‘Well said. What does he mean?’ Lou put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with the Zippo – all using his left hand.

  ‘Ooh look. Got ten pence?’ Aoife turned her face from one of us to the other.

  ‘I’ve told you to complain about the phone card and they connect you free.’

  ‘There’s no time for all that if you want to meet crazy Abby.’

  ‘Here.’ I gave Aoife a ten-pence piece from that shrinking float of small change in my right-hand pocket.

  ‘But Eeef, Gran’s known that Mary’s family for years.’ Lou tipped his head back.

  ‘Just in case Lily’s started crying. She might not be able to get her down. She can be hard to get down. You don’t think she’ll bring a boyfriend round, do you?’

  ‘That Mary? She’s fourteen.’

  ‘That means nothing,’ Aoife said bawdily and, to our surprise, with a tinge of self-knowledge.

  He looked up to the Kensington night sky.

  I thought there might be another argument but Aoife went into the illuminated phone box. I watched her thin, naked shoulder blades ruminating mechanically as she dialled.

  Lou immediately nudged me and blocked the phone-box view, passing the banged-up silver hip flask. ‘Get your tonsils afloat.’

  I took it, un-nibbed the flip top and screwed it open. I tipped back my head and took a burning draw of brandy.

  ‘Some conversation juice splashing in our vitals, boyo. That’s what we need. I swear we should get that fucking phone taken out the house. She’s on it to her mum and her sister and nutso Abby all afternoon.’

  ‘While we are in the pub.’ I tried to use a gentle tone.

  ‘Yeah but really. Even when she’s meeting Abby an hour later, they talk for half an hour on the phone. I’d get rid of it but soon the offers for our book will be flowing in.’ He nudged me.

  ‘If we get out the pub and write something.’ I passed the hip flask back.

  Aoife came from the phone box towards us. The word from high in the Acton sky was that Lily was asleep and the babysitting girl had complained about the dimensions of the television. ‘Don’t you have another television? A bigger one?’ she had asked. Aoife kept repeating that phrase, giggling to herself as we stepped onward along the pavement.

  It took us a long time to get in backstage at the Commonwealth Institute. Everyone was in a state of self-important panic.

  ‘You’d think a nuclear test was about to take place, not a fucking fashion show,’ Lou said in front of a hysterical group, mainly women – all liggers. Because he was good-looking and they didn’t know who he was, the group snapped into silence after he said this.

  We only attained backstage when Abingdon Barbour herself came to the purple curtains to rescue us, stuck her head through, showed the security guy her pass and said, ‘Yeah. They’re with me, aren’t they, you silly sausage,’ and she play-smacked the huge bouncer on his shoulder. The unsmiling bouncer smiled at her. Despite the posh name, Abby had the same gorgeous accent as Aoife.

  On the other side of the curtain she said, ‘So you’re Douglas. Aoife’s told me all about you.’

  Lou added, ‘Yes. And we have to pay for it on the phone bill.’

  Aoife gave him a bad glare.

  ‘Now let me look at you.’ Abby put her hands on my shoulders and sure enough, she looked at me.

  ‘You know I’m not auditioning for anything?’

  ‘Yes you are, cheeky. You’re auditioning for me.’

  I wanted to tell her she shouldn’t judge the whole universe by appearance, but when she said, ‘You have lovely eyes,’ I just kept quiet.

  ‘A Scottish man,’ she nodded, zoologically. I tried not to, but immediately coloured as she kept on staring.

  ‘What is it? What is it, silly sausage?’

  I became even more red.

  ‘Look at him, he’s all embarrassed.’

  I immediately hated her. ‘Watch out now or I might start hating you.’

  I liked her reaction. She turned and over her bare shoulder said, ‘Nobody hates Abby.’

  Of course, Abingdon was wearily beautiful as well, but her face and eyes were bigger and she was more striding and less delicate than Aoife. It was true they seemed exactly the same size and could share all those clothes, but Abby was peppered about with a constant drama. Her hair up in huge curlers, under her arms a tightened and vast towel which went down to the back of her knees. She led us across the factory floor, hopping and sliding her feet over the tiles in a big, ugly pair of thick blue socks. She said hello to everyone.

  ‘How is Lily? Still adorable?’ she suddenly asked as if she’d just recalled the child’s existence.

  ‘She’s fine; she can hold the spoon a little,’ said Aoife.

  Abby screamed, her way of acknowledging joy. ‘That’s a relief.’

  All the time we moved through commotions of clothes racks and long tables with garments outspread. Pale-faced, red-lipsticked girls in black sack dresses and gelled hair had their teeth full of common pins. Young gay guys with shaved heads ran crossways in a crouching stance, wearing brothel-creeper shoes. I kept covering my mouth in mock yawns to feign familiar lack of interest.

  People looked at us for a moment, probably to discern if we were at all of importance, then – our status being too vague – they quickly looked away.

  I had been daft enough to expect a changing room, like in that film The Dresser with Albert Finney; bulbs all round a mirror. However, the four of us suddenly squeezed into a fabric-walled area the size of a changing cubicle in Marks and Spencer. The cloth was supported by aluminium tubes; it was like my camp bed gone all vertical. Abby’s make-up and accoutrements were on the floor, along with six or seven pairs of high-heel shoes. It was a challenge not to step on anything.

  ‘You’ve got little changing rooms.’ Aoife sounded glum.

  ‘Not when the show starts. Then you stand in the open in your scanties.’ Abby looked directly in Lou’s face and said, seriously and slightly reprimanding, ‘So I hear your stitches tore. Again. Llewellyn?’

  ‘Yeah but they had the technology to rebuild me.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Got any markers on you? To show Douglas?’

  As Aoife said this, Abby dropped her towel. Apart from small knickers she was – of course – completely naked. Her breasts were small but somehow larger than I’d suspected and each nipple was fixed down severely with surgical tape.

  ‘You’ve dropped your glove and it’s bad luck if a man doesn’t pick it up,’ Lou said indifferently.

  ‘I’m not bending over,’ I said.

  Abby screamed with joy.

  I didn’t know what to do with my eyes but Abby brazenly shoved her index fingers up, pointing to both nipples so I was required to gaze at them.

  ‘You tape down cause we tend not to bother with bras and it’s so blimmin cold round back here. If you go out in a thin dress they’re like – bazooom. Right out and you’ve taken the hem up an inch at the front already.’

  ‘Right.’ I nodded. Both Lou and Aoife seemed uninterested by Abby’s nudity. They all seemed unusually casual about physical openness. To reinforce the point, I suddenly observed Abby frown at Aoife’s chest in the gold silk dress, then Abby reached out and took each of Aoife’s breasts in the palms of her hands, feeling at them as if testing fruit. ‘Girl. I hope you haven’t been breastfeeding, have you? Even if you do it once.’

  Aoife shook her head. ‘Not once. I feel so guilty.’

  Lou groaned. ‘We’re not having all this again.’

  Now Aoife put her own finger out and pressed a very thin and faint line drawn on Abby’s neck. ‘See? Each model has a set amount of garments that go on in a certain tagged order. Except for the model that goes out first, who’s well known and gets a fitting, but for the rest of us they have to make adjustments to the clothes so’s the helpers make marking lines on your body to show where to tape some dresses. This is for her first dress. It’s all very fast and manic during a show, especially London Fashion Week. Sometimes if you go from small dresses to bigger ones they’ll leave all their marking lines and not wipe them off. You look a bit like a tiger by the end.’

  Lou calmly turned to me, away from Abby’s nakedness. ‘When I had my operation, before they put me under, I saw the pen marks for the incision up my chest and the last thing I remember was thinking of Aoife’s body with these same marks upon it. That was the last thought I had, wasn’t it, love? Then the bugger gassed us.’ He turned to Aoife. ‘Your flesh with this daft calligraphy. A nice last thought.’

  Aoife let her head fall against Lou’s arm and she embraced his biceps. ‘That’s nice you thought that, but you’re safe now.’

  ‘Poor Llewellyn. Fighting fit now.’ Abby whooped.

  I blinked and said, ‘Degas used to accidentally scratch his models.’

  All three of their faces turned to me.

  ‘He scratched their naked bodies with his compass needle, measuring their dimensions for his sketches. Apparently one stood bleeding for hours and he didn’t care.’

  Abby frowned. ‘Not some kind of feminist, are you?’

  I smiled at her. ‘Time will tell.’

  Lou laughed.

  There was a small stool and Abby suddenly sat down and began to pull off one sock. She had beautifully painted toenails; we all had to shuffle so her bare, bony, extended legs could stick out through and among us. Then she put her chin in the palm of her hand.

  Aoife said, with a sort of nostalgia, ‘It’s worth seeing backstage. It’s more interesting than out front, but the backstage manager won’t allow us in, will she?’

  ‘Not for a big show like this. And with poor little you not working in it, darling. Shame for these poor boys. Lots of titties, bare bottoms and long willies round the back here.’

  Lou drawled, ‘That’s all right, Abby. I don’t want to see your willy again. Douglas and I are going outside to recite poetry to each other.’

  ‘Oh now,’ Abby chuckled.

  All of this time, Abby had been making occasional sour faces and curling her top lip. Another model was in the adjacent cubicle and often a hip bone or an elbow shape would bash out its dimensions through the hanging fabric; the other girl’s long toes with similarly painted nails would suddenly be visible, thrust in under the space at the base of the dividing fabric.

  Abby sighed. ‘Give us a fag, Llewellyn.’ As Lou fished in his overcoat and pulled out his cigarettes, Abby pointed into the air and said, ‘But out front isn’t dull, Eeef. Haven’t you seen it out there tonight? They’re all here. Her that’s with thingwey and everyone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her that’s with thingwey. I can’t remember the names. The guy in the band. And Chrissie Hynde’s always there. She’s cool.’

  ‘Any booze?’ Lou snapped.

  ‘They don’t want us to fall off the walk, Llewellyn. They only let us have champagne afterwards. If it goes well.’

  He lit her cigarette, looking down on her. The voice of the girl next door immediately went, ‘It’s no smoking.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Abby?’

  ‘Yes, Llewellyn.’

  ‘Can you get some of your clothes out of our bedroom?’

  ‘I will as soon as I hire a car one day, sausage. I’m so busy.’

  ‘I thought this was the first work you’d had in ages?’

  She had on wild false lashes and they trembled upwards angrily. I’d heard that when Abby had no modelling work, she did hours painting decorative candles in some workshop.

  ‘Abby?’

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘Since you’re leaving all your stuff at our place, can Douglas do supplementary benefit and the housing giro from your flat?’

  She pretended not to react but I saw her eyes, which were then looking down and studying her toes, wobble slightly. ‘Oh, Llewellyn. Aoife. What if I get a real boyfriend and he wants to come and move in with me?’

  Lou said, ‘Leave it out. If you get a boyfriend you’re trading up. He won’t be on the dole.’

  ‘Don’t be so cheeky, you sausage.’

  I tried not to let myself grit my teeth. All this charity on my behalf.

  ‘As long as there’s no trouble from those bloody people at the dole,’ she shrugged unwillingly.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Abby looked at me and said, ‘We did this before for six months with Toninho.’ Then she looked at Aoife. ‘But Toninho really was living at mine sometimes and he really was gay.’

  I looked around, puzzled.

  Lou said, ‘I’ll explain.’

  ‘Right, my silly sausages. Have to start getting out my knickers now.’

  ‘Yeah. You go hawk your mutton, darling,’ Lou stated.

  We moved from the backstage area into the auditorium to sample how much more alienating it could get. Celebrities of some kind were being ushered or pushing in to the plastic seats – the same type of seat as for our school assemblies – alongside the catwalk. At the top of the catwalk was an area like a chancel with milling authorities dressed in dark polo necks.

  Lou surveyed the celebrity quotient and snorted.

  I said, ‘They look like they’re piling into a lifeboat off the Titanic.’

  ‘Jumpy tonight. They smell revolution,’ he replied, quite seriously.

  Aoife pointed to the chancel and called out over the loud electronic music, ‘That’s Martin. He videos it all. I’m going to see Martin at the mix desk and I’ll stand up there.’

  ‘Okay, love. We’ll just pop out for a moment.’

  ‘Don’t miss Abby.’

  ‘We won’t.’

  I watched Aoife cross that crowded floor, her dress tapping the back of her thighs well above the knee; she was beautiful and now, among all these human swells, she appeared to me not diminished but returned to the habitat where she belonged.

  Lou guided me out of the auditorium and into the corridor with a finger on my shoulder. ‘That isn’t culture, mate. We’ve already seen the undraped female form in the shape of Abby,’ he pointed out. ‘Why would we return to see her wearing ridiculous clothes?’

  ‘That’s a very good point,’ I agreed.

  The corridor was not where the beautiful people wanted to be seen. That hive was navigating itself to the catwalk side, so the corridors were blissfully deserted for us. Lou and I leaned against a wall display, drinking from the hip flask. He lit us cigarettes and we flicked the ash onto the floor.

  ‘Did you observe her bush through her knickers?’

  ‘I tried not to stare.’

  ‘She’s trimmed it. As I’d predicted. It’s usually much richer. She told me she never trims it unless she wants a man or gets a fashion show. I keep a close eye on it. As I suppose some keep an eye on a neighbour’s rose or fruit tree. I keep tabs on the hairiness of Abby’s fanny.’

  ‘You three are not having some complex ménage, are you?’

  He turned sharply on me. ‘Of course not. You don’t need to. Abingdon is so open it’s like you’ve already slept with her. I find her really refreshing.’

  ‘She’s not shy.’

  ‘She needs a nappy on more than Lily. She’s not content unless you get an eyeful. Natural exhibitionist. An existential terror of not receiving attention but she doesn’t sleep around. She still goes to Mass. She’s terribly choosy. Not much excitement there, but imagine screwing your courage to her sticky place?’

  ‘A mighty prospect.’

  He nodded profoundly. ‘Meditate on that.’

  ‘I probably will. Look, as my literary agent and sole representative in all territories, could you explain this signing-on-the-dole stuff?’

  ‘Have you never signed on?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘The way of all flesh. You’ll need to get used to signing on, boyo, cause we’ll be doing it every time we get writer’s block. You’ll get the supplementary benefit cause you’re unemployed but you can’t claim housing benefit at Conrad Flats, cause we’re already getting all the rent paid by the council and it would be subletting. Abby has a nice little one-bedroom in North Ealing. You’ll use that as your address and we’re going to pretend you’re sleeping in the front room with her as a flatmate and then you can claim eighty a month; you need to punt, say, fifteen to Abby for the hassle as administration fees, cause your giros will go to her house and you’ll need to call round to collect them or she’ll have to stick them in the post.’

  ‘What’s this gay business?’

  ‘Abby’s working, not claiming. When you claim housing benefit, the Social will visit you in her flat to do an interview and inspection. In the spirit of Stalin. If they think you and Abby are a cohabiting boyfriend and girlfriend – rather than just sharing tenants – they won’t pay you a penny housing benefit cause she’s earning. The nuclear family rules at the DHSS if money’s coming in.’

  ‘Very enlightened.’

  ‘When they visit, they’ll actually try and suss if you really are sleeping on the front-room sofa or if you’re bonking Abby. So don’t get caught with your arse – or Abby’s – in the air, flagrante delicto. They’ll check if you’ve separate instant coffee and cornflakes. I’ve even heard them ask for separate supermarket receipts. The easiest way to convince them is pretend you’re gay. Few Gay Times lying round, the right haircut and the girls will get your clothes right.’

  ‘This sounds like potential disaster and calamity, or at the very least personal humiliation.’

  He looked thoughtful and changed tack. ‘I saw you dropping your coppers in Scargill’s bucket.’

  ‘You do support them?’

  ‘Scargill’s right. Ten years, there’ll be no mining left in Britain. The strike’s bigger than fucking coal. This is the free market and MI5 versus human beings, and the market will win, mark my words. They’re starving them out.’ He lit another cigarette quite aggressively. ‘Way I see it, I’m working class. Thatcher has fraudulently refused to pay striking NUM members and it’s you and I’s duty to fraudulently claim some back and remit it. Not to Arthur Scargill but directly to Arthur Guinness and Company, Dublin. Right?’