When Good Friends Go Bad by Ellie Campbell Page A

astrological symbols. More than once they found her hiding from Herb's wandering hands behind a dust-laden curtain or the life-size African fetish statue sporting a mammoth erection.
    Then at one party Starkey's blonde was conspicuously absent. Wandering on her own, carrying a glass of 7 Up with a lemon slice that she hoped made it look like a gin and tonic, Jen passed the open door to Herb's studio and saw Starkey sitting there, picking at the strings of Herb's beloved Stratocaster that none of them were to touch on pain of instant execution. He looked darkly morose, taking long drags on a joint resting between his lips, and Jen, lingering, might have moved on if he hadn't glanced her way and given the tiniest nod, summoning her into the room.
    'Meg told me you broke up with Astrid.' Jen never was any good at small talk, so she just said the first thing that came into her head. Starkey looked at her thoughtfully for a second, his dark eyes staring into hers as if waking from a dream.
    He played a few notes then said, 'She's better off without me. She wanted the whole hearts and flowers routine, someone who'd call her when he said he would, take her out every Friday, promise to be faithful, say he loved her. I told her when we met I'm bad news. I like my freedom too much,' then he sang, his voice light and ironic, 'but it ain't me, babe,' segueing into a Dylan tune.
    'Me too,' said Jen, sitting on a cushion by his feet. 'I like my freedom.' Which was vaguely absurd because firstly, who could be free when you were a schoolgirl and living with your dad, and second, no one had ever shown the slightest interest in taking it away.
    But Starkey nodded and simply said, 'Is that so?' The tune he was playing changed. This time Jen recognised it: 'Brown Eyed Girl'. (Since her obsession with Starkey her music repertoire had extended beyond the Pet Shop Boys and Sade.) As a browneyed girl herself, she couldn't help a little buzz of pleasure, as if he were personally serenading her. It made her bold enough to reach out her hand towards his fingers that held the joint, feeling very mature and daring.
    He shook his head and put the roll-up back in his mouth. 'Don't get started on this shit.' His voice was thick and husky. 'I like you the way you are, sweet and wholesome. How old are you?'
    'Almost sixteen,' Jen said with a mix of defiance and disappointment. Clearly he thought of her as a little girl. She stared at him hotly. 'And I'm not sweet.'
    Starkey grinned, playing the first few bars of 'You're Sixteen You're Beautiful (And You're Mine)'. Then he put down the guitar.
    'Let's see about that,' he said, pulling her from her sitting position on the floor towards him. His mouth pressed down on hers, his gentle kiss sucking all the air out of her lungs, the musky taste of marijuana on his lips and tongue. 'Hmmn,' he mused, when he let her go, his eyes burning holes in her tight T-shirt. He brushed her mouth with his for a second time. 'Sugar,' he said. Another kiss. 'And honey.' Kiss. 'And . . .' he kissed her a fifth time, 'could that be golden syrup? You're right,' he said, picking up the guitar again. 'Not sweet at all.'

Chapter 7
    Jen's head swirled, blood pounding in her ears, unable to make sense of the words Starkey was saying, or appreciate the apologetic glances Georgina was casting in her direction, as she picked up the American Express card that had fallen from Jen's numb fingers. Starkey had let go of her but she could still smell his aftershave, still feel his fingers on her arm, his traitorous kiss on her cheek. Georgina looked appalled and abashed, as well she might, the bitch, so close to getting away without Jen discovering her secret.
    Meg was already sinking back into her chair, her eyes flitting from one to the other, relishing the drama. She knew. Jen was certain. She'd been too quick to recognise him, surprised but not surprised enough. But how?
    Of course. Babs Pitstop. Blabberchops Babs, their old classmate who'd