on her back, Murphy shuts her sarcastic eyes. Slightly frustrated, Rebecca gazes away from the man, and looks around the square. The late May sun is shining but the place is empty: Torrington Square is nearly deserted. Apart from a few Indian girls in flared jeans chatting by the Brunei Centre, and a small group of Japanese girls with miniskirts and superpale legs, sitting demurely on the steps of the School of Oriental and African Studies, Murphy and Rebecca are alone on the mangy bit of central London lawn between Birkbeck College and the Institute of Education. Torrington Square. Musing again on the man, Rebecca says:
— It’s definitely him
— Uh-huh …
— I wonder what he does
— Indeed
Murphy is lying flat out with her skirt hitched up: tanning; ignoring her friend; her head pillowed by her folded pink cardigan. Murphy is using a textbook to shield her eyes from the glare. Rebecca’s textbook. Opting not to mention this, Rebecca says:
— He’s the guy I was telling you about. The one who always sits over there – Brightly – He must work round here, he’s rather young for a lecturer tho, maybe he’s a postgrad or …
Murphy opens her mouth:
— Rebecca … shut the fuck up
Narrowing the space between them Rebecca snatches her textbook from its cowboy-hat role on Murphy’s face. For a second, Murphy seems to scowl; then Murphy breaks into a profile of a smile. Rebecca smiles, too.
Using a grass-stained elbow, Murphy is levering herself onto her front, and visoring her eyes with a flat unwedding-ringed hand so as to look over at him.
A sharp, Murphyish breath.
Rebecca says:
— So? What do you think?
Murphy sets her lips; considers the question. Then:
— He looks a bit …
— What?
— … You know … Brutal … Stone Age – Another look, through the telescope of her squinting eyes – Hasn’t shaved for a while
Rebecca mulls this; Murphy says:
— Just your sort. Another puppy drowner
Staring down at her painted toenails half hidden by her sandals, Rebecca demurs:
— Well
— Why don’t you just wait outside Wormwood Scrubs and have done with it?
Rebecca, chuckling:
— Can’t help it if I’m partial to … a bit of rough …
A Murphyish snort:
— Bit of rough? That guy’s on parole
Rebecca slaps Murphy’s suntanned thigh; Murphy does a laconic ‘ouch’ and then says:
— Anyway, what about Neil? Forgotten him already?
— Neil Schmeal
—Wagon Wheel
Silence. For a moment the two of them observe a Japanese girl protecting her face from the sun with an angled A to Z. Tucking some of her brown hair behind a thrice-pierced ear, Murphy says:
— Still hungry!
Rebecca hands over the second lunch bag:
— Here
— Ta …
Reaching into the shared brown paper bag Murphy takes out the last sandwich. Plastic sandwich podule open, she extracts the coronation chicken sandwich and lays it flat on the bag. Then she lifts a flap of the bread so as to examine the contents.
— Hm
Picking up the sandwich she sniffs the curry-scented, yellowish paste. Nose wrinkling, she puts the sandwich down again, plucks something from the sandwich filling, and then holds this up, in front of Rebecca’s face, like a priest presenting the communion wafer.
—What’s this?
Murphy is holding up an almond. Rebecca says:
— It’s an almond
— Almond? ALMOND?? – Murphy’s voice is almost a yelp – Why do they do this? Why do they put fucking almonds in a bloody chicken sandwich? Why can’t they leave well alone? What’s happening to the world?
Rebecca smiles, says nothing; plucks grass.
Consideringly, Murphy begins removing the bits of almond, diligently extracting them from the gunk, then smearing them with a wince of repugnance on a convenient bit of lawn. This done, Murphy re-examines. Pointing to another suspicious constituent of the curry-sauce-yellow sandwich filling she looks over at Rebecca, reproachfully.
Rebecca sighs:
— Raisins …
Murphy:
— Raisins? Really? Oh, for God’s sake. Did I ask for raisins? Did I say please can you put some fucking dried fruit in my fucking chicken sandwich?
Rebecca’s friend is making an I’ve-had-enough face. Rebecca notices Murphy’s ankle chain. Sighing, exhaling, Murphy squints at the sandwich, looks at Rebecca, squints at the sandwich. With a decided air Murphy bags the sandwich, leans back, takes aim, and expertly lobs the sandwich bag into the nearest bin.
Clapping her hands Murphy sits up straight, cross-legged again, triumphantly laughing; Rebecca laughs, too: feeling happy in the sun. Making a cunning face Murphy does a blatant grab for the last of Rebecca’s lunch; successfully filching from the other paper bag a chocolate bar. With a shrug Rebecca watches as her best friend eats the bar; Murphy is talking with a mouth full of chocolate:
— Anyway. What about the boyf?
— Him …?
— Yeah. Neil. Supergeek. You gonna give him another chance?
Rebecca moues, as if to say: enough said. Sat back on straight arms Rebecca turns and glances over at the guy who hasn’t shaved for a few days. He isn’t glancing at her. He is busy with his own sandwiches, washing them down with a can of cola, idly flicking through his big newspaper. Occasionally he seems to look up and stare vacantly at the Fifties brickwork of Birkbeck. Trying her hardest Rebecca wills him to look at her: look at me, look at me, look at me … please?
As if commanded, he turns his face … and looks at the bike sheds behind Birkbeck College. Offended, rolling over, Rebecca says to Murphy, who is examining her stomach for a tan mark:
— I’ve seen him here a few times now
—Who invented cellulite?
— That guy …
— I mean you never hear Jane Austen banging on about it, do you? Did Elizabeth Bennett freak out in case Darcy saw her orange peel?
— He often eats his lunch here
— So when did cellulite start? The Sixties? I blame feminists. I reckon lesbian feminists must have invented it. To put us off getting naked with guys. Woman-hating bastards. Chop their tits off I say
— How old do you reckon he is?
— Are you still banging on about that … thug? He’s gross, Becs, he looks like he’d mug your mum
— He’s quite … sexy …
— You’re such a slapper, Jessel
— He looks … interesting …
— Psychotic
Rebecca shakes her head and goes to answer but Murphy is checking her ironically big plastic watch. The watch with the knowingly naff