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"And the Balls-up Award for tonight goes to 3;" shouted Don with a flourish, as the Jenny Dangs and Margaret settled themselves into the tight seating around their table. The Balls-up Award had recently been instituted by the band for the person who made the worst mistake at that night's gig. The prize, or more accurately, the penalty, for winning the award was to wear for the duration of the evening a garish, bright yellow tee-shirt with "Balls Up Artist" and a picture of Pee Wee Hermann emblazoned on it, and to pay for the starter course and first round of drinks: the former was embarrassing, the latter generally crippling, as the other band members took advantage by ordering the most extravagant dishes and drinks on the menu. It was therefore a matter, not only of pride, but of financial prudence to avoid the award.

"Simone," the Jenny Dangs yelled in unison, each of them pointing at her head and gesturing animatedly. Simone laughed.

"Okay, it's a fair cop," she said. During one of their regular sets of jigs, at the conclusion of the first tune, The Geese in the Bog, when her fiddle was supposed to segue them into The Tenpenny Bit, she had launched instead into a completely different tune. Fortunately, Marie and Padraig knew the unwonted tune well enough to accompany her on the melody, while Jim and Don fell back on a very basic 3/4 rhythm, and the band played it out as a session piece. Some of their regulars, who had anticipated The Tenpenny Bit, had shown a deal of surprise, but other than that the band had managed to play their way out of it successfully; not that this was going to rescue Simone from her fate as Balls Up Artist for the evening.

"The most spectacular balls-up in ages, that was. How can you play the wrong tune for God's sake? We must've played that set hundreds of times," chided Don good-humouredly.

"I know, I know. It's because I was listening to the Boys of The Lough earlier. They do The Geese in the Bog; in fact it's where I learned it; but they follow it with The Connaughtman's Rambles and I just went into it without thinking."

"Anyway, tonight's winner of the yellow jersey," said Marie, pulling the tee-shirt from her bag. "Yours, I believe."

Simone took the tee-shirt with a sheepish grin. "Okay, I'll wear it. But it's too bloody hot in here to wear it on top of what I've got, so if you don't want to know the score, look away now." Deftly, she pulled her own tee-shirt over her head and sat, momentarily, in the middle of the Indian restaurant in only her bra. Padraig and Jim let out a loud cheer, alerting the rest of the diners to what was happening, and as they looked round Simone quickly slipped the "yellow jersey" over her head and slid it down her body. "There," she said, shaking her shoulders and brandishing her chest seductively, "what do you think?"

"Stunning," they cried in unison. They always did.

"And now the starters," said Don. "What have we got? A boti kebab with lamb for £6. That'll do me." The others followed suit, selecting their, mostly expensive, starters and choosing extravagant cocktails, then ordered their main courses as well, opting for the usual range of strengths from phal, for Padraig, to korma for Jim, whose mouth exploded when confronted with hot food. Only Margaret foreswore the expensive starter and drink, ordering a plain mushroom bhaji and a half of lager from the elderly waiter. He repeated the group's order laboriously and loped away.

"The Goan Goer's on form tonight," said Marie, nodding at his retreating body.

Simone smiled at Margaret. "My saviour," she said to her. "I'll be able to afford to eat again by Wednesday now, instead of Thursday, thanks to you."

"My pleasure, my dear," Margaret replied. "Wouldn't want you wasting away, now, would we?"

"She'd be alright," said Jim, "plenty of fat in those thighs. Keep her going for a month, they would." Simone slapped him playfully across the head.

"Behave, big boy, or I'll use these thunderthighs to suffocate you with."

"Cor, would you really?" Jim replied enthusiastically.

"D'oh!" sighed Simone, with a theatrical slap of her head. Jim had long since accustomed himself to being the butt of the group's jokes and, in fact, revelled in it. Like many shy people, he used humour to counter his nerves, and his gaucheness only served to further endear him to people: he was someone it was impossible to dislike.

A different, younger waiter approached the table with their drinks and settled them down. "Evening, guys and gals," he said.

"Hi Rashid, how's it going?" asked Simone.

"Oh, pretty good. Quiet night, really. Always happens when you lot play; everyone heads out of town for the night to escape. Is that you ballsed-up again Simone?" he said, indicating the tee-shirt. "That F# gets you every time, huh?"

"You wouldn't believe what she did tonight, mate." said Don, shaking his head.

"And you missed her putting on the yellow jersey," interjected Jim. "Flash of the day."

"Damn, I missed that?" smiled Rashid. "No chance of an action replay, I suppose?"

"Not unless you want to waive the bill, sunshine."

"Hmm, tempting. Might just do that. I'll see if the manager's in." He returned to the kitchen with a laugh and a wave. Jim hooted.

"Let's hope the manager's out, eh?" he bellowed.

"You're that close to a good slapping, young man."

"There's no point threatening him like that, Simone. He'd love it," said Padraig.

"Sadly, I think that's probably true," murmured Simone, "isn't it, sweetie?" She ruffled Jim's hair affectionately. Jim smiled broadly, but said nothing.

"My God, we've silenced him. Someone make a note of the date. Jim Beam speechless 3;" Don laughed. Jim Beam, the nickname for Jim coined by Margaret, had been quickly adopted by the rest of the band, most enthusiastically by Jim himself, who refused to refer to himself as anything else. This had caused a sticky moment when he was stopped by the police for speeding outside the County Hospital the week before, and gave his name as Jim Beam while handing over a driving licence bearing the name Jim White: only his good-natured guilelessness had saved him from arrest.

"I only ever saw Jim speechless once," said Simone. "A few years ago, in third year of High School. D'you remember it, Jim?" From the agonised look on Jim's face it was clear he did, and the rest of the band, too, were evidently familiar with the story, broad smiles breaking out on their faces. For Margaret's benefit, Simone outlined the high farce which led to Jim's suspension from school for a week. Mr Finchley, the Biology teacher, was late arriving for class one morning and Jim took advantage of the unexpected freedom to wreak havoc in the biology lab. While trying to swat a fly on the window, he leaped onto the radiator pipe which ran along the skirting board. Even then Jim was a big boy, and the pipes were old; and unfortunately he landed square on top of one of the joints, which instantly gave way. Immediately, a thin but powerful jet of water leaped from the pipe and rose eight feet in the air. Panic stricken, Jim let out a yell for help, but his laughing classmates simply sat in their chairs and clapped. "Help me, for God's sake," he shouted, but to no avail. To whoops of delight and the strains of The Stripper, he whipped off his shirt and wrapped it around the pipe; it succeeded in slowing down the flow, but not in stopping it entirely and, howling with fear, the terrified boy stripped off his trousers and began to wrap them around the pipe too. This did the trick, and the plume of water abated to a tiny, pulsing trickle, but Jim was now standing in the classroom in his underwear, sopping wet and in floods of tears. Simone finally took pity on him and handed him Mr Finchley's white lab coat.

"And that's where it all went wrong, isn't it Jim?" she teased. Sadly, Jim was never able to let a crisis worry him for any length of time; he was delighted with this new prop and, thrusting his hands in the pockets, began flashing at the class as if he were a dirty old man in a raincoat. And it was at this point that Mr Finchley returned, just as Jim had opened the lab coat to its fullest extent, revealing his podgy body and dripping wet knickers. "What are you doing, boy?" Mr Finchley had roared at him, but Jim was too terrified to speak. "Where are your clothes? Why are you wet? Have you gone stark-staring mad?" Mr Finchley fired off enraged question after enraged question at the quivering boy, and the more he shouted, the less able to speak Jim became.

"I'm going to see the Headmaster," said Simone, mimicing Mr Finchley, "and when I get back I expect to see you sitting in your seat, fully clothed." Jim lowered his head into his hands and the Jenny Dangs roared with laughter in anticipation of what happened next.

"And?" asked Margaret.

"So, poor Jim was terrified out of his wits," continued Simone. "But he did it."

"No."

"Yeah, he unwrapped his trousers and put them on. They were soaked through, of course, they must have been freezing. And then he unwound his shirt and put that on too. Which meant, of course, a bloody great jet of water spurted out of the fractured pipe again, landing half way across the room, just behind Jim's desk. And Jim squelched over to his seat, looking like a creature emerging from the black lagoon, and sat down at his desk, this picture of absolute misery, soaked from head to foot, with a torrent of water breaking over his head. Then Mr Finchley and the Headmaster came back...."

By now the group were uncontrollable.

"Flooded the needlework class on the floor below..."

"We all got the rest of the day off..."

"Suspended for a week..."

"I still swear a rainbow broke over his left shoulder at one stage..."

"And throughout it all, he never said a word..."

"Not a word. For two days..."

"He ended up with a temperature of 101 as well..."

"Nobody ever knew if it was the cold that caused that, or the shock..."

"But at least he got his own back on Mr Finchley in the end," said Simone.

"Oh no, don't bring that up," pleaded Jim.

"How?" asked Margaret.

"Well," said Simone, smiling at Jim and stroking his shoulder gently, "it was a very hot summer afternoon, quite a bit later, maybe even the next year?" Don nodded his agreement. "And there were a lot of flies around. Mr Finchley was late again: he often was, he was a terrible teacher. Now, we all knew that Mr Finchley kept his sandwiches in the fridge in the back office. And somebody..."

"It was you, Simone," shouted Jim.

"Somebody," she continued, "suggested it might be a good idea to swat some of those flies, and add a bit of protein to Mr Finchley's sandwiches."

"You didn't."

"HE did," Simone replied, jerking her thumb at Jim. "Twelve flies he put in those sandwiches..."

"Oh, Jim, that's gross," Margaret laughed.

"And on that note, here come the starters...."

Rashid appeared at their table and began handing out the starters. "Manager's out," he said, looking at Simone. "How about a ten percent discount? Would that get me a repeat showing?"

"Ten per cent? Forget it, sunshine."

"What will it get, then?"

"Ten per cent? Let's think. For ten per cent I think you could get a kiss."

"On the lips?" Simone paused, and rolled her eyes. Ten per cent would probably save her about £5; it was worth it.

"On the lips," she agreed.

"Lingering?"

"Don't push it, Rashid!"

"Okay, okay. It's a deal. When can I get it?" Jim cheered and applauded, relieved that attention had been diverted from his youthful misdemeanours and Padraig and Marie followed suit.

"When I get the bill; when I see that the ten per cent has been taken off. Not before. Haven't you got other customers to be serving, Rashid?"

"That's a promise, Simone" he tossed over his shoulder as he scuttled back to the kitchens.

The group settled down to their meal. The Raj was a favourite haunt of theirs, the best Indian restaurant in town and staffed, apart from the Goan Goer, by younger and sassier waiters who liked a bit of banter with their customers. They were intolerant of the rowdier elements, however, and there was scarcely ever any trouble. The band were well known and liked by the staff, occasionally performing impromptu sessions at their table in return for the price of their meal. "Makes a change from that bloody Ravi Shankar music you usually get," as Jim rather indelicately put it.

Don observed Simone as she ate, suspicious that something was wrong with her. As the meal progressed she fell into silence, picking distractedly at her food, nibbling at it unenthusiastically, and losing eye contact with her friends. For a few days she had seemed slightly distant, vaguely troubled, and although she had appeared quite boisterous earlier this evening, nonetheless something gnawed at the back of Don's mind, insinuating that all was not well. Nobody could fathom Simone: nobody was allowed close enough; but when Don had had his difficult period some years back he had become more intimate with her than anyone else, and he was more alert to her moods than the others, better able to pick up the nuances in her behaviour which betrayed her emotions. And he was sure she was bothered now. There were times, he thought, when her laid back and casual demeanour seemed slightly forced, slightly stilted and false. She also used storytelling to manoeuvre the focus from herself to someone else. The story about Jim was a perfect example: it was one the whole group, apart from Margaret, knew inside out; indeed, only Padraig hadn't actually witnessed it. Why, Don, wondered, had Simone chosen to tell that story just then? It almost fitted into the conversation, and nobody else had noticed anything unusual in her raising it, but Don felt sure she had done it to deflect attention from herself. So what was it that was troubling her?

"When are you going back to Derby, Simone?" he asked.

"Tomorrow. My friend Suzanne has to do a couple of re-sits and I said I'd go up and help her revise for them. She's really worried about them."

"If she fails?"

"Out. Off the course. Two years work wasted."

"Christ, no wonder she's worried."

"How long will you be gone?" asked Margaret.

"A week, I reckon. She's got the re-sits on Wednesday and Thursday, so I'll probably come back next Friday. Why, will you miss me?"

"Course I will. Who's going to take me cycling?"

Simone laughed, spearing a piece of meat with her fork and waving it carelessly in the air. "You should have seen her. Absolutely bloody crazy. A maniac on wheels."

"You went cycling?" asked Padraig, surprise registering in his voice.

"Yeah, round Rutland Water. Why d'you think I've been walking like a sailor with piles all day? Twenty six mile round trip. With Evil Kneivel here doing stunts and falling off left, right and centre."

"I only fell off once."

"Bloody miracle, too. Have you ever seen anyone stick their feet in mid-air and then do a handbrake turn at thirty miles an hour? On a bicycle?"

"Did you?" guffawed Padraig with amusement and admiration.

"Oh, you know, just a trick I learned."

He laughed again. "Do a lot of trick cycling then, do you?"

"Oh this and that. Learned it from a trick cyclist from the circus I picked up one night. Sergei, his name. Russian, very hot 3;"

"Sergei the cyclist! Bet he could ride 3;"

"Well, he had me in the saddle for hours. Showed me all his tricks. Boy, he had a few 3;" The others laughed and continued to probe Margaret for details of her cycling prowess, and of Sergei's.

"Excuse me," said Simone abruptly, rising to her feet.

"Hey up. Pit stop for the yellow jersey," shouted Jim as Marie got up to let her out. Don watched with some concern as Simone hurried to the toilets, but the conversation around him continued unabated. He caught Marie's eye and gestured towards the toilets, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head slightly. Marie understood his meaning and slid silently towards the toilets.

"Why do they do that?" said Jim. "Women? They always go to the toilets in pairs. Always. Why do they do that?"

"So they've got enough fingers to add up the IQs of the guys they're with," replied Margaret tartly.

Simone was staring blankly at the mirror when Marie entered the toilets. "You alright, Simone?"

"Yeah," she said, turning and smiling in a rather forced manner. "Yeah, fine."

"Been a bit quiet through the meal. What's wrong, worried about Rashid's kiss?" Marie replied lightly.

"Yeah, too right. He'll use tongues, guaranteed." They laughed, but a nervous silence descended. Simone continued to look in the mirror, twirling a lock of hair in her finger. She and Marie had grown up together; they were the same age and lived only a few streets apart, and had known one another longer than their memories could stretch, their parents having walked them together when the girls were still in prams. They had been inseperable as children, in the same class throughout school, taking the same subjects, going to violin lessons together and practicising at each other's house every night. Never apart, most people believed them to be sisters, and that was when the name "Fiddle Twins" had been established; ten years on, the name remained, and if they had grown slightly more distant as they matured, they were still as close as natural sisters.

"What d'you think of Margaret?" Simone asked suddenly.

"Margaret? I kinda like her. She's good for a laugh. Why, do you not?"

"No, no, I do. I do like her. It's just, sometimes, she's like really irritating, when she goes on about her fabulous sex life. Sergei the bloody cyclist, or the IT bloke from work, or somebody else, or somebody else. It's like, yawn."

"Yeah, she does lay it on a bit thick. Trouble is, it gets the guys going, so they egg her on. They get turned on hearing a woman talk sexy." Simone nodded, although she knew this wasn't strictly true: even when Margaret and she were alone she was still full of braggadocio.

"Suppose you're right. I'm maybe just a bit touchy tonight, looking for something to criticise."

"That's what comes of wearing that yellow jersey. Makes you cranky."

"Too bloody right." She laughed, but went silent again for a moment. "It's just 3; like, I don't know; when you started going out with Justin, how long did it take for you to get to know him? I mean, properly?"

Marie exhaled a surprised sigh, raising her eyebrows. "God, I don't know. We met about two years ago, but we've only been going out for eighteen months. I didn't fancy him straight away though. He did. He started chatting me up the first day we met. Typical bloke."

Simone smiled. "So how did you get off with him then?"

"At the Christmas bash at 'Albert's'"

"Yeah, I know that. I was there, remember. But how did you decide to go along with it? How did you decide he was the one?"

"Well, the ten voddies probably had something to do with it." They laughed. "But, I don't know. I don't think you do know, it's not a conscious thing. You just get used to people and then things kind of, like, develop, you know?"

Simone nodded unconvincingly. "Fair enough, I suppose they do just develop. But how d'you make the leap from lover to partner? How d'you know they're the right one?"

"You don't. You can't ever, can you? You have to go with your instinct."

"And how often d'you get it wrong?"

"Loads of times."

"'Count one to ten and he's gone with the rest.'"

"What?"

"Line from a song. Relationships wither and die. Such fickle things."

"Don't I know it. Remember Tommy? And Greg? And Stephen?"

"Stephen was only ten, though."

"Yeah, dumped me for the under elevens football team."

"They were a very good football team. Unbeaten all season, as I recall. But it's about trust."

"What is?"

"Friendship."

"Yeah, I suppose it is. And kindred spirits. Same outlook, similar beliefs. Compatible, I suppose I mean." It wasn't a big deal to Marie, not something she had ever given much thought to. Simone was too reflective for her own good at times, she considered, too intent on understanding and looking for meaning. It seemed a curious contradiction with her relaxed nature.

"Well, yeah," continued Simone, "they're like, the building blocks of a friendship. But it takes more than that. Hundreds of people have the same interests and outlook as me, but they're not my friends. There has to be something else."

"I don't know. You're making it too complicated. You meet someone, and if you like them and have something in common it just clicks. Like that. You've got loads of friends like that."

"Not really. Only the four of you."

"Rubbish. We're your oldest friends, yeah, but you've got dozens of others. Margaret, for example, or Suzanne. You're going back to Derby for a week to help her. What's she, if she's not a friend?"

"An acquaintance. All acquaintances. That's all." Marie looked at her curiously. Simone had a wistful expression on her face, far away, distracted. She was leaning against the sinks, her arms stretched back and hands gripping the surface, and her eyes were fixed unseeingly on the cubicle doors.

"And how do they become friends?"

"Trust."

"Trust?"

"Trust. Margaret, for example? Could you trust someone like her?"

"What's to trust? She's only a friend. You're not talking about shagging her or anything are you? You're not moving in with the woman. She's just a friend."

Simone laughed. "Yeah, yeah, you're probably right. You know me: analyse a problem into submission." She pushed herself from the sinks and stepped forward. "This bloody tee-shirt is revolting. I'm going to burn it when I get home."

"I wouldn't bother. Padraig bought twenty of them. Job lot, got twenty per cent discount for bulk."

"That doesn't make sense."

"I know, he paid £240 so he could get the 20 per cent discount. If he'd just bought the one it would have been £10."

"That's Padraig. So rational he's stupid."

"Just don't say it's his Irish genes." Marie laughed as she opened the toilet door.

"What Irish genes?"

"Exactly." They weaved their way through the tables back to the Jenny Dangs, who were now arguing about football. Margaret looked wearily at them.

"Thank God you're back. They're on to flat back fours and 4-2-2 and the like."

"4-4-2," corrected Jim.

"My mistake," said Margaret. She turned to Simone. "You okay?"

"Yeah, great. We've just put the world to rights."

"Ended world poverty," continued Marie.

"Cured global warming."

"Put an end to war."

"Did you find a way of making men put the toilet seat down when they've finished?"

"Don't be silly. We didn't have time for that."

"Ho ho," said Don haughtily.

Rashid arrived with coffees, and placed them in front of each of the diners. Leaving Simone's to last, he turned to her and puckered his lips into an exaggerated kiss.

"Would madame like the bill now?"

"Not yet, Rashid," she smiled. "Come back in a little while. It's a big moment: I've got to prepare myself." He laughed and departed in the direction of one of the other tables. "You're not into football then, Margaret?"

"Loathe it. I don't mind watching the players though. All those hairy thighs and tight butts."

"You do surprise me," she said laconically.

"I used to have a thing about Kevin Keegan. I remember when he got sent off in a cup final and whipped his shirt off. I had that picture on my wall for years."

"Kevin Keegan. Isn't he the bloke who used to have a perm?"

"Yeah, well they were very fashionable when I was a girl. My first boyfriend had one. Craig, what a wimp he was. Tiny dick. I remember being really disappointed when I saw it. My first one, and I expected something much more impressive."

"I expect he was only about eight, though," said Jim. The others laughed.

"Fourteen," corrected Margaret, smiling.

"Fourteen? Wowweee. Wish I'd known girls like you when I was fourteen. All the girls I knew were still playing with Barbie."

"That's because you were still playing with your Action Man when all the real girls were about."

"Miaoow," said Padraig.

"So what happened to Craig?" asked Jim, ignoring him.

"Craig? Poor guy. We got very close one evening, veryclose. And he started fumbling with me, and I started fumbling with him. As you do. And then I felt the size of it, and like I say, it wasn't what you'd call a marrow. More a broad bean. And I thought: no, no this won't do. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wanted something more memorable than this to take my cherry, so I pushed him away and said 'no!' really theatrically. 'No,' I said. 'I can't do this, Craig. I can't do it. Don't force me into this, I don't want it,' like the hammiest soap opera you'll ever see, and he fell for it, and started apologising to me, and his little dick shrivelled up, and, well, that was that."

"Okay," said Simone, getting to her feet again. "I'm going home."

"What?" said Marie.

"Sorry, I'm just a bit bored with this conversation. And anyway, I've got to be up early in the morning to get to Derby. I'll see you all next week." Marie rose to let her through, and the group watched in confusion as she fetched her coat from the rack. She looked back momentarily, her eyes fixed on Margaret's, and swept through the door into the night.

"What was that about?" asked Margaret, a look of shock on her face.

"Search me," replied Jim.

"What did I say?" she continued. "What have I done? Have I upset her?" Margaret seemed genuinely perplexed.

"Margaret," said Don, "Simone is a woman of hidden depths. Nobody understands her; it's why we all love her. All I can say is that you may have hit a raw nerve." And, he thought bitterly, you have no idea how raw, or how painful, you stupid woman.

"But what did I say? I'm really sorry." "Like I say, you hit a raw nerve. There's things you don't understand. I'm telling you, Margaret, don't ever hurt her." "Hurt her? Why on earth would I do that?" At that moment Rashid returned to their table, giving an unwitting, yet comic, double take when he saw the empty seat where Simone had been. "Where's she gone?"

"Sorry Rashid," said Marie. "It must have been too much for her. She just upped and went. Obviously the thought of your kiss reduced her to a quivering mass..."

"Bollocks," he cried. "I've already done this bill with a ten per cent discount. Where's my kiss?"

"Jim, can you oblige?" asked Don. Jim grinned and pursed his lips like Les Dawson.

"Oh, hang on," said Margaret exasperatedly. It seemed that her evening had gone sour, and she wanted it to end. "I'll get the bill."

"And the kiss?" asked Rashid.

"And the kiss. Come here, lover boy." Rashid bent over towards her, and Margaret grabbed his neck, gripping him tightly and pulling him towards her; she fixed her lips on his and commenced a long, deeply lingering kiss. Finally releasing, she pulled her head back from him. "Debt paid?" she asked.

"I would say so. Have a nice evening ma'am."