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it lands with a plip on Ellen’s lap. Ellen grins. By about two or three most people have wandered off or passed out in strange places round the flat (Kev in a cupboard in the kitchen, Stacey soaking in the shower), but Ellen’s feeling lovely and merry and she’s got Pamela’s Spectra to get through now. When the whip-cream things run out, Angelo slides up to Ellen and sits with her for a bit in front of the fuzzy television. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks through the static. Angelo’s been in Peach House about four months, and although he’s shagged his way through many of the residents (an over-forty-year-old included), he’s yet to snake-charm Ellen. Sex is his kick, and to be honest he’s not bad looking – yummy hot-chocolate head, Pacific Ocean eyeballs, and black and white vests with massive muscles underneath. Girls have a hard time resisting him, what with his silkworm touch and his persistence – he claims to have bedded over five hundred lovers, and he’s only twenty-four. Angelo preys on anything with a nice face or figure or just a fanny-hole and, even though he knows about Johnnie the big bad boyfriend, he can’t stop himself placing a hand on Ellen’s lap. He submerges the little girl in his whirlypool pupils and says to her, ‘Ellen, you look a bit down.’ Ellen says she’s alright – in fact she’s pretty mortalled now she’s started on the cider, and she sees two or maybe even three Angelos towering over her. But she likes the look of them, and she lies back having a wee drunken smile to herself. She can be a flirt as well, and mainly just to amuse herself she does an awful pout and slaps Angelo on the left biceps. ‘In fact, I’m quite alright,’ she grins, thinking she’s hilarious. Angelo feels his knob and balls starting to expand. He touches her on the thigh, totally in awe of Ellen the same way he was totally in awe of the other five hundred. ‘I’ve got a pill if you want it,’ Angelo ventures, ‘it’s up to you, like; just thought you needed cheering up or something.’ Ellen’s eyes flap open, suddenly all alert for about one and a halfish seconds. ‘Well I don’t need cheering up like but I wouldn’t say no though, would I,’ Ellen grins. So they take the ecstasy together (Angelo having ninety-eight of them locked away in his Buddha pot in the bedroom, recently acquired from this boy on Kesteven Road, you know, down near the Total garage), and after about fifty minutes and a bit more leg-rubbing they can both feel it kicking in. Ellen probably less so than Angelo, what with her being so smashed and still drinking, but it adds nicely to the madness already sitting in her brain-box. They crouch together in the flicky sizzle of the television set, the only other people around lying comatose beneath the navy blue window blowing clouds from one edge of wallpaper to the other. It’s a delightful feeling, and for a while Ellen and Angelo talk manically about how good the party was and how good the laughing gas was and how good the random shags were and how good the patches of vomit were, and Johnnie. The flat’s a mess and so are their heads – Angelo’s in rapture and he so desperately wants to slide his cock in the lady, and weirdly he seems to be getting better looking the more Ellen glances at him. Skimming a finger over her anklebone, Angelo raises an eyebrow and asks softly, in his dulcet Rudolph Valentino accent, ‘So everything’s perfect with Johnnie, then?’ Angelo’s quite cunning (after all, no relationship’s perfect, is it?), and it’s like a clarion call when Ellen replies, ‘Ah, I dunno, well see I dunno if I should say like … it’s just the sex … at the minute … isn’t that great … oh I dunno, I think I just need a good shag ha ha ha ha.’ And Ellen sits there sheepish for a second, then Angelo moves a bit closer and her lips accidentally fall on his and they keep falling for about a minute and falling and falling. For a second she