Perfect Day

drink.’
    Frances looks at her suspiciously.
    ‘Anything the matter?’
    ‘No!’
    It’s as if they haven’t seen each other for six days, not almost six years.
    Nell’s slightly alarmed at how well Frances knows her. She’s grown used to being able to hide what she’s really thinking.
    For a moment, she wishes she’d stayed at home.
    Frances snips open a carton of apple juice.
    ‘It’s not cold. Do you want ice?’
    ‘Yes, please, if you’ve got some.’
    Frances opens the fridge, pulls the handle of the freezer compartment unsuccessfully, then takes a knife from the wire draining tray and begins to stab at the bulge of ice that’s growing around the freezer door.
    Nell can’t help noticing that the fridge contains just four items: a full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, an almost empty bottle of salad dressing, the distinctive orange rind of a wedge of Port Salut cheese, and half an avocado whose flesh has gone dark grey.
    ‘Don’t worry about the ice,’ she says.
    Frances is kneeling on the floor now, chiselling with determination. ‘It’s no problem,’ she says.
    Nell points at Frances ’s hair.
    ‘So, how long have you been...?’
    She wants to say aubergine, because that’s what the colour reminds her of, but it’s more red than purple.
    ‘Scarlet and Black?’ Stab, stab, stab.
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘It’s a great name, isn’t it? It was the name that I went for.’ Frances pauses, wipes the back of her hand across her forehead.
    ‘Suits you.’
    Nell’s not being entirely truthful. It is a strong colour, a very Frances sort of colour, but it makes her friend’s face look paler and older than she remembers.
    ‘Jesus!’
    A glacier of frost suddenly breaks away from the bottom of the freezer compartment and falls onto the scraps of food on the top shelf. Frances chucks the lump of ice into the sink, picks up the avocado, looks at it as if it’s a party guest she has found on her sofa the morning after and can’t quite recognize, then throws it into the bin.
    She extracts the reluctant tray of ice from the freezer and plops two cubes into Nell’s glass.
    ‘Do you want some juice, Lucy?’ she calls into the garden.
    ‘Yes, please,’ Lucy replies from behind a giant flowerpot of pink hydrangea.
    ‘Apple juice OK for her?’ Frances asks.
    ‘Fine, but no ice,’ Nell says quickly. She’s alarmed at having to consume such ancient ice herself. It tastes of fridge. She doesn’t want Lucy’s stomach to have to deal with it.
    Frances makes herself a cup of strong instant coffee in a mug she has cursorily rinsed under the cold tap, sits down, takes a cigarette from the packet of Silk Cut on the table, puts it in her mouth, sees Nell’s face, then puts it back into the packet.
    ‘I found grey,’ Frances says mournfully. ‘Have you found grey yet? God, it’s a horrible moment. You’re brushing away and suddenly you see it, and then you don’t, so you think it’s the light, but there it is again, so you pull it out and it’s not just grey, it’s white and it’s kind of coarse too. How does that happen? I mean, one minute you’ve got normal brown hair, split ends, yes, so, three Hail Marys and an Alberto VO5 hot oil treatment, but now, your hair’s actually mutating in front of your very eyes, I’m not kidding...’
    Frances ’s voice becomes more earnest as Nell begins to laugh.
    ‘The next day there’s another one, and after a while you’re stopping in front of every mirror you encounter, and I’m not just talking mirrors, I’m talking all reflective surfaces. Once you’ve found yourself ducking your head neurotically backwards and forwards to get a better look in your dinner cutlery’ — she picks up the knife she was chiselling the freezer with and demonstrates — ‘you know it’s time to dye. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you bloody natural blonde...’
    ‘Not quite so natural any more,’ Nell says, offering her own vanity up in return for Frances ’s confession. ‘My hair went mousy during pregnancy, and I now have a half head of highlights every three months.’ She picks up a few strands of her shoulder-length fair hair.
    ‘How refreshingly vain of you,’ Frances says, ‘you’re normally so casually beautiful, which, I have to tell you, has made me almost hate you ever since we met.’
    Nell knows she’s joking and not joking. Frances is honest about things that other people keep to themselves, like envy, vanity, and the overwhelming