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I could argue that myboobs are just as fake as yours and the only real difference between usis that I no longer care!" But Ophelia," I started before she interrupted me."And that's my biggest act of fakery - my name! It would take someonefar braver than me to go through life being called Ophelia with asurname of Cock-burn! I'm afraid that in daily life, I'm just plainold Penelope, or Penny to my friends. My surname is my real one butit's pronounced Co-burn!"And as I looked at her, somehow Penny "Co-burn" seemed to be a far moresuitable name for her than the contrived drag-queen moniker she'd givenherself the night before. Penny continued."And look at last night, my fakery was in overdrive. Like any othergirl, I like to have fun and even get a little outrageous but that'snot the normal me. I'd need to be a sex worker to live like that allof the time."I thought for a moment and started to fear that I too was part of herfakery."So was the sex fake?" Absolutely not. I was turned. "Damn it, Tim." Mike batted at the papers blowing off the table in the bitter wind and quickly crossed the room to close the door and shut it out.By the time he turned from the door, Tim was lowering the person, a young woman, onto the nearest bed.As Tim tore the bed apart to wrap the covers around her, Mike realised two things: the woman's clothes, too light for the heavy weather, were wet; and it was his bed Tim was destroying. "You just had to wreck my bed, didn't you, Timmy?" Mike grouched as he assessed the situation.The girl was obviously freezing, her skin ivory pale, lips blue, eyes closed. Violent shudders periodically wracked her body. She was still conscious, sort of, trying to help Tim but unable to coordinate her movements. "Where'd you find her?" Mike looked up at Tim as he began stripping off her thin coat and the sodden shirt beneath."She stumbled into the car park just as I got to the car. What are you doing?" Get undressed and get under the covers." Mike was now.
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You told me you didn’t want a friendship with a married man. I know I made up a story, but it wasn’t meant to hurt you… We’re friends. We’ve been friends for over a year. You mean a lot to me, our friendship means a lot to me. That’s the important thing.’ ‘Is it?’ His eyes held mine. ‘Yes.’ His hand reached out and touched my arm – tentative, conciliatory, warm. I didn’t know what to say. Nothing made sense except the man standing in front of me holding out his hand to save our friendship. ‘Come on, let’s go somewhere quiet where we can talk. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it – somewhere we could sit and talk and let the silences breathe?’ I nodded, grabbing my bag and letting him help me on with my jacket as if we’d done this a thousand times before. He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and together we walked out into the night. He took me to a coffee house just off Hawthorn. The winding stairs and small, intimate rooms housed sofas covered with far eastern throws and low.

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