Coconuts and Wonderbras (2 page)

    ‘He is ultra-gorgeous though, you have to admit that.’

    ‘I wouldn’t even know what he looks like.’

    ‘You’re the only woman who doesn’t then,’ she scoffs, flouncing off to the bathroom.

I take the opportunity to see if Toby has sent me a text. Disappointedly I throw my Blackberry back into my bag and clear the dishes.

    ‘Bastard,’ slurs Issy sneaking up behind me. ‘He hasn’t texted you has he?’

    ‘He’s probably busy at work,’ I mumble, splashing soapy water over the plates and crashing them onto the drainer.

    ‘Where is Toby taking you for New Year’s Eve?’ she asks, taking a tea towel from a drawer.

    ‘Not sure. I have mentioned the party at the Glass Dome. It seems everyone is going there this year.’

    ‘I’ve promised myself I will only go if I have someone special to go with,’ she sighs.

She throws down the tea towel and gleefully hands me an envelope tied with a red ribbon.

    ‘This will cheer you up. Happy Christmas,’ she says nodding excitedly.

    ‘But it isn’t Christmas for three weeks. Blimey, you’re organised.’

I turn the envelope around in my hands and then place it beside my row of cookery books.

    ‘I’ll stick it on the tree as soon as it goes up.’

    ‘No,’ blurts Issy retrieving the envelope and sending a Gordon Ramsay cook book flying. ‘You have to open it now.’

    ‘Can you please mind Gordon. He is the closest thing I have to male company most days.’

She rolls her eyes and thrusts the envelope at me. I raise my eyebrows. Aren’t you just highly distrustful of presents that have to be opened weeks before Christmas?

    ‘Why?’ I ask suspiciously.

    ‘Because you have to use it by the end of next week,’ she sighs.

Ah, one of Issy’s second-hand presents. I open the envelope with trepidation. Please don’t let it be anything life affirming or God forbid, dangerous. I am still quivering from the hand-me-down bungee jump that she gave me for my birthday. Please let it be a cookery lesson or something equally as safe.

    ‘A makeover and photo shoot!’

    ‘It expires next Friday,’ she cries delightedly. ‘I’ve had the thing hanging around for a year, and then I thought of you. I really don’t need it, but you do, and I thought it would be a great present.’

Bloody cheek, what does she mean I need it? I try not to look crestfallen.

    ‘Come on; we are going to Madam Zigana’s after all.’ She throws my coat and gloves at me.

Oh no, not the psychic. I had hoped that the pizza and the Ben and Jerry’s would have made her forget all about that.

    ‘I can’t hobnob with the dead. I have nothing suitable to wear, and anyway Toby might phone and I would hate to miss his call,’ I protest.

    ‘God, you’re starting to obsess. Come on, grab a shroud and let’s go.’

    ‘But it’s snowing,’ I complain.

    ‘Grab a fur shroud then. Come on. She is doing a Christmas special and you are getting so maudlin these days, verging on depressing in fact.’

A Christmas special… God, it sounds more harrowing by the minute. I think a hand-me-down bungee jump would be less vexing. I would much rather snuggle up with a mug of hot chocolate and dream about Mr Right.

Chapter Two

    ‘This can’t be right,’ I whisper, although there is nobody around to hear us.

Madam Zigana’s is situated in a sex shop in the sleazy part of town.

    ‘Shit, it’s a bit seedy I agree?’ Issy squints at the steamed up window.

I dread to think what is going on in there. I find myself visualising streams of mysterious smoke spiralling up from Tarot cards and encircling vibrators and sleazy books while videos of feverish coupling can be heard in the background.

    ‘A bit seedy, that’s an understatement,’ I mutter, keeping my head down.

God, what if someone sees us here, like my mother, or Toby or even worse, the vicar. Not that I know the vicar, of course. I swear my nose is turning blue, and I can barely feel my feet. I’m relieved to see that Madam Zigana’s fortune-telling parlour is actually in the basement of the sex shop.

Okay, so it wasn’t so bad. It was actually a relief to get away from my own thoughts. Shame the whole thing cost us sixty quid. Thirty quid each that is. Correction, it cost me sixty quid. Did I mention that Issy doesn’t carry money?

    ‘I never carry cash darling, so common.’

Good job I’m common then. Madam Zigana offered to get her crystal ball if we stayed another ten minutes and paid another fifteen quid. What a rip-off. I almost asked Madam Zigana if, along with her Christmas special, which by the way we never heard any more of, did she by any chance have a two for one offer. You can’t blame a girl for trying, can you? The trouble is I am already broke, what with it being Christmas and everything. I had spent a small fortune on dieting food and other bits that Weight Watchers and Rosemary Conley swear are important if weight loss is to be achieved. You know the kind of thing, weighing scales, tape measure, pedometer, skin-firming cream, not to mention the exercise DVDs and packs of special diet food, which are half the size but twice the price of normal stuff. My bathroom looks like a miniature gym. Anyway, back to Madam Zigana who failed to conjure up any dead people, or if she did I failed to notice. In fact, it was so dark and cold in there I failed to notice very much at all. I could barely see the Tarot cards. My future as told by a Manchurian fortune teller and based on some accidentally dropped Tarot cards and for the amazing price of sixty quid is, hold your breath… By the end of the week I will make plans to travel. I will meet a dashing man whose name begins with B or T, ‘
you will fall at his feet, my lovely
’ and have an opportunity to change my whole appearance. I also need to gain more confidence. My mother could have told me that for the cost of a lemon drizzle cake and a ten minute ‘how to use your mobile phone’ tutorial.

    ‘
Time
, my lovely,’ she had pounced on me as we reached the door and grabbed my arm with her bony hand. ‘I’m getting a message to warn you that
time
is important. Should I get the crystal ball?’

Tell me something I don’t know. I’m late for everything.

    ‘Look to the clock dearie. Don’t forget that. A few minutes can change the path of your destiny. A few minutes can make all the difference.’

Fifteen pounds difference in your case if you get your crystal ball. What a load of rubbish. I don’t know anybody whose name begins with a B and considering Issy let it slip that my boyfriend’s name is Toby was not surprised the initial T came up. I have no plans to travel, unless of course it’s for my honeymoon, and the last time I thought about changing my appearance was, good Lord, it was about an hour ago when Issy gave me her present. Oh well, one out of three is not bad for sixty quid is it? Issy is told she will meet her soul mate in the most unusual circumstances. Considering Issy finds herself in unusual circumstances much of the time I assure her that she will meet her Mr Right long before I do.

Issy hails a taxi and I lurch toward it and by lurch I mean, literally. My eye catches something familiar and I lose my footing. My feet skid on some ice and I fly arse over tit and land on my bum with legs flayed, and would you believe it, right at Toby’s feet. Good heavens, Madam Zigana truly is prophetic. I try to speak, but the breath is knocked out of me. Not from the fall, you understand, but from seeing Toby, and not just from seeing him but seeing him emerge from the sex shop. What is my boyfriend doing in a sex shop when he is supposed to be working? And what is that in the brown paper bag he is holding? And why does he smell very distinctly of Trésor? Oh God, my boyfriend is a pervert. This could only happen to me.

    ‘Libby,’ he exclaims, as though it had been us and not him that had waltzed out of the sleazy sex shop with suspicious brown paper bags in our hands. He doesn’t even attempt to help me up.

Issy takes my hand and with one strong pull, yanks me onto my feet.

    ‘Toby,’ she exclaims back, ‘fancy, bumping into you here.’

    ‘Yes,’ I say in a hoity-toity voice, ‘fancy seeing you here.’

    ‘Small world isn’t it?’ giggles Issy, and I shoot her my best dirty look.

Toby coughs, sounding like a strangled choke.

    ‘It is, isn’t it? I mean, who would ever have thought I’d see you here. What were the chances of that happening?’

Yes, Toby, what were the chances of your girlfriend catching you coming out of a sex shop?

    ‘I mean, what a coincidence,’ he continues, his voice rising by an octave.

Good Lord what is he on? He is talking out of his arse. Speaking of arses, mine is beginning to feel like it has frostbite.

    ‘It’s not so odd,’ I say flatly, while at the same time thinking how sexy he looks.

    ‘No, I know, but…’

    ‘I suppose the chances of us all being here at the same time…’ butts in Issy.

What is Issy saying? Is there something in the air which hasn’t hit me yet? Issy swishes back her long blonde hair in an elegant fashion and shakes her head in the direction of the taxi. I shrug and lower my eyes to the brown bag. Maybe he has bought me some sexy underwear for Christmas. Yes, that will be it. Good God, we will be romping for England all over Christmas. Well, that can’t be bad seeing as we haven’t romped at all in the past few months, well, not much anyway. The truth is, my old rusty vibrator has seen more action than Toby. I swear the quality time I spend with my vibrator is unhealthy. An uncomfortable silence is broken by the ringing of Toby’s mobile. We all stand freezing our bollocks off waiting for him to answer, but he just stands there with a foolish grin on his face.

    ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ I ask through chattering teeth. It is freezing. I swear if we don’t all move soon they will be digging us out with a snowplough.

    ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he answers stupidly.

    ‘It might be work,’ I suggest.

    ‘I don’t think it is.’

What a lying, shagging, deceiving, two-faced little shit. He knows damn well it isn’t work. To think I made the two-timing little runt a cake too and stupidly considered having a gastric band fitted and a possible spine severing. Now what do I do? Of course, I should march off all defiantly but pride before a fall, as my mother would say. She says a lot of rubbish to be honest but right now keeping my pride seems a good idea. Anyway, I can’t possibly go to the Christmas party alone tomorrow can I? I know Issy will, but she has the kind of confidence to carry it off, whereas I have, well I have no confidence to carry anything off. So, right there, right then, with my nipples turning to ice I decide to stop wearing sturdy pants and roll on girdles that make me heave each time I breath in and finally go on a diet that works. I also decide to chuck Toby after the Christmas party. A few seconds after these great decisions are made he leans across and plonks his frozen lips onto mine, and I melt, that is my frozen heart melts. I find myself saying breathlessly,

    ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

    ‘I love you Libby. You do trust me don’t you?’

I nod. Issy sucks in her breath and mumbles something which sounds very much like ‘prick’ before bundling me into the taxi. Maybe I can give Toby another chance. After all, not answering his phone is not concrete proof he is seeing someone else is it? I really should stop jumping to conclusions all the time. Issy tells me the answer to all my problems is a good shag, and I don’t think she necessarily means with Toby either.

    ‘You’re not getting enough,’ she says knowingly.

How Issy ever got a job as an agony aunt is beyond me. I shake my head in despair.

    ‘Right, I’m taking you to
Dirty Doug’s
,’ she announces.

Don’t panic, it isn’t anywhere near as disgusting as it sounds. Issy is a bad advice columnist but not that bad a friend. Dirty Doug’s is the new ‘in’ place in town and not a male prostitute about to give me the shag of my life. I really don’t want to go, but all that awaits me back home is Gordon Ramsay and my rusty old vibrator, affectionately known as
Orlando Broom.
How sad is my life? So with that thought in mind, I agree. We fight our way through the throng to the bar. So here we are. A typical Saturday night where the girls are slinging back their Smirnoffs and Appletinis, while doing quick mirror touch-ups.

    ‘What do you want?’ Issy shouts above the deafening Christmas music.

To leave seems the best choice.

    ‘A red wine,’ I scream back, thinking I really should say ‘diet coke’.

I step back onto someone’s foot.

    ‘Shit,’ mumbles the man behind me, ‘and a Happy Christmas to you too.’

    ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

    ‘Plenty of talent here,’ Issy observes, slamming the drinks down and flopping into a chair.

I sip from my glass and watch as droplets fall carelessly onto my white top. I watch Issy shove cheese and onion crisps into her mouth without any fear of retribution. I crunch a cashew nut and look for the toilets.

    ‘I’m going to find the loo,’ I shout above Wham’s
Last Christmas
.

After trudging up two flights of steps and along a narrow corridor I finally find it. Christ, no wonder no one else is about. It’s freezing up here. I quickly pee and dash straight out only to collide with the most handsome man. I feel like I have been hit by a truck, in more ways than one. I attempt to steady myself, fail miserably and rely on his strong arms to save me, which they do.

    ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.’

God, there’s enough of me. Which bit of me didn’t he see? He speaks in one of those clipped upper-crust voices. You know, public schoolboy type although I can assure you, he is not in the least schoolboyish. His voice is deep and as smooth as silk. He seems to have muscles where I didn’t know you could have muscles. It’s like he came out of nowhere and I’m beginning to wonder if I have come face to face with God himself, he is so perfect. Maybe I am having one of those epiphanies. Good Lord, and I practically fell at his feet. Madam Zigana gets more impressive by the minute. Dishes like this don’t come my way very often, at least not the human kind. This dark haired, blue eyed one seems to have dropped from heaven. He hangs his jacket over one shoulder and his starched white shirt dazzles me, making me wonder if he has shares in Daz. I thought Toby was attractive in a white shirt, but this vision in front of me is irresistible. It’s all I can do to stop myself from ripping the dazzling shirt off him. What am I thinking of? I’m in love with Toby, aren’t I? He looks questioningly at me, and I realise I am staring unashamedly.