I float up the stairs and unlock the door of our flat.
'Lissy!' I call. 'Lissy, I'm in love!'
There isn't any reply, and I feel a twinge of disappointment. I wanted someone to talk to. I wanted someone to tell all about my brilliant new theory of life and—
I hear a thumping sound from her room, and stand completely still in the hallway, transfixed. Oh my God. The mysterious thumping sounds. There's another one. Then two more. What on earth—
And then I see it, through the door of the sitting room. On the floor, next to the sofa. A briefcase. A black leather briefcase. It's him. It's Jean-Paul. He's in there. Right this minute! I take a few steps forward and stare at her door, intrigued.
What are they doing?
I just don't believe her story that they're having sex. But what else could it be? What else could it possibly—
OK … Just stop. It's none of my business. If Lissy doesn't want to tell me what she's up to, she doesn't want to tell me. Feeling very mature, I walk into the kitchen and pick up the kettle to make myself a cup of coffee.
Then I put it down again. Why doesn't she want to tell me? Why does she have a secret from me? We're best friends! I mean it was she who said we shouldn't have any secrets.
I can't stand this. Curiosity is niggling at me like a burr. It's unbearable. And this could be my only chance to find out the truth. But how? I can't just walk in there. Can I?
All of a sudden, a little thought occurs to me. Suppose I hadn't seen the briefcase? Suppose I'd just walked into the flat perfectly innocently, like I normally do, and happened to go straight to Lissy's door and happened to open it? Nobody could blame me then, could they? It would just be an honest mistake.
I come out of the kitchen, listen intently for a moment, then quickly tiptoe back towards the front door.
Start again. I'm walking into the flat for the first time.
'Hi, Lissy!' I call self-consciously, as though a camera's trained'on me. 'Gosh! I wonder where she is. Maybe I'll … um … try her bedroom!'
I walk down the corridor, attempting a natural stride, arrive at her door and give the tiniest of knocks.
There's no response from inside. The thumping noises have died down. I stare at the blank wood, feeling a sudden apprehension.
Am I really going to do this?
Yes, I am. I just have to know.
I grasp the handle, open the door — and give a scream of terror.
The image is so startling, I can't make sense of it. Lissy's naked. They're both naked. She and the guy are tangled together in the strangest position I've ever, ever … her legs are up in the air, and his are twisted round her, and they're both scarlet in the face and panting.
'I'm sorry!' I stutter. 'God, I'm sorry!'
'Emma, wait!' I hear Lissy shout as I scuttle away to my room, slam the door and sink onto my bed.
My heart is pounding. I almost feel sick. I've never been so shocked in my entire life. I should never have opened that door. I should never have opened that door.
She was telling the truth! They were having sex! But I mean, what kind of weird, contorted sex was that? Bloody hell. I never realized. I never—
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and give a fresh scream.
'Emma, calm down!' says Lissy. 'It's me! Jean-Paul's gone.'
I can't look up. I can't meet her eye.
'Lissy, I'm sorry,' I gabble, staring at the floor. 'I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do that. I should never have … your sex life is your own affair.'
'Emma, we weren't having sex, you dope!'
'You were! I saw you! You didn't have any clothes on.'
'We did have clothes on. Emma, look at me!'
'No!' I say in panic. 'I don't want to look at you!'
'Look at me!'
Apprehensively, I raise my head, and gradually my eyes focus on Lissy, standing in front of me.
Oh. Oh … right. She's wearing a flesh-coloured leotard.
'Well what were you doing if you weren't having sex?' I say, almost accusingly. 'And why are you wearing that?'
'We were dancing,' says Lissy, looking embarrassed.
'What?' I stare at her in utter bewilderment.
'We were dancing, OK? That's what we were doing!'
'Dancing? But … why were you dancing?'
This makes no sense at all. Lissy and a French guy called Jean-Paul dancing in her bedroom? I feel like I've landed in the middle of some weird dream.
'I've joined this group,' says Lissy after a pause.
'Oh my God. Not a cult—'
'No, not a cult. It's just …' She bites her lip. 'It's some lawyers who've got together and formed a … a dance group.'
A dance group?
For a few moments I can't quite speak. Now that my shock's died down, I have this horrible feeling that I might possibly be about to laugh.
'You've joined a group of … dancing lawyers.'
'Yes.' Lissy nods.