Mr Harbinson puts down his knife and fork, swallows his mouthful, turns to me and says, very slowly, 'Actually, Brian, I think Alice was referring to her mother's dental cap.'

165.

Shortly afterwards, we all gu up to bed.

I'm in the bathroom, splashing my face with cold water, when Alice knocks on the door.

'Hold on two seconds' I say, though I'm not sure why; I'm fully dressed, and there's not much I can do about my appearance in two seconds, short of wrapping a towel round my head.

I open the door, Alice steps in, closes it carefully behind her and says, very slowly and seriously, 'D'you mind if I say something - something personal?'

'Sure, go ahead!' I make a mental calculation, and decide that there's a one-in-three chance that she's going to ask me to make love to her tonight.

'Well . . . it's a real mistake to scrub your face hard with a flannel like that. You'll only bleed and spread the infection . . .'

'Oh . . .'

'And you'll scar too.'

'O-kay . . .'

'Now, do you boil-wash your flannels?'

'Well, no . . .'

'Because the flannel's probably part of the problem . . .'

'Right, okay 'I wouldn't use a flannel at all, if I were you, flannels are absolutely crawling, just water and a basic, non-perfumed soap . . .' How can I get out of this conversation? '. . . and not necessarily a harsh medicated soap, because they're generally far too astringent . . .' It isn't even a conversation, it's me waiting for her to stop talking. '. . . And you shouldn't use astringent creams either, they're effective in the short run, but in the long run they just make the sebaceous glands more active . . .' By now I'm eyeing the bathroom window, wondering whether or not to throw myself out of it. Alice must notice this, because she says 'I'm sorry. Do you mind me saying all this?'

166.

'Not at all. You're very knowledgeable though. If "skin care" comes up on University Challenge, we'll be laughing!'

'Oh, I've upset you, haven't I?'

'No, I just don't think there's much I can do about it, that's all. I think it must be the onset of p.u.b.erty! All the hormones. Any day now I'll start taking an interest in girls!' Alice smiles indulgently, then goes to give me a sisterly kiss goodnight, her eyes momentarily scanning my face, trying to find somewhere safe to land.

Shivering in bed later, lying on my back and waiting for my face to dry so I don't get blood on the pillow, I carefully evaluate my strategy for tomorrow and, after much consideration, decide that my strategy is to be less of a t.w.a.t. This will not come easily, but it's absolutely vital that she gets to see the Real Me. The problem is, I'm starting to suspect this notion that there's this wise, smart, funny, kind, brave Real Me running around somewhere out there is a bit of a fallacy. Like the Yeti; if no one ever actually sees him properly, why should anyone believe that he actually exists?

167.

21.

QUESTION: A legal writ that demands the appearance of a party in front of a court or judge, the Latin term 'habeas corpus' might be translated as . . . ?

ANSWER- You should have the body.

When I wake up the next morning I'm so cold that for a moment I think Mr Harbinson must have moved me outside in the night. Why is it that the posher people are, the colder their house? And it's not just the cold, it's the dirt too; the dog hair, the dusty books, the muddy boots, the fridges that reek of sour milk and putrescent cheese and decaying kitchen-garden vegetables. I swear the Harbinsons' fridge has a top-soil. They probably have to mow it in the summer. But maybe that's the definition of true, authentic upper-middle-cla.s.s status, the ability to be cold and filthy with complete self-confidence. That, and the little washbasins in every bedroom. I splash my face with the icy water, put the copy of Lace back on the bookshelf, and head downstairs.

Radio 4 is broadcasting loudly from hidden speakers, and Alice is lying on the sofa, under a blanket of Blue Peter Dogs, reading.

'Morning!' I say.

'Hiya' she mutters, engrossed in her book.

I squeeze in next to a dog.

'What ya' readin'?' I say in an amusing voice. She shows me the cover. 'One Hundred Years of Solitude - sounds like my s.e.x-life!'

168.

'Sleep well?' she says, when she finally realises that I'm not going to go away.

'Amazingly, thank you.'

'Cold?'

'Oh, only a little.'

'That's because you're used to central heating. It's very bad for you, central heating, numbs the senses . . .'

And as if to underline her point, Mr Harbinson strolls nonchalantly across the living room. He is naked.

'Morning!' he says, nakedly.

'Morning!' Even with my eyes staring fixedly at the top of the fireplace, it's clear that he's either a very hairy man, or is wearing a black, mohair jumpsuit.

'Tea in the pot, Alice?' he says, nudely.

'Help yourself.'

And he bends down beside her, bends down from the waist, and pours himself a cup, then strides upstairs, taking the steps three at a time. When it's finally safe to look, I ask, 'So. Is that. Fairly. Normal. Then?'

'What?'

'The naked-dad thing.'

'Absolutely.'

'Oh.'

'Not shocked are you?' She says, eyes narrowed.

'Well, you know 'You must have seen your dad naked.'

'Well, not since he died, no.'

'No, of course, I'm sorry, I forgot, but before he died, you must have seen him naked.'

'Well, maybe. But it's not how I choose to remember him.'

'And what about your mum?'

'G.o.d, no! So do you go naked in front of your dad then?'

'Only when we're having s.e.x,' says Alice, then clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. 'Of course I do, we all do. We are family after all. G.o.d, you're really freaked out, aren't you?

169.

DAVID NICHOLLS ].

Honestly, Brian, for someone who's meant to be right-on, you're really incredibly square.' For a moment I catch a glimpse of her as Head Girl, malicious and superior. And did she really just call me square? 'Well don't worry, Brian, I keep my clothes on when there are guests around.'

'Oh, please, don't compromise, not for my sake . . .' Alice knows I'm pushing my luck, and smiles wryly. 'What I mean is, I think I could handle it.'

'Hmm. Now I wonder if that's strictly true?' Alice licks the tip of her finger, and turns the page of her book.

Breakfast is toast made from home-baked bread that has the colour, weight, texture and taste of a heavy-loam soil. Radio 4 is broadcasting in the kitchen too. In fact as far as I can tell it's on in every room and is apparently impossible to turn off, like the telescreens in 1984. We chew and listen to the radio, and chew, Alice reading her book throughout. I feel miserable already. Partly it's because I'm the first person to be called 'square' since 1971, but mainly I'm depressed by the mention of Dad. How could she 'forget'? And I despise the way I find myself talking about him in front of other people. I'm sure Dad would have been over the moon to know that this was his fate all along; to be used by his son as raw material for a bunch of s.h.i.tty, glib one-liners, or self-pitying drunken monologues. The hunt for the Real Me is going badly, and I've not even brushed my teeth yet.

And then we go for a long walk in the snow. You couldn't call the East Anglian countryside spectacular; it's striking, I suppose, in a post-nuclear sort of way, and the view tends to stay pretty much the same no matter how far you walk, which sort of defeats the object really, but at least it's consistent. It's also refreshing to be somewhere that you can't hear Radio 4. Alice takes me by the arm, and I almost forget about the snow ruining my new suede desert boots.

Since I've been at university, I've noticed that people want to talk about the same five major topics: 1) 'My A-level 17O.

Results' 2) 'My Nervous Breakdown/Eating Disordei' 3) 'My Full Grant' 4) 'Why I'm Actually Relieved I Didn't Get Into Oxbridge' 5) 'My Favourite Books', and this last option is the one we alight on.

'Top of the pops for me used to be The Diary of Anne Frank. When I was a teenager, I used to really want to be Anne Frank. Not the ending obviously, just the idea of living very simply in an attic, reading books, keeping my diary, falling in love with the pale, sensitive Jewish boy in the attic next door. That probably sounds a little bit perverse, doesn't it?'

'A little bit.'

'I think it's just a phase all us girls go through at a certain age, like cutting yourself, and throwing up, and lesbianism.'

'You tried lesbianism?' I ask casually, in near falsetto.

'Well, you more or less had to at boarding-school. It was compulsory; lesbianism, French and netball.'

'So what did you . . . do?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.' Well, clearly, yes. 'Nothing much really. I just dipped my toe in.'

'Well, maybe that was where you were going wrong!' She gives a tired smile. 'Sorry. So - what happened?'

'It just didn't really do it for me, I suppose. I've always liked s.e.x with men too much. I'd miss the penetration.' We walk on a little further. 'How about you?'

The? Oh, I miss the penetration too.'

'I'm trying to be serious, Brian,' she says, punching me on the arm with her mitten. 'So have you?'

'Have I what?' 'Well, I'm a.s.suming you've had s.e.x with men.'

'No!'

'Really?'

'Absolutely not. What makes you say that?'

'I just a.s.sumed you would have.'

'You think I'm effeminate?' I ask. The falsetto's back.

171.

I.

DAVID NICHOLLS.

'No, not effeminate. And besides, effeminacy is not a signifier of h.o.m.os.e.xuality . . .'

'Well, no, of course not.'

'. . . and it's not a bad thing anyway.'

'No, of course it isn't. It's just you sound like one of my mates from school, that's all.'

'Well, methinks the lady doth protest too much.'

Change the subject. I'm keen to bring the conversation back to lesbianism, but then dimly remember that she'd said something earlier about cutting herself. I probably should have picked up on that.

'What about the ... self-harm?'

'What self-harm?'

'You said you used to cut yourself?'

'Oh, only now and again. A cry-for-help, I think they call it. Or more accurately a cry-for-attention. I got a bit depressed at school, a bit lonely, that's all.'

I'm amazed I say.

'Really? Why should that surprise you?'

'It's just I suppose I can't imagine you having anything to be depressed about.'

'You really have to get over this notion that I'm silver plated, Brian, some sort of Perfect Being. It's really not the case at all.'

But that afternoon she's pretty perfect.

When we're nearly home from the walk we have a frisky little s...o...b..ll fight on the front lawn, which differs from all the previous s...o...b..ll fights I've ever had in that no one is packing dog s.h.i.t or broken gla.s.s into the centre of their s...o...b..a.l.l.s. It's not even a s...o...b..ll fight as such, just a mildly aphrodisiacal tussle, the kind of self-conscious fooling around that feels as if it's being filmed, ideally with a black and white cine-camera. Then we go in and sit on the sofa by the fire to dry out, and she plays her favourite records, lots of Rickie Lee 172.