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in one of her magazines.
    “And he’s got these amazing dimples when he smiles,” I conclude, smiling happily at the very thought of Ben Williams.
    “And does he like you?” asks Sophie, gently, patronizingly, because she doesn’t want to hurt me by telling me she knows I’m lying.
    “No,” I say wearily. “I mean, he likes me, but he doesn’t like me. He likes Geraldine, but she doesn’t like him.”
    “Well maybe that can grow, him liking you, I mean,” says Sophie. “When he gets to know you he’ll realize what a lovely person you are.” She stops suddenly, aware of what she’s just said. “Not that he wouldn’t be attracted to you anyway,” she stammers. “You’ve got the most beautiful face.”
    I can’t believe Sophie doesn’t see how transparent she is. I know exactly what she thinks of me. She thinks I am huge, vast, the fattest girl she’s ever met, and I don’t blame her. When I look in the mirror, if I look beyond my face, I see exactly the same thing.
    “I haven’t,” I say, for what else could I say? “He’d never fancy me, but I can dream.”
    “So what about Geraldine?” asks Lisa. “If he’s so gorgeous, how come she doesn’t fancy him?”
    “He’s probably not rich enough for her,” says Sophie, who has come out with this uncharacteristically bitchy comment because she is jealous of Geraldine. She has never actually met Geraldine, but she has seen her on the rare occasions that Geraldine has come to pick me up or drop me off. She’s never said anything directly to me but I know she has seen Geraldine’s air of confidence, her BMW, and she is as jealous as hell.
    p. 32 “That’s not really fair,” I say, although it happens to be true, and I feel guilty at talking about Geraldine, the one person whom I could perhaps call a friend, so I add, “Geraldine’s a lovely person when you get to know her.”
    “Hmm,” says Sophie. “Anyway, you never know. Maybe he’s sitting in his roommate’s bedroom at this very moment telling his roommate all about you.”
     
    As it happens, at this very moment Ben Williams is watching the news. He’s sitting on his black leather and chrome sofa, feet up on the glass coffee table which is covered with magazines, newspapers, an overflowing ashtray, a few empty cans of Heineken and bits of torn-up rolling paper packages. He’s drinking a beer, but not Heineken, those belong to his roommates. He’s drinking Beck’s, and he’s studying the news.
    When the reports start he pulls his feet off the coffee table and leans forward, elbows on his knees, dangling the bottle of beer idly between his legs, but his eyes are fixed on the television screen, and as the reporter speaks, so Ben mimics him, over and over again, until Ben’s voice is almost indistinguishable from the reporter’s.
    “Until late last year, this derelict building in one of London’s more fashionable districts was ignored by the council, and the surrounding residents in this leafy street,” said the reporter. Said Ben.
    “This is Jeremy Millston for the Six O’Clock News ,” ends the reporter, as the cameras switch back to the news studio.
    “This is Benjamin Williams for the Six O’Clock News ,” echoes Ben, standing up to turn off the television. Perfect. All the inflections in exactly the right places. He checks his watch, and wanders into the kitchen to get another beer, he won’t be meeting his roommates at the pub for another half hour.
    Ben takes his beer into the bedroom and fishes under the bed, pulling out a large box stuffed with papers. Oh I’m sorry, you want to know what Ben’s bedroom is like? Well, not what you expect, for starters. Geraldine and Jemima may have been p. 33 right about the rest of the flat, the socks draped over radiators and the porn mags piled up in the living room, but Ben’s bedroom is his haven, his sanctuary, and a quick look around may tell us exactly what we need to know about Ben Williams.
    It may be a rented