Diane is sitting in the big white gazebo in Redway Park, waiting for her new found friend to make an appearence.

Diane's head is still pounding. Second hangover this week, she chides herself. Once again, she's sworn that she'll never touch alcohol again. Hopefully this time her vow will last for more then forty-eight hours.

It's a dull, over-cast day. At least it's not raining. Diane's been rained on a total of eight times this week, and she's getting pretty sick of it. At least it's not too cold today. She's wearing a baggy black velour jumper that hangs down to her thighs, along with leggings and strappy heeled boots. The jumper isn't exactly making her appear slimmer then usaul, but it's so comfy. Her makeup is taken off today, with splashes of red eyeshadow in addition to the usaul chav-meets-Cleopatra look she sports.

She's just come from the nastier area of town, where she was trawling through pubs and bars. It was mostly bored older men, or the unemployed, their glazed eyes staring blankly at a football game on the not really big screen. The park makes a nice change. It's orderly, green and pleasent. No one's trying to harass her, pick her up, or threatening to rape her.

She twists one of her black hoop earrings and glances down the neat gravel path.

Jessica woke up feeling sick and not quite sure where she was. The former wasn’t unusual but the latter was mildly perturbing for all of about three minutes. Then her brain kicked in and said: we’re at Diane’s house, remember? We got drunk last night, you and me, and broke into a girl’s apartment. Then we crashed here when Diane declared I was in no state to walk you home. And you should probably stop rooting through her drawers looking for muesli, there isn’t any.

So she’d taken some money she’d found under the couch, promising to pay it back, and found the note Diane left her to the tune of ‘meet me in the park at X time’. She’s brought some breakfast at the corner shop – a banana (potassium, it would be good for Billy) a packet of crisps (chips – Ruffles All Dressed, to be precise) and a carton of milk.

Then she’d left for the squat to go redress herself in slightly warmer and more practical clothing. The jumper she’s wearing belongs to one of the Quebecois lads. It’s grey, fleecy on the inside, hooded and comes down below her hips. It’s nice to feel swamped in something for once even if the white blouse beneath it is straining. Her jeans are sitting below her bump, which if not for the jumper would be on show once again.

She’s a bit late for the rendezvous. It took a while to find enough change about the squat to pay Diane back and she’s not really in the right condition to run. She shuffles to the gazebo instead, panda-eyed from staying out too late, and yawns as she waves to Diane.

Diane waves, getting up off the bench - and automatically pulling her jumper down to it at least covered her ass. "Jessie," she called. Her accent had righted itself, even if her head hadn't. "Good morning, luv. How're you feelin'?"

She wasn't about to let Jessica go home the night before. She was too tipsy and it was too far to wherever the hell the girl was living. So Jessica had stayed on the unfortunate couch in Diane's 'bedsit'. It was obnoxiously floral and had the stuffing coming out, but it had been free.

Diane herself slept on the floor in a mess of blankets. She usaully did. It was more comfortable then it looked, anyway. And there was definately nothing remotely interesting in any of the three drawers in the tiny kitchen. Some rubber bands, maybe, and half a can of beer. All Diane's clothing was in still in the beat-up pink suitcase next to the couch.

“No’ as bad as ah thought I would,” she replies carefully, and stamps from foot to foot. It’s one of those disgusting days that aren’t really cold but aren’t really warm either, where you can get far hotter than you thought when you run but don’t want to step outside without a brolly. Jessie thinks it’s got something to do with air pressure, or something.

“I had to borrow some money for breakfast. Sorry.” She scoops into the left pocket of her jumper and pulls out a couple of handfuls of coins. “There’s all it back, though.”

There had been something distinctly warren-like about Diane’s home. Or rather, something burrow-like. The squat was a warren; full of doors that led to places you didn’t expect them to lead to, lots of people, lots of artwork and occasionally some kids. Diane’s place looked like someone tried to cram their life into somewhere tiny and their life hadn’t accumulated much stuff. It was a very single bedsit.

Diane stares at the money like it's glowing and blue. "Where the hell'd that come from?" She wonders out loud. "Huh. I didn' know I had any money. Anyways, it's way too cold out. We should go find somewhere warm or something."

She didn't have breakfast. End of the month last-ditch crash diet, remember? She had a couple of lemonades in a couple of bars, but that's all. "Do you need an ibuprofen or summthin'," she adds. "For the head."

“Beneath yer sofa,” responds Jessie, who wouldn’t know a rhetorical question if it jumped up and down naked in front of her. She pours the change into Diane’s hands. There’s quite a bit of it because it’s mostly copper coloured, and came from busking Frenchmen.

“Nu-huh, huh, huh,” she yawns, “thanks. Surprised yeh haven’t eaten ‘em all already.” She gives Diane a weak smile. “From las' night, ah thought you’d be needin’ them.” In fact, Diane’s looking surprisingly good for a hungover wench. She’s even managed to do make-up. Jessie hasn’t worn anything beyond chapstick in at least a month.

Diane produces a tic-tac box with a couple pills, of assorted size, shape and colour, out of the front of her sweater and offers it to Jessica. "It's the oval white ones," she says. "What am I supposed to do with all that change? I mean, it's not mine, for starts. It must've belonged to the people whose sofa it was or somethin'. Also, no pockets."

She smiles cheerfully and offers Jessica the change back. Her lips are painted a bright shade of red. Make-up application - in tacky quantities - is automatic for her. She could do it with her eyes closed, drunk, or half asleep. "You'll have to carry it for now," she says.

Jessie opens her hands and takes the change back. She’s sure it’s owed to someone, but she’s no longer sure who; it was definitely Diane’s to start off with, and then it was her, and then she got more from... oh yeah. She should probably give it back. So she shoves it in fistfuls back into her pockets from whence it came, after shaking her head dolefully at the offer of pills. She’s not feeling too bad. Honest. Hardly anything that wasn’t solved by the banana et al.

“What’ve yeh been up to this mornin’ then, eh?” She asks, hands shoved deep in her now heavy pockets. She’s also started walking down the path.

It’s such a nice day for a walk, after all.

The pills are returned to their original location. "I was out walking," Diane says, grinning. She gets up and follows Jessica down the path. "Beautiful morning, if you keep moving. Otherwise you freeze."

She glances dubiously at her thin leggings. "Perhaps this wasn't the best choice of outfit, but my jeans are still damp from yesterday. Bloody rain. Although I guess I could've brought my coat. Were you sleeping it off, or what?"

The sky is looking like it just might rain again. Hopefully not, Diane thinks. She's gonna run out of clothes if she's not careful.

“Aye,” Jessie agrees carefully, “some of it, anyhoo.” She probably woke up a few hours after Diane had left. And thank goodness for the smoking ban and Jessie’s naivety as otherwise our Jess would’ve been able to tell exactly where Diane had been. One of the positives – or negatives, it’s a bit of a double-edged sword – about getting fat and hormonal is the increased olfactory abilities.

“Actually ah went back to the house to get you some change from the boys,” she continues with her mouth closed as she smiles. “An’ for me to get changed.” Badumpsht. She probably could’ve made a better pun out of that if she’d really tried.

"Where're you staying, then," Diane wants to know. She's not sure if this might be a sensative question somehow - or if Jessica trusts her enough to answer - but she figured she would ask, anyway. Her scuff toed boots are kicking the gravel on the walk. It's contributing further to their scruffinesss. "Or even, what boys?"

She wasn't doing anything questionable in the bars, or the pubs. She was just drinking lemonade, really. Talking to people. Drinking lemonade. Making idle remarks about who was winning the game and comiserating with people about that bloody smoking ban. Not that she cared. She didn't smoke. Too expensive.

Jessie smoked. She started at fourteen. She doesn’t any more, though, for obvious reasons. Quitting was one of her least favourite bits of pregnancy.

She shrugs. “Just some squat,” pronounced squaaaa, “downtown,” pronounced daowhtooh. It was no wonder Diane’s bitchy neighbour had been presented with difficulties trying to understand our wee Glasgae lassie. “An’ the boys are the ones letting me stay there. No’,” she adds hastily, “because, y’know, they want anything.” And she blushes beetroot. Almost six months and still blushing at the idea of sex. Oh dear. “No’, y’know, that there’s anythin’ wrong with the ladies who do tha’, or swap it for cash or anything! Ah mean, you’re a smashing lass, an’…” she trails off. Diane is looking bemused and Jessie worries she’s accidentally insulted her horribly.

Diane stares blankly at Jessica during her deluge of babble. It's not the accent that's the problem either. Then she breaks down laughing. "Ah," she starts, but her words are drowned again. It's not elegant. "I'm..." More giggling. "You..."

She pauses and takes a deep breath to stem the flow of laughter. "Sorry. That was uncalled for. But really..." she looks down at her outfit. "My clothes aren't that bad, are they? Although, I suppose you did see me in that skirt first. And 'nets. Which was a bit meh. But honestly, since when did hookers start wearing trenchcoats?"

She giggles again. "Still, it's good to know that I'm 'smashing', whatever my profession."

The blush burns Jessie’s ears beetroot before she starts giggling with relief. It takes a couple of seconds of Diane doing it before she catches on, unsure whether her new friend now hates her, and why exactly she’s laughing. Jessie’s giggles are interspersed with lots of lipbiting and inner groans. This is what she gets for jumping to judgement so quickly.

“Sorry,” she manages to gasp out in a break between chuckles, “ah really am, I just saw yeh at the free clinic, an’ most of ‘em looked a wee bit on the dour side, an’ I saw you all dressed up, an’ I thought…” But this is broken by giggles and comes in between Diane’s laughter. “No. Ahem. Just… I’m not really used to meeting ladies who’re all dressed up all the time, an’ you’d wear a trenchcoat too if yeh had to spend nights on the streetcorners in Glasgae, it’s bloody freezing!”

She grins. “Oh, you are.” Smashing, that is.

Diane grins. "Fair enough. I was dressed like a tramp, I guess. And it was a free clinic, and you didn't believe me when I said I was waiting for someone. But I'm not a hooker. Maybe a bit of a slut, but not actually getting any money for it. Ask me again next week, and maybe I'll say yes." She smiles, although it's not quite clear if she's really joking. "I'd been rather led to believe that to wear a trenchcoat in Glasgow is to invite the unwelcome attentions of the neds. Bit too goth for them, y'know."

"Anyway, no one in Glasgow, I'm afraid, could know the meaning of bloody freezing. People in other countries think it's cold. It never is, though. Not once you've lived through an Ontario winter."

“Oh aye,” Jessie agrees amiably, “most things are too goth for neds.” These things include, but are in no way limited to: wearing black, having long hair as a guy, not scraping your hair up as a girl, wearing boots instead of trainers, reading, and yes, wearing a trenchcoat. Also practising from grimoires. But Jessie’s keeping that one on the down low.

It’s plenty cold enough for Jessie, so she zips up the hoodie and tries to shove her hands even further into her pockets. “So how do you make your money then, if it’s not too personal for askin’?” If Diane’s not a whore she’s got to have some other way of bringing in the cash. Or, considering her apartment and wardrobe, maybe not.

"I'm, uhm, inbetween jobs," Diane says, grinning. It is getting too cold. "We should go somewhere warmer, really. But yeah. Bit of a problem. I had a falling-out at my last job. It ended in flames. Not literally. Literally, I threw a vase at my employer's head. Dirty fucking bastard he was, anyway. Which, given the rapidly approaching day of reckoning... also known as the rent being due.. is getting to be a something of an issue."

She's not saying this as if she's complaining. It's simply an honest answer to Jessie's question. "I should really be looking for work," she adds. "But I had other shit to do."

"Unlikely to be givin’ yeh a reference, then," Jessie states as delicately as is possible when the statement is followed by a hork and spit. "Sorry," she mumbles, "sinuses are playin’ silly buggers." She had a job for a while. It was at the ice cream place in the mall. Then they started poking into things like insurance (why she didn’t have any) and social security numbers (how she had managed to lose hers). So now she’s living in a squat in exchange for hating the English and occasionally doing the cooking.

"Anythin’ interesting?" The other shit Diane had to do, that is.

"Very unlikely," Diane agrees - although that would be something of an understatement. He threatened to call the police on her, and also to 'blood her' with an antique dagger. It wasn't a combination that inspired her with much fear, though.


"No, not really. When I say I have better things to do it really means I'm going to meander around and people-watch or go to the libraries. Libraries are really brilliant things, y'know. Warm and dry and free. It's about as good as it gets."

"Like book shops," Jessie agrees with a grin. Except libraries are slightly less likely to get you drunk and shouting at the neighbours. Not that it was the book shop that did that in the first place; it was the combination of two girls without any sense of decorum and a buttload of wine.

"Speaking o’which – book shops," she giggles and cringes, "well, sort o’book shops. More what comes after. Ah hope yeh dinna get into to much trouble with your new neighbour."

"Bookshops are very hazerdous places," Diane points out, smirking. "You go to bookshops and look what happens to you. You end up in the neighbour's apartment. Bloody bitchy neighbour, too."

"I don't think I'd have noticed if I did," she adds, in answer to whether she'd had trouble from the aforemention girl. "I slept like a freakin' log. But I figure she's way too scared of little..." Ha ha, little, "old us to actually do much about it."

Jessie stops to let a family of ducks go past. They’re the adorable sort you’re meant to get in spring but have decided to come out to play today, with the mother duck leading all her little baby ducks past. Jessie leans her head on Diane’s shoulder and lets out an ‘awww’.

"Ahh, but she might complain to the residents’ association or somethin’, aye? An' then you'd be in trouuuble." The residents – if they have an association – probably have far more to worry about than a drunken neighbourhood welcome. Stuff like the dripping sinks and creaky floorboards, which Jessie shouldn’t notice after living in a squat but still does.

"Awww, aren't they just the sweetest?"

It's a rather pointless sentence, but they are indeed adorable. "I think we are the neigbour's committee," she adds, grinning. "Wasn't that what we were saying, anyway? I wonder if there's a bylaw about not impresonating members of the neighbour's committee. Prolly not." She pauses thoughfully. "Nope, I think that it was Mrs. Black in the apartment above me. She was the committee. But she fell down the stairs and broke her hip, so she lives with her daughter now. In Nebraska, poor thing."

She’s very tempted to pick one up and take it home with her. Hormones can do strange, strange things to a naturally maternal pregnant woman’s mind.

"Well, that’s..." she pauses to reflect. "Naw. I’fact, that’s no' a pity. Most neighbours committees I’ve known have been full of inteferin’ awl bitches." She’s going to feel really bad now if Mrs. Black was a sweet old woman trying to make their neighbourhood a better place, which is why it’s rare for Jessie to vocalise her thoughts so clearly. Diane is obviously being a bad influence about the place.

They’ve reached the park gate by now with all this walking and are faced with having to make a decision: continue round the lake, or out of the gate to find somewhere less likely to tip down with rain at any second.

"Where're we going," Diane wants to know. "Keep walking? I think it's starting to rain, though. I felt a drop on my nose. So we might want to go somewhere drier. I think we both got a good soaking last night, although we perhaps didn't notice so much."

The good thing about Diane and her nose is that you can always tell. Raindrops leave splotches in her foundation - and there is indeed one, splat bang in the middle of her nose.

"Aye," says Jessie, squinting up at the sky. If it keeps drizzling her curly hair is going to turn to frizz. Again. "Don’t really know where’s near here, though. Apart from the mall, I think?" She’s not very certain when it comes to Bayfield geography and tends to just walk in roughly the right direction until she gets there.

Neither of them are exactly respectably dressed. They’ll probably fit right in at the mall, if it’s open.

"Unless it's moved," Diane agrees. She's of the opinion that Bayfield does that sometimes. Gets up and shifts around, moving streets and buildings until you're completely lost. "But it was last time I walked past, so we could try."

Misty rain is collecting on her hair. It used to get curly in the rain, but at the moment it seems to have forgotten how. It merely hangs, lank and damp, brushing at the soft shoulders of her sweater.

"To the mall, then," since they’re both now in agreement. The weather seems to be wanting them to go there too. Jessie pulls the hood up on her oversized grey fleece and pushes her masses of hair behind her ears. They might stick out but she doesn’t care if Diane sees them.

Being in her hood is like being in a particularly padded cocoon. Still, she’s not too keen on getting wet, so Jessie pulls open the rusty gate with some effort and waits for Diane so they can head of in a direction roughly where the mall might decide to be today.