Girls diary

Blair had never kissed anyone, ever.  And, of course, no one had ever kissed him. That seems obvious, but when people kiss, it’s never really clear who is doing the kissing and who is being kissed once their lips meet. I met him at a craft fair in Camden.  He watched me weld the edges of a copper sculpture together. That wasn’t odd in itself – lots of men like to watch girls weld.  Something about the goggles and the gloves and stuff. They stand there and fantasize about what’s beneath it. Or maybe it’s the torch. Kind of like girls with guns. Fantasy crap.  Sometimes I get guys who want to talk shop, discuss the relative merits of different rods, but that stuff doesn’t interest me. I only taught myself to weld because I wanted to make the sculptures. I’m not fetishistic about it.  It’s just a means to an end. But Blair wasn’t one of those guys either. I could tell he didn’t really care about the process. He was antsy and impatient for me to finish, shifti...

Above the venerable silver shop in the Burlington Arcade, he taught her the uses of pleasure. Not the nervous-handed, spring-loaded fumblings of teenaged lust, or the ego-abraded outcomes of young love. Mr. Pierce offered Rebecca schooling in something quite different. After quitting an English degree halfway through the first semester, alienated by the prospect of having to read and deconstruct ‘Waiting for Godot’ in French for the sake of authenticity, Rebecca Holloway found herself, both directionally and financially, at a loss. Near Earl’s Court, she rented a drab bedsit with diurnally cyclical smells. In the morning it inevitably stank of burnt toast. At midday it was redolent with the smell of bleach. And, by nightfall, every rental room in the house was infused with the ghost of overboiled cabbage. Having only ever had a Saturday job selling trendy clothes for pocket money, the possibility of full and gainful employment was daunting, but a lowering of expectations and a ...