Free Running in Heels by Anna Maxted Page A

can call winning the body lottery a problem—is keeping her weight up . While Mel chain-smokes and chews gum, Julietta carboloads and remains sculpted. Matt says she doesn’t yak it up either. I can’t believe Anastasia would say such a thing.
    â€œWell, that’s what I heard,” purrs Mel.
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    T hree hours later, snug in a cozy purple room and allergic to silence, I repeat this piece of gossip to a charming stranger at Andy’s party. He says he’s called Jonti and feigns an interest in ballet. He asks a brisk stream of astute questions, then wanders off. It was something I said. I look around, and see Andy talking to a short, muscular guy encased in an FBI jacket. He must be a detective. I swirl my wine and peruse the karaoke brochure. Entertainingthough this is (“Goldfinger” and “Footloose” are two of my favorite songs, I’m afraid), I wish I hadn’t been so prompt. No matter how long I loiter in the street fiddling with my mobile phone, I am always the first to arrive at parties. I think I caught it off Saul.
    â€œNatalie.”
    I look up. Andy is waving me over. I can hardly disobey, although I imagine mouthing Me? and legging it. He looks all right with a tan but does himself no favors with a shirt apparently made from scraps of curtain.
    â€œWhat did you say to Jonti to make him disappear like that?”
    â€œI have a knack,” I say.
    Andy doesn’t get it. He grins, and asks if I want a drink. “Natalie, meet Robbie.”
    FBI man grips my hand and squeezes.
    â€œNatalie is a big friend of my sister,” explains Andy, as the blood makes a slow return to my fingers. “And Robbie is a small friend of mine.”
    Robbie rolls his eyes at Andy and says, “Gimp Boy is jealous of my superior muscle tone.”
    Andy snorts. “Jealous? You’ve got arms like my nan!”
    I try not to smile until Andy walks off to greet some guests.
    â€œSo will you be singing for us tonight?” says Robbie.
    â€œI’d love to,” I reply. “I really would. But I wouldn’t be so cruel. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket!”
    Robbie laughs. “We could sing together if you like. My voice is so bad it would divert attention from yours. We could do something easy. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’?”
    I laugh. I am a foot taller than Robbie and can see that the crown of his head has one hair per five follicles. But while he is no oil painting—or finger painting even—there’s something about him I like.
    â€œWhat do you reckon,” he says, rummaging in a pocket and producing a small pale green object. “It’s for Andy to put on his dashboard.”
    I admire it. Robbie grins. “You’re joking. It’s a fluorescent Virgin Mary, it’s rank!”
    It emerges that Andy and Robbie compete to buy each other disgusting presents. Andy now has four china shepherdesses, a commemorative plate, an alien baby in a jar, and a cut-glass vase adorned with gold leaf. And Robbie is the proud owner of the Windsor Gentleman’s watch, a pine woodpecker door knocker, a fake rabbit head on a plaque, a large green plastic iguana, and a life-size metal Doberman pinscher. I am laughing, when a voice like nails down a blackboard inquires, “Natalie, who’s your friend?”
    I hang on grimly to my smile. Frannie at a party. Weedkiller on a lawn. Then I recall that Frannie half extended the hand of friendship this week and that I turned her down. I smile properly. “Frannie! Great to see you! This is Robbie, a small friend of Andy’s. Frannie is—”
    â€œA close friend of Andy’s sister,” says Frannie. Robbie stretches out a hand. He doesn’t know that Frannie sees the handshake as “a literal male stronghold” and has perfected a squeeze that would crush rocks. I watch, terrified. Someone could get hurt. Then Robbie squawks, “I surrender!”