Free Altar Ego by Kathy Lette Page B

proclaimed Kate. ‘It only took you half a second to undress that teenager with your eyes.’
    I attempted to drag her on to the dance floor for a bit of pelvis jumping to ‘Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Stayin’ Alive’. Even second-rate cover versions were better than the long drive home with Julian. But there was no holding back the premature social ejaculator.
    ‘So who was the teenager I overheard Kate say you were flirting with?’ were his opening words as we gravel-crunched out of the drive.
    ‘Um … what time was it …?’ I kicked off my shoes and propped my feet on the dashboard. ‘You know I’m a serial flirt. But relax, I’m only window shopping.’
    I amazed myself at how easy this lying gig was. No wonder men did it so often. My heart executed a kind of clumsy foxtrot in my chest but my face stayed composed; my voice remained level.
    I rummaged in the glove compartment and slotted a CD into the player. Pink Floyd wafted out of the speakers. I groaned, stabbed at the stop button and rummaged some more.
    ‘Mike and the Mechanics, the Rolling Stones, The Eurythmics,
Steeleye Span
… God, Jules, don’t we have anything from this century? We’re getting so middle-aged.’
    ‘Becky, we
are
middle-aged.’ Rain drizzled on the windows.
    ‘It’s not how old you are, it’s how old you behave. And you are behaving like a geriatric.’
    ‘I am not.’ The wipers cleared the windscreen with a sluggish, petulant swipe.
    ‘You sort your socks on a Saturday night.’
    ‘So what? You’re making me out to be the human version of a Dr Scholl sandal.’
    ‘You go home early from parties.’
    ‘I have grave misgivings about the pleasures of rap dancing, okay?’
    ‘Speak for yourself. Personally, I am not ready to have the variety of life of a bloody battery chicken.’
    ‘What? You really want to go back to being young? … Hanging bits of lace sarongs on the wall? Wearing shirts that proclaim your philosophical beliefs? Ugh. Petting in the back seat has lost its appeal, Beck.’
    ‘Petting? I can’t believe you used that word. Petting? You see what I mean? You’re geriatric!’
    ‘If “geriatric” means no longer considering hitch-hiking a means of transport, then yes I am. I like to drink coke – not do it. I no longer wake at 6 a.m. on Christmas morning, either. I can actually be seen with my parents in public. I also find it reassuring to see policemen around the place. You too, Becky, are old enough to eliminate “catwalk modelling” from your career ambitions list.’
    ‘How did you know about …’
    ‘And anyway,’ he upped the volume on Elvis Costello. ‘We still have lots of fun.’
    ‘Fun! Okay, let’s think. Exactly what
did
we do last weekend? A whipped-cream orgy perhaps? No. You reorganized the condiments cupboard. I haven’t been invited to a party I wouldn’t go to in a million years! … We have the debauchery of, I dunno, an Osmond!’ I ejected Costello with a churlish jab of my manicured nail.
    ‘Hey, I ran a red light in 1996,’ Julian joshed. ‘And I didn’t declare that £500 purchase to Heathrow Customs. Do you remember?’
    ‘I used to be wild! I used to be interesting! I’ve lost my identity. You’ve stolen it from me!’
    ‘Well let’s go along to a police line-up and see if you can make an ID’ he said, tartly.
    ‘It’s just that you’ve become so, well, anal.’
    ‘I am not anal!’
    ‘You arrange my shoes in height-of-heel order. You discuss dietary fibre when it’s not even breakfast. You lecture me about which dishcloth I can use on the floor … Your main obsession is whether or not your toothpaste has tartar control. You worry about getting ringworm fungi from shared combs, and that staph thing …’
    ‘Staphylococcus aureus.’
    ‘… from public telephones. You wipe the cashpoint machine with an anti-bacterial cleanser for God’s sake. Actually, you’re a hypochondriac. You are! You just can’t leave being well enough alone.’
    ‘I am not a