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with stuff and I mean packed . You move one thing and twenty-seven others tumble down after it.
    We tip the contents of my drawers onto the bed and look at one another in dismay.
    'You're going to have to throw some of this crap away,' says Sophie. 'Honestly, mate, it needs to go.'
    'No, take it. If he loves you, he'll love your stuff,' says Mandy. She's the exact opposite to Sophie; she's the glass spilling over type. Mandy's desperately optimistic about everything and Sophie's the living, breathing embodiment of pessimism. For example . . . Sophie hates her body and says that I don't know how lucky I am to have an hourglass figure. She hates her face and says that I don't know how lucky I am to have my looks. She hates her short, fine hair and says I'm so lucky to have my long, thick hair . . . and on, and on . . . . Mandy just says that everyone's beautiful in their own way and that it's not good to be jealous. We should all just be grateful for what we have and what we've been given. Christ but that woman's a martyr. Give her a few years and she'll be marching around the place with a sandwich board about her neck, singing the praises of the Lord. When it comes to Rufus, Mandy's just thrilled for me and thinks good things happen to good people. If that's true then Mandy will end up married to God.
    'You know, I always knew you'd end up marrying someone rich and famous,' says Sophie. The edge to her voice has subsided a little, but it still rings with concern.
    'I'm not marrying him,' I say defensively.
    'No, but you will,' she says. 'I remember when you went on that first date you said, "It won't amount to anything; I'm only teaching him how to catch Maltesers in his mouth." Now look at you!'
    I remember that first date as if it happened yesterday. It was 29 April. I mention the precise date because, for some reason, the 29th has become an important number in our courtship; it's the day of the month when things of significance seem to happen to us. Back then, in April, I'd never been more nervous in my life. I went out and bought a lovely new outfit from New Look in an emerald-green colour. It nipped in at the waist and made my breasts look massive and my legs look long and shapely. I wanted him to think me elegant and demure so I vowed not to drink and certainly not to go back to his. As far as I was concerned, we'd just be playing Malteser throwing . . . except I guess I knew that there was more to it than that. Sophie and Mandy both told me not to do my bikini line and certainly not to shave my legs then I'd not sleep with him. It's a good policy and, to be honest, it's served me well several times in the past. However drunk you get, it's funny how you don't sleep with a man if you know your legs aren't shaven. Something inside you kicks in and stops you going too far, no matter how much white wine and lemonade you've hurled down your throat. Well, that had always been my experience . . . until Rufus. Perhaps that was when I knew he was 'the one'; because I couldn't resist his manly charms even though my legs looked like they belonged to a small mountain gorilla.
    I was mortified in the morning of course. I woke up bathed in light, as the spring sun flickered through the slats in the blinds and cast dancing shadows across us as we slept. He's got thick cream curtains that he draws across in the winter but, when I first met him, it was just thin slats of expensive wood between us and the morning sunshine.
    I got up and tried to sneak away but it was hopeless. The house is too big to go rushing off anywhere. I tiptoed into the long corridor outside Rufus's massive master bedroom and had no idea how to get out. Eventually I headed off towards the enormous sweeping staircase, taking stealthy little steps, hoping I wouldn't be heard. But then, suddenly, I saw this girl standing in front of me who looked exactly like me.
    'Ahhh . . .' I screamed, running down the stairs, taking them three at a time. As I did so, all the alarms