Spinning Around Read Free

We’re both good girls who find bad boys attractive, though my bad boys were never as bad as hers, thank God, perhaps because I could afford to pick and choose a bit. Miriam couldn’t, as a rule. There were never many men interested in Miriam, I don’t know why. Because she wasn’t one to flaunt her bellybutton, or giggle a lot? Because she could often come across as rather formidable? The unhappy fact is, bad boys are usually lazy, despite their glamour—far too lazy to tackle a challenge like Miriam.
    Mind you, things have changed recently. She’s been with Giles for eighteen months now, and so far it’s been all seaside resorts and bagels for breakfast. That’s one reason why I haven’t seen much of her over the last year. It’s the old story of the New Man not having much time for the Old Friend (especially the Old Friend who can’t do brunch anywhere except at McDonald’s). Besides, I don’t like Giles. I’ve tried, God knows, because Miriam obviously thinks he’s wonderful , she can’t stop talking about how brilliant and stylish he is, and she’s right— he is. He’s one of those top-notch money market guys, smart as a whip, slicked-back hair, marble jacuzzi, that sort of thing. With a goatee, just to show everyone that he’s not your typical corporate animal. Obviously, Miriam feels that she’s met her match at last. But I can’t help wondering.
    The first time I met him, at a family beach picnic, he spent most of his time talking to other people on his mobile, while the rest of us polished our fillings on chicken sandwiches full of wind-blown sand. I suppose it wasn’t his fault that, after this first disastrous effort at socialising, he had me labelled as a complete bonehead. (It’s hard to make coherent conversation when you’re trying to keep an eye on two kids—neither of whom can swim—in a beachfront setting.) But the second effort wasn’t much better. After practically taking out a second mortgage on the house, Matt and I had hired a babysitter for three hours and joined Giles and Miriam for dinner in the city. A Big Deal for us—our first night out in something like fourteen months. Anyway, although it was a pretty flash restaurant, with pretty fancy food, Giles had found fault with everything from the poor mobile reception to the pedestrian wine list. Not that he wasn’t an amusing whinger—you couldn’t help laughing when he compared his antipasto selection to something cleaned out of a badly maintained aquarium. But the way he talked, you found yourself wondering what he’d be saying about you, the minute you turned your back.
    He gave you the impression of a person who, though easily bored, was not easily impressed. Perhaps that’s why Miriam behaved in a slightly uncharacteristic way when he was around; she’s always been dry, but with him she was positively brittle. The two of them kept indulging in these witty, sophisticated exchanges about plastic surgery and tax havens and architect-designed beach houses. It made Matt and me feel like a pair of clodhopping preschoolers.
    In other words, quite frankly, I think Giles is a bit of an arsehole.
    Or maybe I’m just jealous, now that I’m not even ahead in the relationship stakes. I mean, I used to be the one who pulled the halfway decent men. It’s petty, I know. It’s unforgivable. It’s a measure of the depths to which you can sink, when you’re sleep-deprived. But I get so depressed when she starts talking about a peaceful stroll through the art gallery, followed by afternoon tea at Watson’s Bay. The last time we were at Watson’s Bay, Jonah dropped his chocolate ice-cream down the front of my white blouse, Emily trod dog poo all over the picnic rug, and Matt caught his hand in the stroller’s fold-out mechanism. Par for the course, I’m afraid—though I shouldn’t