least choosy of bag ladies would be embarrassed to possess, past a vegetarian restaurant with a queue outside, past record shops with Rasta colors in the windows, past a falafel restaurant, under a bridge, and past a bustling market square filled with yet more painfully trendy people. The sky overhead was darkening, and it looked like rain, but it was still humid and sweaty. She zigzagged through a couple of scruffy streets until she found herself on Bevington Road, a dinky little curve of brightly colored stucco houses facing a school yard.
Number fifteen was a lurid grass-green with mauve woodwork. She took the steps to the front door, rang the bell, and was buzzed in. The tiny stairwell took her to the top floor, where she was greeted by an open door and the sound of stampeding wildebeest.
“Hello,” she ventured.
The herd of wildebeest stopped stampeding for a second and then began again.
Ana glanced around nervously. “Hello.”
“Fuckcuntbollocks.”
Ana followed the rasping and stampeding through the tiniest, messiest living room in the world to an even smaller and messier bedroom, where objects were being thrown, seemingly at the hands of a poltergeist, here, there, and everywhere.
“I’ve lost my cunting choker.” The rasping was definitely coming from somewhere in the room. “It’s not even mine.
It’s a Jade fucking Jagger. It’s worth about two million fucking quid and I’ve got to give it back tomorrow. Fuck.” A head suddenly appeared from underneath the bed, and a black hand was extended toward her across the top of the unmade bed. Its fingers were tipped with the longest, whitest nails Ana had ever seen, like five magic wands.
“Ana! Hi! Lol.”
“Lol?” repeated Ana, remembering the inscription in the Nigella Lawson cookbook.
“That’s my name,” she croaked. She sounded like she was losing her voice. “Sorry about this. I’ve just done this live appearance on some kid’s TV show and the stylist lent me this fucking stupid choker, and I forgot to give it back to her, and now I’ve fucking lost it. And I’m gonna be dead, soooo dead. . . .” She grimaced.
Ana was too shell-shocked by the experience of meeting this dynamo of a woman and by the accompanying torrent of profanities to question what exactly it was she’d been doing on children’s TV.
As Lol talked she got to her feet. She had waist-length platinum extensions tied high in a ponytail, skin the color of butterscotch, a sapphire in her nostril, and matching bright-blue eyes, patently purchased from an optician and not formed in the womb. She was wearing a soft leather bustier exactly the same color as her skin, and matching leather jeans covered in rhinestones. And, most impressively to Ana, she was about six feet tall and thin as a stick of linguine.
“Oh. My. God!” Lol said, staring in amused shock at Ana.
“You look like my fucking negative!” And then she started laughing. Louder than Ana had ever heard anyone laugh before.
She strode around the clothes-strewn bed and grabbed Ana’s hand. “I have got to have a look at this,” she said, and pulled Ana toward a full-length mirror. They stood side by side, and there they were—perfect positive and negative versions of the same person—exactly the same height, exactly the same shape, black hair, white hair, white skin, black skin. For a second they both stared at the reflection with their mouths ajar—and then Lol started laughing again.
She slapped her thighs. She wiped away tears with the sides of her long-nailed fingers. She bent herself double. She grabbed on to Ana’s arm and laughed a laugh so long and so silent and accompanied by so much painful arm-squeezing that Ana was beginning to worry that she was having some kind of a seizure.
Then she stood up straight again, pulled her face back into shape, shuffled around a bit, and eyed their reflections once more. Within two seconds she was bent double again, and this time Ana succumbed, too.
Number fifteen was a lurid grass-green with mauve woodwork. She took the steps to the front door, rang the bell, and was buzzed in. The tiny stairwell took her to the top floor, where she was greeted by an open door and the sound of stampeding wildebeest.
“Hello,” she ventured.
The herd of wildebeest stopped stampeding for a second and then began again.
Ana glanced around nervously. “Hello.”
“Fuckcuntbollocks.”
Ana followed the rasping and stampeding through the tiniest, messiest living room in the world to an even smaller and messier bedroom, where objects were being thrown, seemingly at the hands of a poltergeist, here, there, and everywhere.
“I’ve lost my cunting choker.” The rasping was definitely coming from somewhere in the room. “It’s not even mine.
It’s a Jade fucking Jagger. It’s worth about two million fucking quid and I’ve got to give it back tomorrow. Fuck.” A head suddenly appeared from underneath the bed, and a black hand was extended toward her across the top of the unmade bed. Its fingers were tipped with the longest, whitest nails Ana had ever seen, like five magic wands.
“Ana! Hi! Lol.”
“Lol?” repeated Ana, remembering the inscription in the Nigella Lawson cookbook.
“That’s my name,” she croaked. She sounded like she was losing her voice. “Sorry about this. I’ve just done this live appearance on some kid’s TV show and the stylist lent me this fucking stupid choker, and I forgot to give it back to her, and now I’ve fucking lost it. And I’m gonna be dead, soooo dead. . . .” She grimaced.
Ana was too shell-shocked by the experience of meeting this dynamo of a woman and by the accompanying torrent of profanities to question what exactly it was she’d been doing on children’s TV.
As Lol talked she got to her feet. She had waist-length platinum extensions tied high in a ponytail, skin the color of butterscotch, a sapphire in her nostril, and matching bright-blue eyes, patently purchased from an optician and not formed in the womb. She was wearing a soft leather bustier exactly the same color as her skin, and matching leather jeans covered in rhinestones. And, most impressively to Ana, she was about six feet tall and thin as a stick of linguine.
“Oh. My. God!” Lol said, staring in amused shock at Ana.
“You look like my fucking negative!” And then she started laughing. Louder than Ana had ever heard anyone laugh before.
She strode around the clothes-strewn bed and grabbed Ana’s hand. “I have got to have a look at this,” she said, and pulled Ana toward a full-length mirror. They stood side by side, and there they were—perfect positive and negative versions of the same person—exactly the same height, exactly the same shape, black hair, white hair, white skin, black skin. For a second they both stared at the reflection with their mouths ajar—and then Lol started laughing again.
She slapped her thighs. She wiped away tears with the sides of her long-nailed fingers. She bent herself double. She grabbed on to Ana’s arm and laughed a laugh so long and so silent and accompanied by so much painful arm-squeezing that Ana was beginning to worry that she was having some kind of a seizure.
Then she stood up straight again, pulled her face back into shape, shuffled around a bit, and eyed their reflections once more. Within two seconds she was bent double again, and this time Ana succumbed, too.
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