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irked by my sentimentality at having kept all this rubbish and the sheer arrogance of the man in criticising my body when he sported a matching pair of back creases and receding temples (which I know is the real reason he used to shave his head, and not, as he pretended, because he wanted to look like Jason Statham).
    ‘I’ll have you know these thighs jog round the park three times a week,’ I mutter slugging back an ice-cold mouthful of sauvignon blanc.’ Well, perhaps only twice, and it’s more of a power walk than an actual jog, but still . . . ‘These thighs can do a hundred lunges – if they have to,’ I continue. ‘Thighs, goddamn it, that can wrap themselves round a lover’s neck like a python!’ Admittedly not something they’ve had much practice in recently but, hey, all they need is a bit of limbering up . . .
    I balance my glass on the side of the bath, and grab the loofah and a bar of soap. Raising one pink shiny thigh out of the bubbles, I lather it like a war veteran proudly shining up his medals. Round and round in little circles, clockwise, then anticlockwise, polishing the outer thigh first, then switching my attention to the inner. Plunging the loofah back into the water, I switch thighs. Rhythmically brushing backwards and forwards. Up and down. Side to side. Sloughing off dead skin, pounding cellulite, kneading dimples.
    A thought strikes me. Why is it never like this in movies? How come every Hollywood director seems to be under the illusion that women don’t lie in bubble baths pumicing the hard skin on their feet or applying thick layers of Jolen cream to bleach their moustaches? Oh no, they writhe around in masturbation heaven, soaping breasts, trickling water from flannels between their legs or rubbing a cold wine glass against their nipples. All, of course, in full makeup.
    Honestly, if men knew the truth they’d be so disappointed. I pat the thick layer of cream bleach I’ve applied to my top lip. Nope, not ready yet – another five minutes. Discarding the loofah I reach for the razor and inspect the blade. It’s stuffed full of bristles from the last time I used it. And it’s the last one. Damn. I wish I had a new packet. The last time I used a blunt razor I’d cut my legs to ribbons. But what’s the alternative? Spend the weekend with legs like my old German teacher?
    Without further ado I give the blade a quick rinse under the tap and get to work, cutting through the lather with well-practised strokes. Shin, calf, ankle, knee. Ouch. I watch a spot of blood appear like a red bubble on my leg.
    ‘Shit.’ Grabbing the flannel I fold it into a makeshift bandage and am just pressing it to my knee when the phone rings. I listen to it echoing in the hallway. I wonder who it is. Probably Jess, I decide, then remember she’s in Delhi. And it’s not my father as I spoke to him earlier today. He’d just read an article about how they’ve started teaching yoga to cats in Hollywood, and was wondering if Billy Smith might fancy some classes for his birthday. I smile. My father’s an artist and a little eccentric, but I wouldn’t change him for the world. If only the same could be said for my stepmother . . .
    I decide against answering it and submerge myself in the duvet of scented bubbles as I wait for the answering-machine to pick up. It’s probably my stepmother calling to annoy me about something anyway. Although there is a slim possibility that it’s Daniel, calling in reply to my drunken text.
    As the thought occurs to me I’m unsure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, considering the text: ‘I miss you. Fancy sex with an ex?’ That was the tequila talking, not me: I don’t miss him, I hate him. And I certainly don’t want to sleep with him. I hesitate. Should I make a dash for the phone?
    Oh, sod it. Sliding back into the bubbles, one leg dangling out of the bath, I reach for my glass and take another mouthful of wine. Whoever it is can wait.
    After