Seems she wasn’t so happy with the arrangement. I buzzed her in, flicking on the kettle as she marched her way inside. She had new extensions in, even longer than the last.
“Nice hair.”
“Purest platinum,” she smiled, twirling for me.
“Tessa’s on a double shift today, won’t be in until late.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know I came to see you. Not still sulking, are you? I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”
“You were a bitch,” I said, handing her a coffee anyway.
“Can we be friends again?” She fluttered her ridiculously long lashes, giving me her very best please please please pout.
“We’ve always been friends. I just don’t want to spend time with someone who thinks I’m a fat, desperate embarrassment.”
“I don’t think that!”
I shrugged. “Not how it sounded.”
“We’d all had a few drinks, Gemma, don’t condemn me as the eternal sinner.” She took her coffee through to the living room, making herself well and truly at home.
“How’s the modelling?”
“Great,” she said. “Awesome, actually.”
That meant it wasn’t.
“Not shacked up with some ripped, fake-tanned celeb yet, then?”
She scowled. “I’m working on it. I want a footballer. Being a footballer’s wife would really suit me.”
“That’s your criteria, is it? A footballer? Any footballer will do?” I couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity. I must be a glutton for punishment, but I’d kind of missed the silly cow.
“A Premier League footballer. Preferably one that doesn’t look like Shrek.”
“Preferably?”
She shrugged. “Wouldn’t be a total deal breaker.”
“So, he must be in the Premier League, and preferably better looking than an ogre?”
“Yeah.”
“Fair enough.”
“I want that Spanish lad, Theo Fernandez from the Singers. He’s hot.”
My expression must have been completely blank, as it led her to pull out her mobile and shove Google images in my face.
“He looks about twelve.”
“Whatever, Gemma, how many twelve year olds do you know with abs like that?”
She had a point.
“I guess you’d better start hunting down this Theo Fernando, then.”
“Fernandez, and I already am...” There was that please please please pout again.
I’d been fleeced. “Spit it out, Chelsea, what do you want?”
“A coffee with my best friend!” she protested, but her story didn’t hold up very long. “Now that you mention it... there’s this club... Kings... down Kensington...”
“...and?”
“And I’ve heard the Singers are heading out there for Theo’s nineteenth birthday next weekend...”
“Good for you,” I grinned. “Go knock ’em dead.”
“I can’t,” she sighed. “I have no one to go with, Tessa’s working...”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “You want me to go with you? To some trendy celeb club? For real? I thought I was just your chubby friend?”
“Please, Gemma. I know you’re milking it, and I know I deserve it, but I really, really, really want to go to that club. Players don’t go out all that often... they’re athletes, on a strict regime... total machines...”
“How do you even know they’ll be out?”
“Claudia Lancett told me. She’s in with all the footballers wives, even April Redfern, so they say. You must know her, used to be April Kelly.”
“April Kelly? Wasn’t she in a girl band?”
Chelsea nearly spat her coffee across my cream carpet. “You can’t seriously be for real? Do you live under a rock or something? Cherry Electric, you know... I wanna love you, love you, love you, good. Love you, love you, long time, lonnng time.”
“They played that song at my twelfth birthday party. It was over a decade ago…”
“Yeah, well, she’s not as young as she used to be. Still pretty, though. She’s been married to Jason Redfern like forever.”
“And he’s another footballer?” I was winding her up now, even I’d vaguely heard of Jason Redfern. Captain of the England team, destined for a career of crappy TV ads once the football dried up.
“You’re so rubbish,” she chided. “You’d be the worst WAG ever. Good job you’re not...” Her face paused in this weird expression, as she stumbled over whatever stupid sentence was on her tongue.
“Good job I’m not, what? Pretty enough?”
“No, of course not,” she lied. “Interested... good job you’re not interested.”
Well played, Chelsea, good save. It got my hackles up, all the same.
“I’m sure your friend Claudia will be going to this awesome bash. You can tag along with her.”
She groaned, and it was a loud one. “She doesn’t like me! She only talks to me to show off, stuck up cow.”
“Why on earth doesn’t she like you?” I laughed. “You’re always so... pleasant...”
Chelsea looked at me deadpan, missing my sarcasm entirely. She flicked back her pure platinum mane, gave me the duck pout