‘Post for you,’ Charlotte snapped, ungraciously depositing a wodge of letters on Chantal’s desk. 

Rather than strut off to make baby eyes at the men, the Sorrell & Genge receptionist folded her arms across her Wonderbra’d chest and stood watching Chantal.  The fat little mouse had caught her attention for once.

Instead of typing swottily away, as per her custom at this hour on a Monday, Gary Genge’s secretary was engrossed pinning a photo above her desk, next to the Adam Ant poster.  A photo, Charlotte was shocked to note, of Chantal looking beautiful in the arms of a chap who would score a good nine-and-a-half on her own personal phwoarr-ometer.

‘That your boyfriend?’

Chantal smarted at the typically mocking tones.  She turned round, looking flushed and very different in her prim grey work suit, with her bouncy gold hair French-pleated into submission. 

‘Yes, actually,’ she answered in a ‘stick that in your pipe and smoke it’ tone.

‘I was being sarcastic, Chubs,’ Charlotte laughed patronisingly.  In fact, to her surprise, she did believe Chantal – that guy looked suitably besotted – but she would sooner be seen outside with her nails unpainted than give her such satisfaction.  ‘Who is he really – some tribute band singer you’ve got a crush on?’

Chantal gritted her teeth.  Here we go…she thought.  ‘Kris is in a band, as it happens,’ she explained wearily, ‘but he also happens to be going out with me.  That is allowed, you know!’

‘All right, all right, keep your knickers on.  Where did you meet a fit bloke like that then?’

‘At a gig.’

‘Surprise surprise.  How old is he?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Been seeing him long?’

‘Four months.’

‘Four months – and you’ve never mentioned him?’ Charlotte simpered, with a twee expression of fake hurt.  ‘Why ever did you not share your news with us, little Chantal?  We’re your friends!’

Chantal responded with a ‘Yeah right’ face.

‘Shagged him yet?’

‘Course I have!’  Although this was true, and Chantal was, to quote Kris, ‘spicier than jalfrezi’ in bed, she couldn’t help flushing like a virgin at this talk.  Ever since starting at this firm, she’d felt like the naivest baby in the world alongside Charlotte.  The girl was only three years older than Chantal, but ultra trendy and scary, with her tarmac black feather-cut hair, sexy power suits and flawlessly trowled-on make-up.  She looked like the type who had never been hurt in her entire life and knew everything there was to know about sex.

‘Yeah?’  Charlotte perched her boiled-egg bum on the corner of Chantal’s desk and leaned towards her like a starving vulture.  ‘What’s he like?’

‘Fantastic,’ Chantal replied in a blasé, ‘Well of course I’ve had loads of other blokes to compare him to’ tone.

‘What’s his best position?’

A panicky blush raged across Chantal’s face.  She sat down, stared studiously at her computer screen and pretended to type something.  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’ she said, tossing her flaxen head in what she hoped was a mysterious manner.

‘Yeah, I would actually,’ Charlotte persisted.

‘Look, mind your own beeswax, eh, Charlotte,’ Chantal cried, hating how prissy and hysterical she sounded.  She’d been aiming for a flippant tone, but it all came out wrong because she was perilously close to tears, and hated discussing her private life with anyone but her best mate Justine.

In Chantal’s lonely chaste days, she used to imagine that when she found a lover she’d want to yell it from the proverbial rooftops.  Woo-hoo – I’m having sex at last!  Aren’t I grown-up and voluptuous!  Yet now she’d got Kris, she wanted to keep him to herself.  She was a naturally discreet person anyway, and it would seem to cheapen their hallowed romance to blab every erotic secret to non-kindred spirits like Charlotte.

‘Bet you don’t know any positions, do you?’ Charlotte taunted.

‘Course I do, stupid!’

‘Name one you’ve done it in then.’

‘OK…the Cowgirl.’

‘The bloody Cowgirl!  You’ve probably just read about that in a Cosmo sex guide – virgin!’

‘I’m not a virgin!’

‘I bet you were one before he had his wicked way with you, though, eh?’

‘No!’  At this, her only fib, Chantal felt as transparent as if a lie detector was wired up to her computer.  Realising her fingers were splayed across the wrong keys, she jabbed crossly at ‘DELETE,’ to clear her screen of the gobbledygook she’d just typed.

‘Well I think you should bring your hot stud to the next office party, then we can all meet him.’

Chantal’s face turned as grey as her suit.  Charlotte was not the kind of girl to whom you wanted to introduce your boyfriend.

‘What’s up – scared you couldn’t trust him in the same room as someone like me?’  Charlotte leaned maliciously close to Chantal, though was careful to maintain a sugary smile, so that from a distance they looked like mates sharing a secret.  ‘A bit of friendly advice to you, sweetheart,’ she hissed, and Chantal almost choked on her eau de gas chamber perfume, ‘he probably has a different groupie in the back of his van every night when he’s out on that road and you’re not with him!  I reckon the damage’ll have been done already.’

‘Piss off, Charlotte,’ Chantal sputtered, and started to stab out a letter, venting her fury on the poor keyboard.  Don’t cry, she begged herself, blinking hard at the stark screen.  Do not cry.  Do not let the smirking cow see that she’s ruffled you.

It was an effort, though.  She felt vulnerable enough already.  Kris had been so odd lately – she’d thought sticking up a picture of him might…Oh shit!  She cursed as a disobedient tear slopped out of her eye. 

Why did Charlotte get to her so much?  Chantal often wondered if she was simply too thin-skinned, and ought to banter better.  Yet she had no such reserve with Justine, whose outspoken remarks she could simply laugh off.  What Charlotte said, though, went beyond banter.  Her way was too insidious to be taken in jest.

‘Morning all,’ an adenoidal voice vibrated across the open-plan office.  It went straight through Chantal like a dentist’s drill.  That was all she needed: Gary bloody Genge adding shit to the fire.  ‘What’s this – has our Chubby bagged herself a fella at last?’  He swaggered over in his shiny Top Man suit, looking tremendously pleased with himself having overheard the juicy exchange between the girls.

Forty years of age, dwarfish of stature, narrow of eye,  thinning of hair, with the permanent smirk of a schoolboy bully, Chantal’s boss was a reptile in human form.  Even at her job interview, when she was just sixteen, she had flinched from his handshake and covertly wiped her palm down her dress.  He’d spent the next half-hour goggling at her breasts and then, unfortunately, given her the job.

He’d also, oh so hilariously, christened her ‘Chubby,’ after Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown, the bawdy comedian whose surname she happened to share.  It was an unjust nickname, and the only folks who used it were Gary and his fan club, which basically consisted of Charlotte.

‘So she says, Gary,’ Charlotte twittered, switching instantly from the ballsy tone she used on women to the giggly goo-goo voice she reserved for men.  ‘She reckons it’s this guy here.’

Gary peered with exaggerated curiosity at the photograph.

‘What, this long-haired dude?’

Chantal cringed.  Dude?  ‘Yes, him,’ she answered, as testily as she dared.

‘He’s a singer,’ Charlotte added silkily.

‘I thought he looked a bit familiar.’  Gary scratched his squat little neck in an unconvincing gesture of contemplation.  ‘What’s his name, Chubs?’

‘Kris.  Kristian Savage.  He’s the lead singer in a band called Colonel K.’

‘Oh yeah, think I’ve heard of them,’ Gary lied.  Then he smirked with disbelieving mirth.  ‘And you reckon this ‘Kris’ is your boyf, eh?’

‘Yes,’ Chantal snapped, ‘because he is, that’s why!’

‘Defensive, isn’t she?’ Charlotte sniggered sycophantically.

‘And where do he and his group, er, gig?’

‘All over,’ Chantal replied miserably, ‘and they’re going to Isle of Wight in June.  To play at the Sandown Festival.  It’s a big open air – ’  She trailed off, regretting revealing so much as soon as she saw comprehension flash across Gary’s puggy face.  She could almost hear the sound of two and two being put together. 

‘Ah, so that’s why you wanted that week off in June!’  Gary clicked his fingers triumphantly.  Charlotte’s eyes grew goggly with curiosity.  ‘So you could go and see the object of your crush performing for a field full of stoned holidaymakers?’

Chantal gritted her teeth again.  This IOW trip was proving an extremely sore point, for more than one reason.

‘We can’t spare you, Chubs,’ had been Gary’s offhand answer when she’d proffered him her holiday form back in February, requesting the first week in June.  ‘Our Charlie girl’s off to Ibiza then, and we’ll need you to cover reception.’

Bloody Charlotte, she’d cursed, before fleeing to the loos to have a little cry and text Kris with the disappointing news.  Trust her to be the reason I can’t go!

‘He is not “the object of my crush”,’ Chantal said flatly now, ‘and I won’t be able to go anyway, as it happens.  It’s my cousin’s wedding on the fifth.’

He’s only my second cousin at that, she thought viciously.  We’re barely related at all really.

Kris had asked her to go to the Isle of Wight with him two months ago, the night of the Red Lion karaoke.

‘It’s a bit short notice, like, cuz another band have dropped out, so Kev asked if we’d like to do it.  The organiser approached him, apparently, said they wanted a band that was a bit madcap, good for getting a crowd going – wonder what made him think of us!’  He pulled a wry face.  ‘Should be a good crack.  Not bad money either.  The Sandown is one of the major showcases for unsigned bands.  It’ll be the first time we’ve played an event like this, so it would mean a hell of a lot to me if you could come too.  I know it’s not quite the holiday we’ve been planning, but it’ll be an adventure.  We can always go abroad later in the year – get a last-minute deal, or summat.’

‘It sounds ace,’ Chantal yelped, already trying to calculate how many bikinis and what factor sun lotion might be necessary for Sandown in early summer.  She hugged him like an elated child.  ‘Oh Kris, I’m dead pleased for you.  This could be your big break!’

‘It could be yours an’ all, me flower.’  He gave her cute fairy nose a little tweak.

‘What d’you mean?’  Chantal pouted, in puzzlement.

‘We-ell, I could have a go at putting in a good word with the organisers.  Just think – you could be up on that IOW stage next year!’

‘Seriously?’  Chantal’s eyes were like sapphire Catherine wheels – while her face had turned the excited, pretty shade of cerise that Kris found so appealing.

‘I don’t want to make you empty promises, but I’ll do me best.  I’m sure once they hear your angelic voice, and see what a bostin’ fisog you’ve got, they’ll be powerless to resist you in any case.’

Chantal squeezed herself up to Kris.  She looked down with love at the hand holding hers on the leather pub seat between them.  She enjoyed the sexy juxtaposition of his rough, musician’s fingers against her soft, nail-varnished ones. 

Everything about him thrilled her, even simple acts of contact like this.  Chantal felt like one of those cartoon characters whose heart swells out of their body and starts drumming across the screen when they fall in love.

Kris’s sweetness and total lack of arrogance were the qualities she most adored in him, and she kept her fingers crossed he would never become spoilt by success.  She prayed he would never spurn her, the girl who loved him, even if record contracts and six-figure book deals ever beckoned.

But when she’d later told her parents about the Sandown Festival, it became the subject of their first major Kris-related clash.

‘You can’t go,’ Shirley snapped, ‘that’s the week of our Karl’s wedding.’

Chantal’s smile fell; it literally turned upside down into a frown, the way she’d once seen a mime artist’s do in a circus.  ‘Bugger – I’d forgotten about that!  Would it hurt if I missed it?’

‘Yes!  I’m not having you swanning off to be a groupie for some rock band.  Them lads’ll be bedding everything in a skirt, and smoking marry-joo-arna and God knows what else.  It’s no environment for a young girl.’

‘They’re not into drugs,’ Chantal protested.  This wasn’t strictly true – Jay was not averse to the odd spliff, but that was about as hard as it got.  ‘And anyway, I’m sure Karl won’t mind.  I haven’t seen him for about five years anyway – he probably wouldn’t know who I was if I hit him.’

‘Your father and I mind, though.  How embarrassed would I be when all the folks ask where you are!  What the hell would I say to ’em?’

‘I really couldn’t care less, Mother.  Why don’t you tell ’em I’m dead, if that would be less shameful than admitting I’m having fun and supporting my boyfriend in his musical ambitions?’

‘Less of your lip, my wench.’  Ken wagged his mashed potato-laden fork at her.  ‘Anyway, we’ve already sent an RSVP to Karl and Zoe to say as the three of us am going.  They’ll be expecting you.’

‘Oh great – don’t bother asking me whether or not I want to go, will you!’

‘Karl’s family – you have to go.  It’s bad manners to turn down wedding invitations.’

Chantal flung down her knife and fork, too choked to force back another morsel.

‘But Kris has promised to put in a good word for me with the festival organisers!  I can’t miss out on an opportunity like that just so as you can parade me around at some excruciating family wedding like a twee six-year-old with ribbons in her hair.’

She was aware her voice sounded whiny and childish, but she couldn’t help it.  She felt so crushed – and had a tendency to regress to ‘it’s not fair’ strops when facing parental domination.

‘Grow up, our Chantal.’  Shirley slammed the ketchup bottle so hard on to the table that the plates vibrated.  ‘And finish your tea.  You’d do well to remember that blood is thicker than water.  And I wouldn’t believe a word that long-haired monkey tells you anyway.’

This was too much.  Distraught tears dribbled down Chantal’s stinging face and on to her plate, flavouring her fish fingers with unwanted salt.  It broke her heart that Mom and Dad despised this man she idolised.

‘How dare you speak about Kris like that!  I don’t understand why you talk as though you’re so superior to him!  What makes you think you’re so extraordinary?  He fills me with joy, and makes me feel that life is worth living – which is more than you pair have ever done!’

‘Well I like that!’  Shirley actually dropped her knife in shock, sending it clattering to the kitchen floor.  The noise startled Arthur, the family budgie, who squawked and flapped on his little perch.

Chantal was far too hysterical to heed parental or bird interruption.  ‘He loves me, and he wants to help me further my career instead of putting the mockers on it like you are.’

‘You’ve got a career, sweetheart,’ Ken said, as though this truly had the power to make his daughter feel better.  ‘You’ve got a good little job at Sorrell & Genge.  Why persist with this silly singing?  It’s about time you started to live in the real world and forgot these far-fetched pipe dreams.’

‘I’ll give you ‘silly singing’ and ‘far-fetched pipe dreams’ when I’m rich and famous!  And come June, I shall be on that Isle of Wight ferry whether you like it or not!’

Ken and Shirley, in their slippers, represented Chantal’s cosy, commonsense background.  They had such scant connection with and understanding of the ritzy world to which their daughter aspired, that she at once both found them sweet and despised them.

Shirley, wiping her retrieved knife down her floral pinny, shook her head in a sad, ‘Where has my little girl gone?’ fashion, which served only to irk Chantal rather than rouse her pity.  ‘You never used to be so rebellious,’ she whined, ‘this is all his doing.’

Chantal rolled her eyes.  ‘Any excuse to blame my Kris!  I do have a mind of my own – and it’s made up.  I’m twenty years old, earn my own income and am not dependent on you to pay for my ferry ticket.  I’ve told Kris I’m going, and as soon as I get to work tomorrow I shall book the week off so that I can go!’

But the following evening, she’d slunk home teary, humiliated and defeated.

‘You’ve got your way after all,’ she told her parents, and her voice sounded utterly flat.  She hadn’t even the heart to inject any bitterness into it.  ‘I can’t go the Isle of Wight after all – they won’t let me have the time off.  And, as you can see, I feel shitty enough about it already, so please don’t make things worse for me by gloating!’

Neither Shirley nor Ken had any intention of gloating.  They felt pity for their only child, and slight regret that they’d spoken so harshly to her the previous evening.  The little wench was in love, and naïve; even the shortest parting from this young man was bound to be agony during the fragile, budding phase of their romance.  The down-in-the-mouth look didn’t suit her, and it stung their consciences to know they were partly to blame for it.

They might have given said ‘little wench’ some comfort had they not been too stubborn to admit this.  Instead they let her mope into her fish fingers and scowl across the dinner table at these two cruel trolls who used to be her loving parents.

Shirley and Ken were not, in fact, cruel so much as old-fashioned and protective, with a tendency to think their way was always the correct one.  In their insular minds, music went hand in hand with drugs and debauched sex.  They thought no good could ever come of their precious daughter’s involvement with singing and with this goon Savage (the name, they thought, fitted), who didn’t look as though he’d had a haircut since puberty, and whose spindly body was scored with peculiar pictures of lions and guitars.

The Browns came from an entirely different school of parenthood to Rose Savage.  The idea of getting to know Kristian, of granting him the benefit of the doubt before passing their judgements and aspersions, simply hadn’t entered their Grecian 2000’d heads.

‘Never mind,’ Gary was saying cheerily.  ‘At least you’ll have plenty of pulling opportunities at your cousin’s wedding.  You can chat up an usher while Kris is working his way through the Isle of Wight’s female population.’

‘Kris wouldn’t do that,’ Chantal said firmly, though sounding faintly hysterical.

Charlotte snorted cynically.  The cow then practically peed herself as Gary cocked his head on one side, flapped his eyelashes and cooed ‘What’s stopping him?  Does he love you?’ in a mock caring, Kilroy voice.

Chantal nodded nonchalantly.  ‘So he says.’  She tried to make it sound casual – to do otherwise would only set herself up for more piss-taking – yet hated herself for belittling Kris’s feelings.

‘You sure he doesn’t just say that to every smitten fan who has her piccie taken with him?’

‘No!  I mean – yes, of course I’m sure.’

Gary patted her shoulder patronisingly, like a doctor who had just diagnosed a patient but was about to tell her the good news: that her condition could be cured after all.

‘I’m noticing a juxtaposition here,’ he waved towards the pinboard, ‘you’ve pinned your man’s photo next to that of Adam Ant – a similarly out-of-reach figure.  Now it’s quite normal for young girls to develop little, shall we say, delusions about certain chaps whom they fantasise return their feelings.  I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.  Most girls get over it.  Eventually.’

Charlotte tittered deliriously, which incensed Chantal – but also reminded her of an ace she could play.

‘I think laughter’s a bit rich coming from a girl who once tried to have us all believe that she got off with Rory Powers!’

Charlotte actually flushed, as though she’d forgotten all about the fact that, a couple of Christmases ago, she’d claimed to have enjoyed a one-night stand with the Aussie pin-up during his run in Jack and the Beanstalk at Wolverhampton’s Grand Theatre.

In truth, the nearest she’d ever got to him was the Rory Powers screensaver on her computer.  However, the gullible Sorrell & Genge lot not only believed her kiss-and-tell yarn but dined out on it for months as a vicarious ‘claim to fame.’  Chantal remained the only sceptic – and it incensed her that Charlotte should be seen as such a glamorous figure to whom it was unquestioningly accepted that far-fetched things must happen.

‘You ought to go to the tabloids with a scoop like that, Charlotte,’ was Chantal’s advice at the time.  ‘My night of passion with soap studmuffin, by office girl!  I bet they’d pay you more for it than you get in a year here.’

Charlotte had looked horrified.  ‘My God, you’re shallow!  I respect Rory far too much to stoop so low.’

‘He’d sue you for libel, more like!’

‘I did get off with him,’ Charlotte retorted now, irate at being doubted, ‘and let me tell you I certainly wasn’t disappointed with the size of his beanstalk!’

‘Our Charlie girl’s a real chap magnet,’ said Gary with almost fatherly fondness, ‘but it was your alleged love life we were discussing, Chubs, so you can’t get away with changing the subject that easily!’

‘Look – if you don’t believe me about Kris,’ Chantal finally erupted, riled to the point of tears by the incessant contempt, ‘why not come along to the Hare & Tortoise in Wolverhampton this Thursday?  My friend Justine and I will be singing, and he will be there cheering us on.’

It was an idle invitation; she knew neither of them would be seen dead at such an event.  They reacted, as predicted, like it was the most hilarious suggestion ever.

‘No thanks!  Don’t think it’s quite our scene, eh, Gaz?’

‘I’m washing my hair that night – sorry!’  Gary gestured ironically to his balding cranium.  ‘Anyway – who’s this Justine?  Formed a duo, have we?’

‘Yes, actually.’  Chantal flushed, regretting that she’d divulged so much in anger.  ‘Thursday will be our first gig together.’

‘My my, we are learning a lot about our Chubs today!  Going to be the next Cheeky Girls, are you?  What do you call yourselves?’

‘Er – Chantal & Justine,’ she murmured.  In this case, they were right to laugh.  It was a spectacularly lame name.  The girls had been so preoccupied in the last two months with picking songs, rehearsing them, and conducting lively debates about what their collective ‘look’ ought to be, that the name issue had been kind of neglected.  Chantal made a mental note to address it with her bandmate later.  It was rather important after all.  ‘Chantal & Justine’ was hardly going to roll off a Top of the Pops presenter’s tongue.

Gary patted her again.  ‘Dream on, Chubby Brown!  If you want to be useful right now, you can get that kettle on.  Me throat’s as dry as a nun’s crutch and I’ve got clients back to back all day.’

At that moment Mark, the nineteen-year-old trainee accountant, loped by in his duffel coat, acknowledging them all with a scarcely audible ‘Morning’ in his Black Country monotone.  This shy beanpole from West Bromwich was the closest thing Chantal had to a friend at Sorrell & Genge; they were allied by the fact nobody else liked either of them.

‘If you want to set your sights a little more down to earth,’ Gary hissed at her, ‘you could do worse than give young Marky-boy a go – make his day, pop his cherry!  He wouldn’t say no to a bit of you, I bet.  Now to the kettle with you, wench!’  He flicked his hand dismissively in the kitchen’s direction and departed, with Charlotte in tow.

‘What did you get up to at the weekend, Charlie girl?’ Chantal heard him ask as they floated back across the office.  ‘Bet you weren’t short of male company, eh?  Real, not imaginary!’

Why won’t they believe me? Chantal wondered wretchedly as she spattered coffee into Gary’s Walsall FC mug – resisting the strong urge to pee or spit in it.  (She fantasised often about getting away with such an act; about him greeting such a frothy cupful with an unsuspecting ‘Mmm, cappuccino!’)

Why does Gary fall for all Charlotte’s bullshit, yet finds it so incredible that I could attract a man who looks more than halfway decent?

She paced up and down the tiny kitchen with brisk, irritable steps as she huffed and pondered the unfairness of life.

Why do people keep saying I should ‘set my sights more down to earth’?  It’s not just Gary either.  My dad’s always banging on about how ‘you don’t get what you want in life, you only get what you deserve.’  Well, why does everybody imagine I only deserve to date square, BO-ridden types, with no discernible sense of humour – like Mark?

‘Oh, hi Mark!’  She jumped guiltily as he drooped into the kitchen with his mug and a hesitant smile.  ‘Did you have a good weekend?’

‘Yeh, it was OK,’ he mumbled, depositing his Tupperware sandwich box in the fridge.  He went on smiling at her, slightly inanely, and Chantal wondered whether Gary had been putting in a ‘good’ word for her.

Ugh – the very idea!  He’s so juvenile and wet compared to Kris.  Literally ‘wet’ as well, looking at the state of his armpits!  And he reads accountancy textbooks for fun!  That prat Gary had better not have been trying to fix us up.  Mark’s a lovely lad – but who needs a lad when they can get a man?  The very thought of doing with him all the things I do with Kris makes me want to chuck up!

A torturously stilted silence followed, in which they both stared at the slow, wheezing kettle.

Oh God, this is unbearable.  It’s true what they say about a watched one never boiling.  And I can’t stand him here!  Breathing down my neck – making no attempt at conversation.

‘Tell you what, Mark, I’ll bring your coffee over,’ Chantal said desperately – partly to atone for her uncharitable thoughts about him, and partly to avoid prolonged proximity to those leaky armpits.

‘Thanks, Chantal.’  He smiled again, and coloured up, as though she’d just offered him a blow job.  ‘I’ll get back to me desk then.’

Chantal went on morosely glaring at the kettle, drumming her nails on the mug-stained worktop and wondering what the hell possessed her to bring that photo into the office.

I’ve lain myself open for never-ending piss-taking now.  Why couldn’t I have just left my private life at home and kept Kris a secret from everyone at work – like I have done for the last four months?

Since meeting Kris, Chantal had largely shed the shell she’d spent twenty years building up around herself.  Work, though, was the one environment in which she still found it impossible to be herself.  The minute she pinned back her hair, and donned those sexless suits, she reverted to her ‘timid mouse’ persona again.

It was the Uniform Curse all over again.  During Chantal’s school years, the very act of tying her hated tie and donning her revolting blazer used to paralyse her with shyness because it symbolised the start of another day in the lion’s den – where she was by turns spat at, bitched about, blanked or taunted about her singing, weight or virginity.

She’d christened this paralysis The Curse of the Uniform.

Although the clothes she wore now did not, strictly speaking, constitute a uniform, they had the same effect on her.  They were the costume of the office – the domain of Charlotte and Gary, her teen bullies’ adult counterparts.

Chantal wished she could leave Sorrell & Genge; she’d applied for scores of jobs, but competition was always tough and she rarely even made it to interview on the strength of her CV.  But then half-heartedly circling a few sits vacs in the Express & Star every week was never going to lead Chantal Brown to her dream career.  She wanted to sing, not type letters for wanky accountants.

Kris sometimes thoughtfully suggested picking her up for lunch, to jazz up her days a bit – but she always made excuses about being too busy or only having a short break.

The truth was she’d have wanted to die had he sauntered in, looking all horny, and seen her, frumped down into her grey Bay Trading trousers.  Kris would still have loved her in a bin bag; all the same, Chantal preferred him to see only her sexy ‘going out’ outfits – or her birthday suit.  His non-appearance at her workplace probably fuelled Charlotte’s theory that their relationship existed only in Chantal’s imagination, but she didn’t care. 

The very idea of him waiting for her in reception, dwarfing the place in his Doc Martens, made Chantal’s every body part clench with embarrassment.  Eww!  She could just see it: Gary trying to be all-lads-together, with his clueless, unctuous banter about the band; Charlotte cooing ‘Ooh, what does this tattoo symbolise, Kristian?’ as an excuse to touch his arm.

In Chantal’s mind, work and love didn’t mix at the best of times.  But when Sorrell & Genge was her work and Kristian Savage her love, the combination was nothing short of insulting.  The words ‘sublime’ and ‘ridiculous’ came to mind.

Hence she was now cursing herself from bringing that stupid photo in.  But she’d only been trying to cheer up her work station, and remember happier times. 

Happier times!  That made her sound like a middle-aged wife reminiscing about her early courtships.  Chantal and Kristian had been together since January, and it was only April now, but by Chantal’s standards – bless her – this was long-term.  Anyway, Kris had been so odd lately that their ‘honeymoon period’ really had become the stuff of reminiscences.

This photograph seemed to epitomise it.  It was their first one taken together, and Chantal’s favourite.  Rose had snapped it backstage (AKA the kitchens) at some spit ’n‘ sawdust pub.  Chantal – who tended to avoid cameras, which she was convinced could magically add pounds and chins – couldn’t believe how pretty she looked.

Her soft blonde hair and lake-deep eyes gave her a dainty appearance beside Kris, with his Disney-hero looks.  They certainly made a handsome couple.  Rapturous, in love and enjoying each other, their arms were entwined; eyes sparkling; expressions open and proud.  ‘Mirroring body language,’ was how a psychologist would have described it.  ‘Ah yes, I can see these two have got what it takes to stay the distance.’

I sincerely hope we have, Chantal thought now, chiding herself as she sniffed back a maudlin tear.  I never want to part from him.  Already I can’t see myself being with anybody else.  No other man could ever possibly be good enough for me.

She realised now that even before she met Kris, she’d been hanging on for something better – that was why her previous attempts at relationships had failed.    She could never settle for second best again – she wanted something out of the top drawer. 

This was not mere arrogance: Chantal had harboured a genuine belief, since the age of about fourteen, that she was destined to fall in love with a glamorous, exciting man.  She was convinced that the love of this hero with whom she could be completely herself would magically cure her crippling shyness.

She had always felt different; incompatible with the non-kindred spirits in her family, her school and now her workplace.  When she was younger, it crossed her mind more than once that she might be adopted.

She saw E.T. as a youngster, and identified totally with the lonely little alien who strays on to a foreign planet – the only difference between them, as she saw it, was that E.T. was eventually claimed and taken home by his own people.

Her natural reserve gave the impression she was aloof and snooty – qualities that made her prime bully-meat.  To this day, she was only unguarded and comfortable with a select few – one of which was Kris and another Justine.

It was interesting that while Faith Jephcott’s singing boosted her school popularity, the precise opposite had transpired for Chantal Brown.  Same era; different schools; different values; and two very different girls demonstrating how inconsistent were the ‘If your face fits’ rules that governed pupil life.

At Chantal’s comp, participants in shows, or any kind of extracurricular activities, were deemed square brown-noses – especially when they also abstained from un-square exploits such as behind-the-bike-sheds smoking and petting.  And so the student life was not fun for Chantal.

She coped via escapism.  Chantal Brown was a dreamer.  Throughout her solitary youth, she’d lived in songs; in books; in musicals.  One of her dreams had involved filling a bus with all the people she loved in the world – the majority of whom, it must be admitted, were pop stars – and fleeing into the night aboard it.  The Love Bus, it would be called.  Painted rose pink, with huge ruby hearts daubed across the sides.  Chantal’s ticket for this Love Bus would be her ticket out of her humdrum Willenhall life – and her faceless fantasy guy would always be in the seat beside her.

She was the first to admit that for years she was simply in love with the idea of having a boyfriend in a band.  She constantly devoured magazines, and constantly superimposed herself into their glossy copy: ‘Such-and-such-famous-rock-star and his long-term girlfriend Chantal Brown…’  No, actually, make that ‘his voluptuous long-term girlfriend Chantal Brown!’ 

She and her man would regularly top Hot Celebrity Couple polls.  One day, Chantal’s classroom tormentors were going to puke with envy as they read fulsome OK spreads which raved of the opulent home and red-blooded sex life she shared with this man (in presumptuous moods, she’d even concoct way-out, pop-star type names with which they might christen their children: Banana, Destiny, Sunflower, Bacardi, Chavetta…she kept such imaginings secret from Kris, though).

But in the cutthroat school atmosphere, merely fantasising about men was not good enough.  One had to provide proof that one was neither frigid nor a lesbian.  And because no member of the male gender had ever jammed his tongue into any of Chantal Brown’s orifices, ‘tight dyke’ rumours started to dog her.

So, to stave them off, she dated students and mechanics and lads who worked in Asda – who, though she hated herself for it, she secretly considered beneath her. 

While on dates at Wolverhampton bowling alley, she was visualising future Saturday nights at Elton John’s parties, or being interviewed on The Frank Skinner Show alongside her superstar squeeze.

While strolling hand in hand out of Burger King with a lad, she’d be dreaming she was an off-duty celeb and that a lurking fan might spy her and inform the writers of Heat magazine’s ‘Spotted’ section.

Spotted: Chantal Brown, leaving the Ivy on the arm of a gorgeous studmuffin.

When she got really famous, she’d have to invest in a few tracksuits – grey and beige shades preferably – so that she could go out incognito.  She’d mosey around Sainsbury’s unrecognised, and thus undisturbed, in this frowzy velour, and chuckle at the checkout when shoppers admired her more elegant image on magazine covers.

Naturally, Chantal never dared voice any of this, knowing she’d provoke outrage of the ‘Who d’you think you are?’ variety.  Her natural quietness, and the pride she took in her hair and dress sense, already earmarked Chantal, amongst the tough classroom wenches, as ‘a snob.’

However, she was far from being a Lady Muck type – she simply had standards.  And her brief liaisons with these cute-but-dull boys taught her that only by refusing to drop these standards would she be true to herself and attain contentment.

After all, what was wrong with desiring a guy who wasn’t going to bore her?  Chantal wanted scintillating conversation, not ‘So how many bean tins did you stack today, Aaron?’

She genuinely believed she was different; that the love of her life would be special and unconventional.

And she clung to this belief even during those frequent lonely times when she despaired of ever meeting this love; when she felt genuinely terrified of dying a virgin.

Well it had paid off: she had managed – oh luscious thought – to bag Kristian Savage! 

Hell, what you blarting your eyes out for, girl?  You ought to be wearing this kettle on your head and doing a little dance with it, not using it to make Gary’s stupid coffee.

Except she and Kris hadn’t been getting on too well of late.  He’d been unusually moody and intense since – well, now she came to pinpoint it, since she’d told him she couldn’t she couldn’t make the Isle of Wight trip.

Oh God, I’ve upset him, she panicked, slopping some milk as she lifted it shakily from the fridge.

Chantal knew there was an awful lot riding on this event – which would showcase Colonel K to their largest ever audience – and Kris was fanatically focussed on his rehearsals and voice training.  She had always admired his professional attitude towards gigs, but in this case felt he had taken his single-mindedness to extremes.  He had constructed an impenetrable shell about himself; cancelling nights out with her so he could practice, being unusually pensive and quiet and incapable of sustaining a conversation about anything other than the show.

I’ve upset him!  He’s pissed off with me because I can’t go with him, and now he’ll probably find comfort in the arms of some adoring girl in the Isle of Wight because he thinks I don’t care anymore!  Gary’s right – what’s to stop him bedding half the girls in the Solent?  No chaps are probably capable of staying faithful – let alone real-life pin-ups like Kris.

Chantal may have flowered with confidence under Kris’s touch and influence, but she still had frequent tweaks of insecurity, when she wondered what such a pussy-magnet could possibly see in her.  Much of this doubt was, it had to be said, fuelled by her cynical parents.

Their bloody scaremongering is really starting to get to me, she thought rattily.  And they were far from being the only ones who took exception to the relationship.

Right from the start, jealous girls had glared and bitched when Kris bounded off the stage and straight into her arms.  Kris appeared never to notice, having eyes for no-one but his shapely lady, but Chantal could see her rivals transform into cats: sharpening their French manicured claws, hissing to each other, and shooting light sabres of hate from their glowing, tiny eyes.

Sometimes they actually elbowed past Chantal to reach Kris.  Everyone liked him, he was attentive and polite – though never flirtatious – with his little covens of fans.  But some of these girls were pretty, with skinnier figures than Chantal, which they were partial to showing off in skirts as big as ribbons and T-shirts with nipple-skimming necklines.

Despite Kris’s proclaimed preference for guitar-shaped women, Chantal still felt hefty next to these acidic matchsticks.  The idea began to obsess her that he was making comparisons; that she was in a competition – no, more than that, a war – for his attention.

‘You don’t have to outdo anyone,’ Justine had assured her sensibly during one of the little chats that formed part of their new weekend routine.

‘I worry about letting him down, though, Just.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve got no right to be with him. He’s so fantastically popular – something I’ve never been – and I feel invisible next to him, as though nothing I do is of any importance.  Just because I’m not permanently shouting my gob off about how hunky and marvellous he is, folks think I’m just some groupie bimbo with fat tits and no opinions.  I’m not the best-looking girl in the world, let’s face it, and people are probably looking at us and thinking we’re an odd couple.’

‘Stuff what a few narrow-minded twats think,’ retorted Justine bluntly.  ‘As long as Kris knows you love him, no-one else’s opinion matters a toss.  You’re the one he chose, you’re the one he takes home at the end of the night, you share his duvet now.  And you are gorgeous!  Just be yourself.’

It was far easier said than done, though.  ‘Oneself’ was not always the easiest or most desirable role to play, and Chantal was sometimes so busy feeling lucky that she forgot to feel happy.  Her passion for Kris was the type of passion borne only from deepening intimacy with a person.  Yet her voice seemed drowned in the tumult of fulsome compliments, and she fretted that he would underestimate the depth of her feelings.

She fretted all the more now that work, and the nuptials of a distant relative, were to divide her from Kris during the most important engagement of his career.

‘And now bloody Nat’s set up her stupid website, I’ve got no chance!’

Since the Red Lion toilet encounter, Nat and her gormless mate – Em – had become ‘webmistresses’ of an Internet site, which they’d illiterately christened The Kult of Kris.

A couple of gigs ago, they’d dished out leaflets advertising it.

‘We done a free course in web design at Wulfrun College,’ Em explained, leaning her broomstick-thin body invasively close to Kris’s.  ‘It was dead easy once we’d learned the basics, like.  We’ve put loads of photos on there, and a guestbook, and stuff.  Have a look, won’t you!’

Kris did.  The briefest of looks.  He was – although Chantal wouldn’t believe this – hugely embarrassed and un-flattered by the girls’ adulation.

His Colonel K comrades – who were clearly not ‘Kult’ enough to merit their own websites – thought it was hilarious, and loved to wind Kris up about his less than divine pair of worshippers.  Chantal, they thought, had no competition to be afraid of.  Little did they know how intensely she took the whole business to heart.

‘It’s vile,’ she moaned to Justine, the day after visiting this online shrine.  She’d willed herself not to log on – and for weeks had resisted her morbid curiosity, but ultimately it defeated her.  ‘I wish I hadn’t looked – but I couldn’t help it somehow.  I wanted to find out what they were saying – but at the same time I didn’t.’

The Kult of Kris was a laughable effort really, with few pages and a colour scheme of lipstick-pink and yellow that should never have been allowed to leave the 1980s.  But to Chantal, reading in garish detail what Nat and Em wanted her boyfriend to do to them, it was anything but a laugh.

There were a few pictures too.  One – which depicted Nat and Em draped over Kris like FHM cover models – was hideously familiar to her, for she herself had taken it.  She remembered how she’d nearly cried when Nat cattily plonked the camera in her hand and rasped: ‘Gerra pic of us wi’ him, would yer, love?’

She remembered how she’d wondered huffily whether photographing her boyfriend with other women was all she was bloody useful for now.  And she remembered wishing she was spiteful enough to ‘accidentally’ slip her finger over the lens.

And then there was the guestbook, in which fellow followers of ‘Kristianity’ (there weren’t actually all that many – he wasn’t in Busted, after all) declared their undying lust.

‘I felt sick, Just.  One thing about going out the boys from Asda – at least nothing like this ever happened!  I always thought I’d get a kick out of having a bloke who other girls fancy, but I find it so insulting that this pair of soppy cows can declare their ‘love’ for Kris when they don’t even know him.  I mean, how dare they!  No-one can possibly love him the way I do.’

‘Calm down,’ Justine counselled sensibly (she could do sensible when she wanted to).  ‘The likes of them ain’t even gunna know what love is, pet.’

‘I bet Kris is loving all this ego-feeding, though.  No wonder he doesn’t like going out with me anymore – he’d probably rather stay at home preening over his pictures and the adoring comments in the guestbook.’

‘Now don’t be saft.  I’m sure he thinks Nat and Em are nothing a pair of desperate, immature bitches.  They obviously can’t get boyfriends of their own, otherwise they wouldn’t have to stalk guys in bands and make pant-wetty love professions on the Internet.  Kris would never fancy scraggy mingers like them in a million years.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Chantal wailed.  ‘I’m getting paranoid now that maybe they do know him intimately after all!  Perhaps Mom and Gary are right – he is unfaithful to me!  He’s shagging one – or both – of them on the sly, and I’m being taken for the biggest mug outside of…a mug factory!’

‘Oh, now you really are talking saft, me wench!’  Justine was becoming pretty irritated with her hysterical friend.  She herself had a far more chilled temperament.  Chantal lived off her nerves and often overreacted.  But that was one of the reasons they were friends: were they too much of a kind, they’d have clashed – with a catfight a day guaranteed.  ‘Anyway, when me and you are famous, we might get infatuated guys setting up lustful fansites about us!  See how Kris likes it then, when the stiletto’s on the other foot!’

Chantal found Justine a terrific tonic when she felt a drama-queen panic coming on.  They’d become inseparable friends since they’d met at the karaoke and begun jamming together.  Every weekend in the two months since that night had seen them in Justine’s Spice-papered bedroom above the pub, plundering their respective CD collections for song ideas, learning lyrics, harmonising, choreographing basic little dances in front of the mirror, sneaking drinks from the bar and gossiping.

It was a pity these rehearsals ate into her time with Kris – Saturday had always been their precious day – but needs must.  The girls had to shoehorn these practices around Justine’s unsocial work schedule.

That probably pisses Kris off too – but I always make it to his gigs afterwards, so he’s got no cause for complaint really, thought Chantal, a touch bitterly.  Anyway, we need to be polished; we’ve got a gig of our own now.

Maurice, Justine’s dad, had been at last granted his public entertainment licence.  He’d fulfilled his promise to give his daughter and her new best friend the first of what was hoped would become a regular Thursday slot. 

Justine, who was loving being Entertainments Manager (and had wasted no time in adding the ostentatious title to her CV), had launched a ruthless marketing campaign, which proved successful.

‘I’m gunna make sure everyone who’s anyone on the Black Country music scene knows that the Hare & Tortoise is the venue,’ she said ambitiously as she pinned up another poster in another studio.

She had rapidly amassed an address book full of contacts, and already had acts to fill the next two months’ worth of slots.  Colonel K were due there the following week – she was confident they would storm the place.  The dart-and-domino gangs weren’t going to know what had hit them.

If this first batch of Thursday ‘band nights’ worked well, the plan was to extend them into Fridays and Saturdays also. 

This inaugural one, in three days time, was to be a ‘double header,’ as Justine grandly fashioned it – with the One-Girl Spice Girls Tribute ‘supporting’ the up-and-coming duo known as Chantal & Justine.  ‘So you’ll get me twice for the price of once,’ she’d told the Hare & Tortoise punters, to whom she’d plugged the show to death, so that they’d miss it at their peril, ‘you can’t say fairer than that, can you!’

Their act was very raw at present; they found it hard not to feel like little girls playing at pop stars, and often forgot this was their drill for a real concert.  But they made a good team: their voices contrasted and complemented each other well, and there was a friendly chemistry between them which would translate well to the stage.

It helped that both girls derived a wonderful buzz from what they did.  Chantal’s natural reserve evaporated magically the minute she opened her mouth to sing, and Justine was a gregarious ball of energy anyway.  With her, there was little acting involved.  What you saw was what you got.

They’d had a few battles over song choices – initially childishly wishing they could sing everything in their pooled CD collection, regardless of key or suitability.  But eventually they’d cobbled together a set list representative of their tastes and inspirations: ballads and eighties classics for Chantal; feistier pop (with a distinct Geri Halliwell/Emma Bunton bias) for Justine.  They had so many ideas, they’d still been forced to reject more than they could feasibly cram into a one-hour set, even allowing for encores.

Another cause for debate was costume.  The girls’ wardrobes had been similarly plundered for outfits that vaguely co-ordinated.  This again proved tricky, for Chantal favoured the elegant look, while Justine’s style was out-and-out wacky.  Justine, though, at least knew better than to incorporate her Spice Girl outfits into the image.  They were all very well in real life – or the Justine Oliver version of it – but would only confuse the girls’ public.

So they’d finally fallen back on the reliable Little Black Dress, customising their respective frocks with favourite accessories: a leopardskin belt in Justine’s case, and for Chantal a silver necklace given to her by Kris.

It was all very exciting, and Chantal was thankful at least one area of her life seemed to be prospering.

We’re going to have to do something about our name, though, she decided, as she heaped sugar into Gary’s coffee, gave it a cursory stir and carried it out to the office.

‘Where are we off to for our big night out tomorrow then, girls?’  Faith unzipped a Flake bar and addressed her four friends across the refectory table. 

It was Wednesday; Faith and her mates were taking their lunch break at the university, just before an afternoon’s lecture on the scintillating subject of Consumer Behaviour.  Study, though, was not quite topping their priority list at present.  They’d been planning a Thursday night, pre-exams booze-a-thon for a couple of weeks now.

‘We could go to the Hare & Tortoise,’ offered Sophie, the kind, studious one in the gang, ‘it’s only round the corner from me.’

Faith looked appalled.  ‘Stuff that, Soph,’ she said with a bluntness at which those who knew her well had learned not to take offence, ‘I want to go clubbing!’

‘Oh, but you should see the fit bloke that serves behind the bar there,’ Sophie persisted, in defence of her local.  ‘And on Thursdays now, they have – ’

‘What do any of us want with barmen?’ Faith snorted, in a mock snooty accent.  ‘Five sophisticated young ladies like us can pull much fitter guys than your bloody Alfie Moon type!  Let’s go to Flares – I fancy a boogie to something a bit retro!’

Faith bit and licked her chocolate in an affectedly blow-jobby manner.  A couple of lads at the next table turned flame-red and didn’t know where to look.  Flakes were her favourite because of their phallic-ish shape, and because she liked to picture herself as one of the girls in the commercials, sitting in a field, or the bath, long hair tumbling all over the place.  She made a mental note to audition should Cadbury’s ever cast a new one.

‘Yeah, Faith’s right,’ chimed in one of the other girls, ‘we don’t wanna waste time in boring pubs like a group of old bag ladies.  I’m up for Flares too.’

‘Me too!’

‘Yeah, and me!’

‘OK then,’ said Sophie good-naturedly, knowing that what Faith said always went.  ‘D’you want to stop at mine, Faith, seeing as I live so close to the city centre?  It’d save you having to get the bus in from Dudley.’

‘Yeah, that’d be ace.  Shall we go straight to yours from uni to get changed?  Then we can share a taxi to Wolves and back on the night.’

‘You wouldn’t mind giving me a lift into uni on Friday morning then, would you?’

Faith gave Sophie a withering look which made her feel like the squarest swot in the whole world.  ‘I don’t intend coming in on Friday morning!  I intend getting so rat-arsed tomorrow that I’ll be in no fit state for lectures.  A long weekend is in store for me!’

Kara Savage, helping her big brother allocate drinks amongst their friends in the Hare & Tortoise, glared murderously as Jay Freeman gave Chantal’s waist a squeeze and hollered a boozy ‘That was ace!’ in her face.

Can’t she leave some chaps for me? Kara thought, with outrageous unfairness, for Chantal was in no way a leader-on of men.  Why is everyone in the Chantal fan club all of a sudden, just because she can sing a few songs?  The girl’s already got her hooks into my brother.  And now she’s got this pop group with her bloody friend, no other wenches’ll get a look in with the opposite sex.

Kara had fancied Jay, Colonel K’s drummer, for ages.  She had dressed for his benefit this evening, in New Look mock-leather trousers and a strappy lace top, with her sharp face encrusted in make-up and her butter-coloured hair brushed until every fine thread sparkled with static electricity.

The effect was more ‘sweet little girl playing in Mommy’s vanity case’ than the rock vamp she had striven for.  Her fragility, and the way she cheered up miraculously as Jay called her ‘an angel’ when she deposited a lager in front of him, stirred Chantal’s pity despite the death stare the girl had just dealt her.

Chantal wished dearly that Kara would de-ice and be friends with her.  There were powerful similarities between them: both were secretaries (Kara being an office junior in a firm that manufactured ball bearings); both were shy and prone to insecurity; both possessed attributes coveted by the other – namely curves (Chantal), Rapunzel hair and height (Kara).

Having grown up an only child, Chantal would have welcomed a sister figure with whom to gossip, shop and swap nail varnish.

She’d have liked to warn her off Jay too.  Chantal was fond of him, he was the kind of roguish flirt one liked despite oneself, though she took his attentions with a large heap of salt.  But he was far too worldly and loud for Kara, and would probably break her delicate heart.

For Kara’s part, she wanted to adore Chantal, this pretty, gentle girl who her brother loved so much.  She was by nature, though, a jealous little girl – and jealous thoughts like this had a habit of rearing their ugly heads at inappropriate moments.

But all of a sudden, guilt reared its head, and as Kara placed Chantal’s Breezer on the table she hugged her, gushing ‘You were amazing tonight.’  Chantal was flummoxed by Kara’s inconsistency, but put it down to hormones.

Either that, or behaving oddly is running in the family at the moment, she thought cynically.

‘Thanks, Kara, I really appreciate that.  I’m glad you enjoyed yourself as much as I did.’  Chantal smiled oh so sweetly, keeping the cynicism to herself and taking Kara’s compliment at gracious face value.  She was determined to let nothing mar this night – this big Thursday at the Hare & Tortoise. 

Justine came hootling along then: beaming all over her face, and totally high on a cocktail of adrenalin and the Joe-sized Tia Maria measure she was sloshing. 

‘Yeeeaaahh – we socked it to ’em, girl!’

‘We sure did,’ Chantal concurred, receiving her hug with considerably readier warmth than Kara’s.  ‘They loved us, didn’t they?  I’ve had that many compliments and kisses!  And this chap just came up to me and said I reminded him of Debbie Harry!’  She gave a little yelp and bounced in her seat.

This loss of grip on her emotions was childlike, and un-Chantal-like, but it suited her.  Her smiles had been too scarce of late.  Tonight, though, she’d managed to flush present worries out of her mind.  Singing was escapism.  It required such concentration, that no obnoxious thoughts were able to intrude.

Justine cackled, took another lusty glug from her glass, and plonked herself a tad unsteadily into the seat next to Chantal.  Her tiny feet dangled off the ground.  ‘That’s fantastic – though, if you ask me, Miss Harry ought to be grateful for the comparison, not you!  I’ve just signed my first autograph – can you believe it!  The guy who wanted it asked me out too.  Mind, I had to turn him down – he said he’d only meet me if I promised to wear long sleeves to cover David up!  The cheek of it!’

Chantal privately couldn’t blame the guy, but as she watched Justine stroke her hideous tattoo, in the manner of a mother consoling her child who’s just been called ugly, she felt a rush of joyous affection for her zany, dear friend.

Just and I are going to have such adventures together.  Whoever else I may lose along the way, I still have her.  I’ve never had so much confidence in my abilities as I do now I’m singing with her.  I feel on top of the world; as though the pair of us really could go places.

The girls had indeed ‘socked it’ – there really was no other expression – to the horde of regulars, friends, live music buffs and curious locals who’d rammed the usually vacant little pub.

Justine’s Spice mix alter ego had kicked it all off: initially bewildering, but gradually winning everyone over.  Her routine wasn’t exactly refined, but had a thrown-together charm that was true to its busker roots and proved just as effective upon her dad’s customers as on Wolverhampton shoppers.

‘I remember when you used to sing in here as a littl’un’ – she had comments of this variety from many a long-standing ‘Hare’ patron.  ‘It obviously stood you in good stead – you really warmed up this crowd tonight.’

One fleeting costume change later, Justine re-emerged in black, as half of what would, in her dreams, one day fill the yawning gap in the ‘go-getting girl duo’ market.  The last decade had yielded some cracking girl bands, yet surprisingly few twosomes who’d set the world afire (The Reynolds Girls, anyone?).

While Chantal & Justine knew they’d have to go some to set anything on fire as yet, they had made a promising debut.  Promising enough to ignite their imagination with dreams of chart domination.

‘One day there’ll be a plaque up here,’ Justine dramatically prophesied, ‘and coachloads of tourists will flock to take photos of this place because it was where those fab pop babes Chantal & Justine gave their first ever performance, back in the days when they were just ordinary gals!’

From their fittingly feisty opener, Bananarama’s Venus, through to the encore of Whole Again, Atomic Kitten’s first chart-topper, their look and sound had certainly set them apart from the usual lairy breed of pub entertainers.

There was room for improvement, of course – the girls were hardly, after all, prodigies who’d had singing lessons in junior school, or ever for that matter.  One might carp too that being on home turf minimised their nerves and biased the audience in their favour.  A performance for impartial strangers might be a truer test of their stagecraft.  But one step at a time.  They’d made an impact.  And, for now, that was good enough for them.

And they felt like Spice Girls themselves as, afterwards, their first crops of ‘fans’ had rushed to congratulate, kiss or buy them drinks.

‘Wasn’t I right then, Dad,’ Justine couldn’t help teasing, ‘introducing live music really was a genius idea?’

‘You were right, pet,’ Maurice conceded, making no attempt to conceal the proud tears that dribbled from his eyes, ‘I should have listened to you sooner.’

‘Well, chaps,’ proclaimed Colonel K’s Jim, as Kris returned from the bar with the remaining few drinks and sat down to join everyone, ‘I think we should drink a toast to Chantal and Justine, and their performance tonight.  Let’s all be thankful we’ve seen ’em at this early point in their career, while the seats am still cheap!  In years to come, I’m sure we’ll be fighting for tickets to see these ladies.’  He raised his pint, and the others around the table obligingly followed suit.

Chantal smiled gratefully at the gentle guitarist, who was always so interested in her music and opinions.  But something about this toast didn’t feel totally right.

Probably the fact that Kris ought to be the one making it, not Jim Willetts.  Oh, he joined in keenly enough, and gave Chantal his usual secret cuddle as he wedged into the seat by her, but he was still not quite himself.  He hadn’t been for weeks.

He was preoccupied to the point of obsession by this Isle of Wight trip, which Chantal could understand, but what hurt was his sudden apathy towards her.  Even when he made the effort to be with her in body, his mind was very obviously engaged elsewhere.  At times he looked vacantly or quizzically at her, as though he either didn’t recognise her or thought he did but wasn’t sure where from.  It was heartbreaking.

Chantal wasn’t paranoid; the guys in the band had noticed his character transplant too – being frequently reduced to waving their hands in front of his face while repeating ‘Earth to Kris’ in comic alien accents.

‘You mustn’t worry yourself,’ Jim consoled when she once confided in him.  ‘Your man may come across as daft as a brush, but he’s actually a very dedicated musician, and he tends to shut up the shop when he’s got something important pending.  This trip means a lot to him – as it does to all of us – and he wants us to get it right.  That’ll be the reason he’s brooding at the moment.  I’m positive it’s nothing you’ve done, sweetheart.  Just bear with him.’

Chantal wasn’t so convinced.  It wasn’t easy bearing with Kris when he was distant, sullen and, most atypically of all, had lost that hunger for her voluptuous body which had kept them warm through their early, wintry days together.  They rarely made love nowadays; when they did, their shags were perfunctory, and always Chantal-instigated.

She hoped dearly that he hadn’t gone off her because he was hungering for other, less voluptuous bodies.  Such as Nat’s or Em’s.

To Faith, the success of a night out was measured by the severity and duration of her hangover.  This particular Friday, she puked five times, spent the morning feeling as though her head was going to break, and was still over the limit for her mid-afternoon drive home.

So, a success then.

Thursday had been ace.  The five girls had gotten spectacularly bladdered, played tongue tennis with half of Flares’ male clientele, and now had blurry memories that involved feather boas, a table and the YMCA. 

On Friday, Faith – every bit as unfit to attend uni as she’d planned to be – persuaded Sophie to, against her better judgement, wag classes also.  The girls spent the morning blobbing about in front of Trisha, nursing mugs of very strong, very black coffee, popping paracetamol, and squeamishly refusing bacon sandwiches that Sophie’s mom offered to sizzle up for them.

At three, Faith drove home to Dudley.  Turning right out of Sophie’s road, she noticed the Hare & Tortoise right opposite – the homely little local so beloved of her friend.  Faith smirked.  What the hell made Soph want to go there in preference to a club?  It looks like the kind of place my nan might hang out.  So much for her ‘fit barman’ – he’s probably some lard-arsed dork who reeks of beer!

Then Faith nearly crashed her car as she became distracted by the huge sandwich board outside the pub.

‘THURSDAY NIGHT IS MUSIC NIGHT,’ proclaimed the zappy chalked script, ‘THIS WEEK SEE BRIGHT YOUNG DUO CHANTAL & JUSTINE + THE ONE-GIRL SPICE GIRLS TRIBUTE!!!’

The One-Girl Spice Girls Tribute!  Faith’s mate from the market!  She frantically scanned down to find the date of her favourite busker’s appearance.  She’d just managed to clock that it had taken place last night, before she was forced to make an emergency stop to avoid a horrendous collision with the Escort in front.

The near miss left Faith shaken for a few minutes.  The last thing she needed was an accident, and potential police involvement, at a time when she still had sufficient booze in her system to put a breathalyser on red alert.  So her eyes didn’t leave the road again during the journey – though her thoughts wandered back to that sign.

I can’t believe that girl was there last night!  And I turned down a chance to meet up with her again, just so as I could go clubbing and pulling – something I could do any old time.  I thought I hadn’t seen her up town for ages.  She must have given up busking and started taking her act to the pubs instead.  Well good luck to her.  But I can’t believe I missed her when I was so close!

Faith couldn’t work out why the revelation gutted her so much.  She felt bereft – to the extent that she started to illogically resent her friends for letting her dissuade them from going to the Hare & Tortoise last night.  But why?  Why did she feel such an affinity with this stranger, who was clearly as mad as a balloon?

Because she was a fellow performer; because they had shared interests.  Faith could imagine socialising with the One-Girl Spice Girls Tribute; jamming together; having animated discussions of the ‘Who are your influences?’ variety; talking about things that mattered to the two of them.  She knew they’d have a laugh; a real laugh, not the pretend fun Faith now realised she was having with her uni mates.

Faith knew she’d long been a figure of envy.  She possessed looks, and poise, and a lifestyle, that other girls were bound to covet.  Yet nobody knew or related to the real Faith Jephcott.  All of a sudden, her endless round of boogying and snogging and bunking college seemed utterly empty.

I want some new friends, she thought, as she jerkily braked at a roundabout – and was staggered by the bleak desperation of this thought. Someone like-minded.  I  want – hell, it sounds cheesy, but I want a soul sister.  And then she got the crux of the matter: I want a band!