Without moving her head any more than was completely necessary, she managed to heave herself out of bed and into the hall. She had no idea what she was wearing, what the time was or who she was, although the name Tamsin seemed strangely familiar. But when she came face to face with a smirking pyjama-clad Gilbert Valentine in her hall, she knew something was terribly wrong.

“Ooh, nasty,” he beamed when he saw her.

The word "Likewise": struggled to mind but didn't make it to her mouth. Suddenly, the night before hurtled back to her with some force. Oh God, no. She managed to run into the kitchen.

Mo was sitting at the table with a coffee, toast, the papers and a big grin. Jazz came in, slammed the door shut and leant against it.

“You have to help me,” she whispered, putting her hand to her forehead and starting to whimper.

“Why?” asked Mo.

Jazz started pacing the kitchen, distressed beyond belief. Surely she couldn't have? Not with Gilbert? She could never live with herself again. She was actually wringing her hands.

“For God's sake, Jazz, what's wrong?” asked an increasingly concerned Mo.

“There's been a horrendous - hideous - heinous - horrendous mistake,” whispered Jazz dramatically.

“You've been offered a job in the Diplomatic Corps?”

Not hearing, Jazz stopped pacing suddenly and froze on the spot, ashen-faced.

“Jazz, what is it?”

“I think I'm going to be sick,” she mouthed and rushed to the sink.

Mo went straight to her side and started rubbing her back. She was starting to get really worried.

Just then Gilbert's voice came from the hall. “I'm just having a shower, pussycat!”

Jazz retched. She was ice cold yet covered in sweat.

The retch seemed to do the trick. She didn't think she was going to be sick any more. Slowly she turned away from the sink and walked to the table where she sat down heavily. Mo joined her. They sat there in silence for a while.

“Well?” said Mo gently, her hand stroking Jazz's arm.

Not really, thought Jazz.

“I - I - I -” Jazz didn't think she could form the words out loud. “I think I,” she whispered, “may have just . . . just . . . just... ”

“Yes?”

Jazz was almost inaudible. “Slept with . . . Gilbert Valentine ... a bit ... last night.” And with a gasp at hearing the words out loud, she laid her head on the table and pulled her face into an extremely ugly expression of self-loathing.

“Well now,” said Mo crisply, taking her hand off Jazz's arm. “That would be impressive,” and she stared at her open paper.

“Oh God,” whimpered Jazz, her head still lying next to Mo's paper. “I'm going to have to commit suicide, it's the only way I can live with myself.”

“Two women in the same night, eh?” said Mo through gritted teeth, pretending to talk to herself.

“I'll leave you all my Boney M records, Mo,” mumbled Jazz pathetically.

“And two women who've been friends since they were four, too,” Mo went on, a bit firmer this time.

“And my papier mache bin,” continued Jazz.

“Who live in my flat,” finished Mo.

There was a long pause. Slowly Jazz lifted her throbbing head and looked suspiciously at Mo.

“Wha - ?” she interrogated.

“You didn't sleep with Gilbert Valentine last night,” Mo told her gently.

“I didn't?” Jazz started to frown and shake her head, but it hurt too much.

“No,” said Mo. “You slept with a big smile on your face.”

“Oh! Thank Christ for that,” said Jazz, emotionally. “You don't know how happy you've made me, Mo. You're an angel.” Grinning, she sat back in her chair. “I must give something to charity. Have you got any small change?” She padded over to the cupboard where the aspirins were kept.

“I slept with Gilbert Valentine,” said Mo calmly.

And Jazz was suddenly stone cold sober.

“What do you mean, you slept with him?” hissed Jazz.

“I mean I had carnal knowledge of him,” said Mo, straight-faced.

“What?”

“I had sexual intercourse with him.”

Jazz felt faint. “Please. I might want to eat later.”

Mo ignored her and read her paper silently.

Jazz came back to the table and stood by Mo. This was terrible.

“Do you know what you're doing?” she asked eventually. “He is a lizard of the highest order.”

“I didn't know lizards had orders.”

“He - he - he -”

“He made me scream Eke a wildcat four times in one night,” said Mo. “That doesn't happen very often.”

Jazz thanked heaven for small mercies and thought she was going to retch again.

Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, Gilbert himself came into the kitchen, wearing nothing but her favourite yellow fluffy towel.

“That's my towel,” she croaked.

“Oh, I'll take it off then,” said Gilbert, smiling wickedly at Mo and starting to peel it off.

“No!” screamed Jazz. “It's fine. You can borrow my robe as well.”

“Hello, pussycat,” Gilbert slimed at Mo.

To Jazz's utter horror, Mo actually purred and Gilbert slid past Jazz to Mo and the two of them started doing some very loud, wet kissing.

Jazz thought she was living in a nightmare. This couldn't possibly be happening. Not in her own home. In her own kitchen. In her own towel. Oh God. She struggled to her room and phoned George. George was out. She paced her room. A whole Sunday to get through and Mo had gone mad in the kitchen and George was in love somewhere. Should she phone Josie? No, Josie had a life, the bitch. Her mother?

No, that would only depress her. What to do, what to do, what to do ...

The phone went. Jazz rushed to answer it.

“Poppet?” It was her mother.

Jazz started crying silently into the phone.

“Hello, Mum,” she sniffed.

*  *  *

“Mo is allowed to have boyfriends,” said Jeffrey, sipping tea, while Martha cut Jazz another slice of apple cake and thought her heart would burst.

“Not boyfriends I hate,” sniffed Jazz pathetically.

“You're just jealous, dear.”

“Jealous? Yes, I wish I'd have spent the last month dieting my personality away so I could sleep with Mr. Oilslick.”

“Not of her. Of him.”

Jazz paused.

“More apple cake?” asked Martha.

Jazz sat silent.

“Jealous?” she finally repeated.

“Yes,” said Jeffrey. “You've lost Mo, your soulmate. But don't worry, you'll soon get over it - when you find a true soulmate. Your own longterm partner.” Jeffrey felt proud that he'd managed not to say husband — that was very old-fashioned nowadays.

Martha and Jazz both looked at him in dismay.

“You were doing so well, dear,” said Martha, disappointed. “For a man.”

Chapter 14

Jazz got into work early on Monday morning. She had woken up at six and after twenty minutes of lying in her bed, fast awake, decided she couldn't get back to sleep. The thought of bumping into Gilbert in the hall again had actually invaded her dreams and roused her before the alarm went off. When she got there, she had only been slightly surprised to find Mark already there, tapping away furiously at his computer. She knew he was hungry, but hadn't realised how hungry. Another one on his way to the tabloids. Alison the secretary had put the coffee on and was already replying to readers' letters, while humming a Tammy Wynette number. Two years previously, when Jazz had started at Hoorah! she had been horrified to discover that Alison was only three years older than her. It was enough to make her want to cry. Alison wore little knitted cardis and put her long hair in a bun. Her stockings were never laddered and her eyeshadow was always blue.

“Good weekend?” Mark asked Jazz before she'd even taken her coat off.

“Oh, you know,” said Jazz, pouring herself a coffee. “Shite.”

She sensed Alison bristle in the corner. Tammy Wynette took a pause.

“Mine was amazing,” said Mark, leaning back from the desk and stretching out as if yawning. Jazz noticed he always did this when he was trying to hide the fact that he was feeling self-conscious. She cupped her coffee and watched him do his act.

“Got laid,” he smiled, and stopped suddenly when he realised he was starting to blush.

He looked at Jazz for a reaction. Jazz looked back at him for signs of a brain. Eventually, they both looked away, feeling lonely. Mark started typing again. God, he wished he worked at Loaded.

Jazz closed her eyes and started taking slow sips of her coffee. Suddenly, a voice interrupted her messy thoughts.

“Jasmin?”

Jazz opened her eyes to find Paul, the Art Editor, standing so near to her, he was actually blowing on her coffee. How did he always do that? She checked his feet for wheels.

“Hi,” she smiled, taking a small step back. Coffee was always better hot. And without an Art Editor's saliva in it.

“How's it going?” He cocked a lazy smile at her. He was feeling good today. He was wearing a new taupe shirt.

God help me, thought Jazz. One day I'm going to kill him.

“It's your My Breast Enlargements Didn't Work! piece. Um . . .”

Ah yes, my finest hour, thought Jazz. She raised her eyebrows encouragingly.

“Agatha wants to add a column of copy, so I'm afraid you're going to have to cut five hundred words.”

“OK,” she said. She didn't bother asking what the column was. She'd find out soon enough.

“I've got a purple head this week.”