Amanda’s Wedding. Jenny Colgan

he’s moving out doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He’s getting his own space together, that’s all, so that wherever you do end up, you’ll have chosen it yourself and everything will be absolutely fine.’

      ‘Oh God, Mel!’ she yelled. ‘He needed somewhere to crash, he was worried about coming home alone, he wanted a bit of shagging attention … America probably wasn’t half as much fun as he’s telling everyone it is – I mean, does he have a job from his great pop-star mate yet? Honestly, how can you let yourself be taken advantage of like this? Aren’t you worth more than this? Aren’t you?’

      Linda walked into the sitting room. Her fat face fell.

      ‘Ehmm, I didn’t know you were having people over.’

      ‘Yeah, you know Fran, don’t you?’

      ‘Hello! How are you?’ perked Fran, taking a momentary break from her onerous shouting duties.

      ‘Fine.’ Linda retreated. I heard her head out of the door with some elderly voices.

      ‘Shit! Do you think those were Linda’s parents?’

      The door slammed.

      ‘God, I feel awful. And it’s Monday today. Sunday is parental visit day. Everyone knows that!’ I was grumbling to myself. ‘Why doesn’t she tell me these things?’

      ‘Isn’t it written up on the calendar?’

      ‘Who the fuck keeps a calendar, for fuck’s sake?’

      Fran pointed out the large thing covered in kittens on the back of the kitchen door. I thought that was Linda’s idea of changing artistic taste. In big pink letters, it said ‘parents coming today’ under the date. There wasn’t another single thing in the whole month.

      ‘What is the matter with that girl?’ I cringed. ‘Why can’t she just go out with her friends and get rat-arsed like everyone else?’

      ‘Does she have any friends?’

      ‘No. Don’t think so.’

      ‘Do you ever think of asking her out with us?’

      I couldn’t stand Fran pulling this saint act.

      ‘You ask her!’

      ‘She’s your flatmate!’

      This was getting childish, so I just sighed and made a half-hearted flapping motion which was supposed to mean OK without actually committing myself to anything. Alex temporarily forgotten in the light of someone else’s troubles, something else occurred to me.

      ‘I wonder what’s in those enormous parcels she keeps getting.’

      ‘So, to make her life a complete misery, why don’t we snoop amongst her stuff as well?’

      ‘You started it!’

      ‘Did not!’

      ‘Did too! When Nicholas was here!’

      ‘Oh.’

      We looked at each other enquiringly.

      ‘Well …’

      ‘That would be extremely … naughty.’ Fran giggled nervously.

      ‘Well, I’ve already ruined her day …’

      We looked at each other and both leapt out of the room.

      Linda’s sanctum was possibly the most spotless place I have ever seen. Even the teddy bear looked like he’d been through teddy grooming school. Everything in it was either pink or peach, and the wall managed to be both, with the help of the type of nasty border normally only seen in motorway hotels. There were frilly things everywhere – tie-backs, potpourri holders, ornamental pigs. It looked like the wet dream of a seven-year-old girl.

      ‘Wow,’ said Fran, picking up the matching brush set from the glass top of the dressing table, under which rested a doily. ‘Miss Havisham’s cleaning rota’s certainly improved.’

      I couldn’t see the parcel I was looking for and headed towards the cupboard. Fran picked up one of the Laura Ashley pinafore numbers Linda favoured and flounced round the room singing, ‘I’m Linda, and I couldn’t be sorrier for breathing! Sorry, please pay some rent, how about five pence a month? I’m just going out now – oh, of course, I never do …’ I grimaced.

      Suddenly, the phone rang. We both jumped out of our skins, as if we’d been caught doing something very wrong. Which, of course, we had.

      ‘You answer it!’ I hissed, absurdly, to Fran, and snatched the dress off her. Wrong-footed, she did as she was told.

      I went to hang the dress back up and, as I did, I noticed the box peeping out of the back of the cupboard. Feeling thoroughly low, I picked it up anyway.

      Inside there was layer upon layer of chocolate: everything from little Flyte bars to enormous, one-acre Galaxys, and those huge Toblerones you can only get in Duty Free. Some were just empty wrappers, strewn about in a most uncharacteristic manner.

      ‘Chuffing hell!’ I exclaimed, as Fran walked back in.

      ‘How did you know that was Nicholas from all the way in here?’

      ‘Look at all this!’

      ‘Oh my God. Eating disorder city. Jesus!’

      ‘I know. She just gets fatter and fatter. She must eat in secret all the time.’

      ‘What are you going to do?’

      ‘What am I going to do? Oh, take full responsibility for it, obviously. I don’t know! We don’t even say good morning!’

      We looked at each other.

      On the overwrought bedside table, beside the crocheted tissue-box cover, there was only one picture, of Linda – a chubby child – standing next to a vicious-looking pony.

      Oh God, what was I going to do – mention it to her? D’oh! What did advice columns say? Leave some handy leaflets lying about. I didn’t know if they did ones that said, ‘We were snooping in your room and found something you’re obviously desperately trying to hide.’ Go down the pub? I tried to judge a tasteful length of time before suggesting this. Fran gave me a look that plainly told me it wasn’t long enough.

      ‘Huh? Sorry, I was just thinking about Linda.’

      ‘So what do you think we should …’

      ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

      Pause.

      ‘I suppose I could try and be nicer to her,’ I offered.

      ‘Well, you do live together.’

      ‘So do you, practically, and you’re not nice to anyone.’

      ‘That’s because most people are boring. But Linda’s like, you know, sick.’

      ‘OK, OK already.’

      I hoisted myself up and went and tackled some of Alex’s and my washing-up. Well, it was a start.

      ‘So, ehm, that was Nicholas on the phone then?’

      And not, say, Alex (who was out buying furniture), having had a big change of heart and begging me to move with him to Fulham.

      ‘Yes. You appear to be in demand.’

      Well, hooray!

      ‘However, I told him you weren’t available, so he asked me out instead.’

      Boo! OK, I may have despised the guy, but I’d like to think he could tell me apart from other members of the same species.

      ‘Huh. Did you say yes?’

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘I think you said yes, you would smoochily love him forever and ever, and did he have any more of