face mask that renders her unable to talk for an hour – ideal for Claire who likes nothing better than to monopolise the conversation. Claire has also been known to err in the realm of mind body spirit and concentrate on the inner self, whether it is by trying her hand at palm reading or doing numerology on Linda to mixed success. To be honest, Claire’s not changed much. At school when she wasn’t doing her makeup in the mirror, she was sitting and reading her teen diary out loud with a stream of consciousness that wasn’t so much teen angst, as created with her audience in mind.
Over the last couple of months, Claire’s been going through various faddy diets that have her holed up in the bathroom for hours. This week she’s doing sugar-free baking that from the kitchen cupboards we share, involves a whole host of strange ingredients and rather alarmingly, a distinct lack of raising agents. Having tasted a few crumbs here and there, it is fair to say that Claire’s efforts are simply not a patch on the full fat sugar loaded real thing – not that she is concerned. She says if she weren’t such a brilliant beautician, she’d own her own sugar and gluten free cake shop in order to channel her talents. Lucky for us, she’s good at what she does.
‘I’m all about philanthropy Kate, I need to commit to help people’s inner wellbeing.’ The way she articulates her lofty ambitions, it sounds almost romantic, like people who talk about ‘boho’ and ‘blended’ families.
‘I’d murder some shortbread I would,’ a fresh-faced Linda murmurs to me coming out of the bathroom, as an oblivious Claire opens up a large Cath Kidston tin in excitement.
Dramatically, as though she were on an infomercial, she sniffs at a deflated bake that is looking more than a little sorry for itself: ‘It’s a crunchy nut cheesecake with rice malt syrup and a ground nut base,’ Claire offers by way of explanation, as even she knows it is not entirely clear from the appearance.
‘Wow!’ I exclaim, desperately thinking of something to say without insulting the cook.
Claire just looks at me witheringly, as though knowing I am lying, and tips her head to the side to tighten up one of her rollers. Deciding it’s probably best to not say another word, I just keep my head down and concentrate on piercing the cellophane of my ready-made lasagne to put in the microwave.
‘Too bad there’s not enough for you,’ Claire snaps, before walking out the room with her creation. She’s right as there is barely enough for one.
In the time we’ve been living together, Claire has never tried to include me in her social life. Ever. And now Scary Linda has bought the flat downstairs, it’s like school all over again, with the cliquey girls in my face every single day. Most of the time, I am philosophical about it as I know they are not on my wavelength, but every now and again, when the umpteenth random person has come through the door and Claire has greeted them with an over the top full on body hug, squealing at the top of her voice, it stings a little.
‘You wouldn’t guess what happened today,’ Claire says munching. ‘I was opening up the salon, and there is this guy who’s staring at me, just standing there. Like Wayne did at school remember? Literally. Stalking. Me. So, I ask him what he wants and you know what he says? You are not going to believe this. He shouts you are the sexiest girl I have ever seen. You. Are. Gorgeous! So I say to him, “You. Are. Kidding. Me. How sexist are you? I’m not just beautiful you know, I do have a brain”.’ Listening intently to this gripping anecdote, Linda asks for another piece of cake, only to find her request denied, as apparently Claire needs to save some for her lunch tomorrow.
Plating up my food, I eat it standing up and contemplate all the stories that come out of Claire’s mouth. There are so many of them I’ve lost track as to what is true, what is bravado and what is good
Over the last couple of months, Claire’s been going through various faddy diets that have her holed up in the bathroom for hours. This week she’s doing sugar-free baking that from the kitchen cupboards we share, involves a whole host of strange ingredients and rather alarmingly, a distinct lack of raising agents. Having tasted a few crumbs here and there, it is fair to say that Claire’s efforts are simply not a patch on the full fat sugar loaded real thing – not that she is concerned. She says if she weren’t such a brilliant beautician, she’d own her own sugar and gluten free cake shop in order to channel her talents. Lucky for us, she’s good at what she does.
‘I’m all about philanthropy Kate, I need to commit to help people’s inner wellbeing.’ The way she articulates her lofty ambitions, it sounds almost romantic, like people who talk about ‘boho’ and ‘blended’ families.
‘I’d murder some shortbread I would,’ a fresh-faced Linda murmurs to me coming out of the bathroom, as an oblivious Claire opens up a large Cath Kidston tin in excitement.
Dramatically, as though she were on an infomercial, she sniffs at a deflated bake that is looking more than a little sorry for itself: ‘It’s a crunchy nut cheesecake with rice malt syrup and a ground nut base,’ Claire offers by way of explanation, as even she knows it is not entirely clear from the appearance.
‘Wow!’ I exclaim, desperately thinking of something to say without insulting the cook.
Claire just looks at me witheringly, as though knowing I am lying, and tips her head to the side to tighten up one of her rollers. Deciding it’s probably best to not say another word, I just keep my head down and concentrate on piercing the cellophane of my ready-made lasagne to put in the microwave.
‘Too bad there’s not enough for you,’ Claire snaps, before walking out the room with her creation. She’s right as there is barely enough for one.
In the time we’ve been living together, Claire has never tried to include me in her social life. Ever. And now Scary Linda has bought the flat downstairs, it’s like school all over again, with the cliquey girls in my face every single day. Most of the time, I am philosophical about it as I know they are not on my wavelength, but every now and again, when the umpteenth random person has come through the door and Claire has greeted them with an over the top full on body hug, squealing at the top of her voice, it stings a little.
‘You wouldn’t guess what happened today,’ Claire says munching. ‘I was opening up the salon, and there is this guy who’s staring at me, just standing there. Like Wayne did at school remember? Literally. Stalking. Me. So, I ask him what he wants and you know what he says? You are not going to believe this. He shouts you are the sexiest girl I have ever seen. You. Are. Gorgeous! So I say to him, “You. Are. Kidding. Me. How sexist are you? I’m not just beautiful you know, I do have a brain”.’ Listening intently to this gripping anecdote, Linda asks for another piece of cake, only to find her request denied, as apparently Claire needs to save some for her lunch tomorrow.
Plating up my food, I eat it standing up and contemplate all the stories that come out of Claire’s mouth. There are so many of them I’ve lost track as to what is true, what is bravado and what is good
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