Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend by Jenny Colgan Read Free Book Online Page A

came up to me and eyed me curiously.
     
    ‘Hey, lady!’ they shouted. Oh great. That was all I needed; was I going to be mugged by a bunch of children. Weren’t they all meant to be feral down here or something?
     
    ‘You want the Old Kent Road?’
     
    Help!
     
    ‘She doesn’t know where the Old Kent Road is,’ one said in disbelief.
     
    ‘NEH,’ said another one. ‘Let’s send her to Brighton, innit?’
     
    The one with the biggest bike, who was obviously the leader, hushed them with a look. ‘Old Kent Road,’ he said, indicating a wide traffic-filled road stretching miles into the distance, ‘is that way.’
     
    Then with what looked a bit like a nod, he took his little gang away. I felt oddly mollified, although the rain seemed to be falling a bit more heavily. I wished I hadn’t worn my Sonia Rykiel soft suede boots, but I wanted to impress these people into letting me move in with them and I figured these boots impressed everyone. Normally.
     
    Three quarters of an hour later I was very close to tears. The Old Kent Road is enormous . It should be called the Endless Fucking Old Kent Road that continually subdivides itself and refuses to stick to numbering rules, even if that would make it a bit tricky to fit on the A-Z .
     
    I was looking for 896a. I was on 165, with many, many diversions, hypermarkets, motorway underpasses and general miseries en route. My suede boots were getting a white rim right across the top, and my feet were killing me. And probably by the time I got there the flat would have already been rented to a Bulgarian pianist or the Australian water polo team or something, or I’d have to sit down and answer (as had happened recently in Harlesden) questions on what bands I liked. Take That had not passed muster.
     
    Every time I came to a row of houses I’d eye them up beadily. Quite often, it was true, to make sure somebody actually lived in them and that they weren’t just waiting to be knocked down. As I passed one hovel after another I’d let out a sigh of relief, and hope there was going to be a nice row of white stucco houses coming up after the next Cash and Carry. There never was though.
     
    After sixty-five thousand years, I realised this had to be it. My heart sank as I saw the wheelie bin half-blocking the gateway. A big green filthy wheelie bin with HANDS OFF graffittied on it in dripping white paint. I tried to push open the creaking iron gate that had rusted to immobility. I took a deep breath. Six months, I had to keep telling myself. Six months then back to my normal life, or what was left of it.
     
    I gingerly reached out my finger, noticing as I did so that I was in need of a manicure. Fat chance. Bits of rust were flaking off the gate. I wondered if I needed a tetanus shot. As I stood there on the threshold of the scrubby little patch of front garden, I hovered for a moment. I’d seen some pretty grotty apartments on my travels, but this had to be the worst yet. I didn’t even know where the hell I was.
     
    ‘You can come in - we don’t have a butler,’ came an amused-sounding voice. I looked up to the top of the four crumbling steps that led to the peeling front door. I glanced up. A burly chap with the most ridiculous mop of black curly hair strewn over his eyes - like one of those big shaggy dogs you see around - was standing there looking curious.
     
    ‘It just looks a little bit dangerous,’ I said. ‘The gate, I mean.’
     
    The man didn’t look in the least bit dangerous.
     
    ‘Yeah, we know. Keeps the crack dealers and muggers from sitting in the garden. Uh, kidding,’ he added hastily and not very convincingly when he saw my face. ‘Is it you I spoke to on the phone? About the flat?’
     
    ‘How did you know?’ I asked, gingerly pushing the gate.
     
    ‘I know, it’s amazing,’ he said, coming down to grab the gate - there was obviously a knack - and give it a solid twist. ‘Almost everyone phoning up about it sounded exactly