Then there's Tara, slightly to the edge oh the shot. Short, spiky hair that Jane had bullied her into dyeing black, and a bright red bra visible through that thin white cotton of her shirt, which the stylist had bullied her into wearing so she'd look sexy. It hadn't worked. Tara could lok cute on a good day, but she never looked sexy. T is behind her. He always had to be at the back in photos because he didn't look right. I can just make out an eye and nostril poking out from his dreadlocks. When i spoke to Jane the other day, she said that she'd heard a rumor that T had shaved his dreads off, but i couldn't believe it. T withoust matted strands of hair was like Ant without Dec- wrong on so many levels.
An lastly, there's Dean on my left, looking every inch rock star. He's wearing a secondhand Hawaiian shirt, and his hands are in the pockets of his trousers, and he's hunched his shoulders slightly to work the tortured-artist thing. His dark brown hair is the usual mop-top riot. He'd been experimenting with a mixture of Brylcreem and coconut wax that month to get his hair to the desired lovel of messiness. Even now, when i smell coconut, i think of Dean and remember him glooping it through his hair and gettin Jane to pull and tug his curls while she bitched about getting her fingers greasy. I'm begining to wish i hadn't looked at the photo. It's making my stomach clench and knot. I rubb a hand across my belly, trying to massage the taut flesh.
There's a polite caugh behind me. Charles, my lawyer, has come back from the stationery cupboard where he was finding me a notebook. He places it on the table with a selection of pens. Not crappy Biros either but really nice fiber tips. No wonder he's so expensive. He pats me gingerly on the shoulder.
"Nothing to worry, Molly", he assures me. "Just write everything down."
"Everything?" I sigh. "I dont know if i can remember much."
Charles gestures to the folders on the table. " They should jog your memory," he points out. "But you need to be through. Even incidents and conversation that don't seem importante may help you case."
I pull a face but nod unwillingly. I know i'm being difficult, but i've spent the last few months on a blissful wave of denial, and now i have to relive the angst and betrayal all over again. No fair.
"Ok, i'll get busy with pen and paper," i tell Charles, trying to keep my voice light and carefree.
"Good girl," he says. "And don't skip bits. I'll be in my office if you need me."
Another avuncular pat in the region of my shoulder, and he's gone. I turn over the cover of the notebook, and the snowy white page stares back at me. I pick up a pen, and i begin to write: My name is Molly Montgomery, i'm nineteen years old, and i'm being sued for $5,000,000 by my former record company...