Page 41 of Two Wrongs
Fin is waitingfor me on the platform as I arrive, all hugs and beaming smile.
‘There’s my girl!’ she yells, pulling me from the train.
‘I thought the south was supposed to have milder weather. It’s bloody freezing out here,’ I complain as she loosens her hold on me.
‘London hasn’t quite agreed with the April calendar.’ She looks thinner and a little pinched around the edges. Brittle, maybe? Her smile fragile. ‘We can catch a cab?’
‘What?’ I pull the handle up on my weekend bag as I link my other arm through hers. ‘And forgo the big city experience? Take me to the tube!’ I demand. ‘I need to roll this baby over plenty of toes!’
Twenty-five minutes and two damp, packed tubes later, we’re out in the cold London air again.
‘We could’ve done with some lube on that tube.’
‘Try riding them at peak times,’ Fin replies.
‘No, thanks. I’ll stick to my little Fiat. I’m no longer a big city girl.’ Fin’s response is little more than a puff of white air. ‘What? It’s Auchkeld all the way for me now,’ I add, ruefully.
‘You’ll move on.’
‘Like you, you mean.’ Her eyes fall to the grey pavement at her feet, and I’m immediately sorry for opening my big, fat mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.’Harsh. Definitely harsh. With a side serve of bitter, too. ‘I’m pleased you’re moving on even if I do miss you every day.’
Her eyes are a little shiny once she lifts her head again. ‘It’s move or get trampled on. It’s a little like June says, I suppose. You survive. You get out of bed every morning and slide your knickers on because giving up isn’t an option.’
‘And we won’t give the twastards the satisfaction of anything else.’
‘True story,’ she says, squeezing my arm.
‘Oh, look. An offie.’ I point at the liquor store across the busy road. ‘I say we go get ourselves a bottle or three for before and after dinner.’
Fin now liveson a tree-lined street just a few minutes’ walk from Waterloo Tube Station. She’d stayed at her friend Soraya’s place for the first couple of weeks but said the maid service was getting a little old. Soraya’s loaded, and her townhouse is more like Kensington Palace than an actual house, but that was where she was living last time I visited. This place—the flat she’s renting now—is almost perfect for her. I’d already had the grand tour last time. The only thing wrong, as far as I can tell, is the fact she has to share the space. Last time I visited, her roomie was away for the weekend, so I’m not sure what she’s—
‘Donkey kont!’
I’m not sure what she’s like.
As the front doorclicksclosed, another closes somewhere deeper inside the flat, reaching its frame at speed with abang!Muffled now, the angry female voice still carries through the walls.
‘The roomie?’
Fin laughs, chucking her keys on a console table. ‘That’s Bea. She’s fine. Except when she’s arguing with her long-distance boyfriend. Not that I see her often. She spends most of the week at the hospital.’ Bea is a doctor, I recall Fin saying. ‘She must work eighty hours a week, and the rest of them are spent dead to the world in her bed or arguing with said long-distance boyfriend.’
‘And was that what I think it was? What she said?’
‘Swearing?’ Fin nods. ‘In Afrikaans. They argue so often I think I’m picking the language up.’
‘That didn’t need the help of a translator. Donkeykont. Sounds... charming.’
‘You know, you’re swearing now,’ she taunts. ‘Cursing in other languages still counts. But Nat tells me you’ve a potty mouth these days. Maybe I should instigate a swear jar, too? It might fund my next holiday.’
Bloody Nat. ‘I’m not that bad,’ I grumble. ‘She caught me swearing once.’ Or maybe twice, but Fin doesn’t answer as the door to the living area swings open.
‘Ladies,’ announces the dramatic, willowy blonde I assume is Bea. ‘I’ve just been dumped!’
We were supposedto go out for dinner, but after a week working and the train journey down, I’m more than happy to stay in and veg out. Bea has something bluesy playing quietly on a Bose stereo in the corner, and little boxes of Tanzanian food stand half empty on the low table in the middle of the room. I’m nursing a coffee with a slug of amaretto, trying hard to stay awake, while Fin and Bea are halfway through their second bottle of Pinot noir.
‘Oh, he’ll be back,’ says the leggy blonde in response to Fin. ‘This is how we are,yar?’ As the evening has progressed, Bea’s South African accent has deepened.
‘You sure fight plenty.’ Fin smiles as she brings the glass to her mouth. ‘What’s the deal with that?’
