‘I am a successful woman’.”

“Show us!” says Mum admiringly.

“Well.” Kerry gives a false-modest smile. “Like this.” She pushes her chair back and wipes her mouth with her napkin.

“You should watch this, Emma,” says Mum. “Pick up a few tips!”

As we all watch, Kerry starts striding round the room. Her chin is raised, her boobs are sticking out, her eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and her bottom is jerking from side to side.

She looks like a cross between an ostrich and one of the androids in Attack of the Clones.

“I should be in heels, of course,” she says, without stopping.

“When Kerry goes into a conference hall, I tell you, heads turn,” says Nev proudly, and takes a sip of wine. “People stop what they’re doing and stare at her!”

I bet they do.

Oh God. I want to giggle. I mustn’t. I mustn’t.

“Do you want to have a go, Emma?” says Kerry. “Copy me?”

“Er… I don’t think so,” I say. “I think I probably… picked up the basics.”

Suddenly I give a tiny snort and turn it into a cough.

“Kerry’s trying to help you, Emma!” says Mum. “You should be grateful! You are good to Emma, Kerry.”

She beams fondly at Kerry, who simpers back. And I take a swig of wine.

Yeah, right. Kerry really wants to help me.

That’s why when I was completely desperate for a job and asked her for work experience at her company, she said no. I wrote her this long, careful letter, saying I realized it put her in an awkward situation, but I’d really appreciate any chance, even a couple of days running errands.

And she sent back a standard rejection letter.

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