Coconuts and Wonderbras (7 page)

Oh my God. My sodding parents are off to the Himalayas while I sit freezing all alone in my little cottage having myself a very miserable Christmas. Honestly, they could have timed it better.

    ‘You can’t go to the Himalayas. It is Christmas. Besides, you should think of the children.’ I gulp down my wine and pour some more.

    ‘You’re an only child.’ Father smiles at me indulgently.

    ‘All the more reason, because I don’t have siblings to comfort me.’

Jesus, can things get any worse. Why didn’t Madam Zigana predict this? I’ve a good mind to return and demand my money back.

    ‘Anyway, you can’t. Not at your age, it would be obscene.’

I take my plate and help myself to lamb. Mother shakes her head.

    ‘The way you dive at food is obscene. Anyway, we are not going to the Himalayas for Christmas.’

Thank God. I let out a sigh of relief.

    ‘We’re going to Kilimanjaro for the
Kilimanjaro Christmas Extravaganza.
We are going mountain climbing.’

I choke on a potato and hold out my glass for dad to top-up. Bloody hell, I need to put myself up for adoption.

    ‘But it’s dangerous.’

Dad laughs and squeezes mum’s knee. Oh gross. I mean, they are in their fifties for Christ’s sake. There is something almost pornographic watching your dad squeeze your mother’s body parts. Can’t he just peck her on the cheek or something?

    ‘That’s not all,’ says mother excitedly, getting up. Oh no, what now? Any news I had is going to be a bit mediocre after this. Shuddering with excitement she produces a brochure and drops it at the side of my plate.

    ‘Now don’t get upset, it’s only for a week.’

I feel the breath knocked out of me. Oh good God, have they gone mad? Their gas fire must be letting out some kind of toxic fume
that has totally scrambled their brains. Heavens, they really have no idea what they are doing. I may need to wheel them down to the solicitor to get power of attorney before they go completely gaga.

    ‘A naturist holiday,’ I stammer, pushing the brochure away with my little finger. God knows where they got the brochure from, and heaven above knows who may have handled it before them. They are going on holiday with a load of perverts. I wonder if I should call the police.

    ‘Come on darling, do eat. If you have been dieting all week you must be famished.’

Yes, well my mother always was encouraging.

    ‘You can’t possibly go on a holiday where people are naked. You’ll have to be naked. And won’t it be a bit cold, a bunch of nude old people climbing up Mount Kilimanjaro in the middle of winter?’

    ‘Don’t be silly darling. It’s for when we get home. It’s in Weymouth, and we won’t be going until later in the year.’

    ‘But you’ll be naked,’ I say again.

Mother nods and rubs her hands together excitedly. I push my chair back.

    ‘I won’t have it. What if the photos get on Facebook and what about Christmas?’

    ‘You said you wanted a quiet romantic Christmas with Toby, so we started to plan our bucket list, didn’t we dear?’ says mum, leaning seductively across the table and stroking dad’s thigh.

Christ, I swear my parents do it more than I do. Although at the moment everyone will be doing it more than I do, considering I am not doing it at all. I down half my glass of wine to drown my sorrows.

    ‘Yes, well we broke up didn’t we?’

    ‘What? When did that happen?’

    ‘Last night. I saw him kissing Serena Lambert.’

    ‘What a knob,’ says mother angrily.

Yes, a knob indeed.

    ‘I know, a real prick,’ I agree miserably.

    ‘Oh dear, and he seemed a jolly nice chap for an architect,’ chips in dad in his usual preoccupied way.

    ‘A journalist, you remember? He’s a writer.’

    ‘Oh, jolly good.’

Oh jolly hell.

    ‘Let’s not get maudlin,’ scolds mother. ‘Have more vegetables otherwise you’ll get constipated, and after dessert I want you to get me onto that bird thing. Everyone at the Health and Beauty club is on it.’

Sounds like a class ‘A’ drug. Maybe I should get on it too.

    ‘I think you mean
Twitter
don’t you?’

    ‘Yes, that’s it, and then I can chirp away.’

    ‘Tweet away.’

Good God, are people their age allowed near computers? It really ought to be illegal. Perhaps I should set up some kind of parental control. Otherwise, before I know it, they will have their gross nude bodies all over the Internet. What a thought! I can’t believe my parents are jetting off to God knows where, and over Christmas too. I debate telling them about Alex Bryant and his God-awful book when I spot it sitting on the coffee table. Dumbstruck, I point at it and splutter something incoherent, almost choking on my vegetables. My parents are not only abandoning me to go mountain climbing but they have betrayed me and bought the enemy’s book.

    ‘Oh yes, I meant to ask you about him,’ says dad, leaning forward to retrieve the book.

    ‘George at the bowls club said he heard that Bryant was signing with Randal and Hobson. Jolly good show. He’s an ex-military man you know. Excellent book.’

I am stupidly speechless.

    ‘Quite the heart-throb,’ says mum, leaning over dad and literally drooling over the photo of Alex Bryant. ‘Now, he would be a good catch for you…’ she trails off after giving me a fleeting look.

I stand up.

    ‘If only I wasn’t so fat, right? Well, Alex Bryant is an egocentric know-it-all and he is not fit to wipe my arse. He is nothing but a wanker,’ I fume, remembering the upset he had caused the night before.

I storm from the room.

    ‘I can’t think what possessed you to buy his book,’ I call over my shoulder.

    ‘Libby dear, we didn’t bring you up in Essex you know,’ exclaims mother.

    ‘Oh dear,’ groans dad.

    ‘They have obviously signed him at Hobsons then,’ says mother loudly as I crash around in the kitchen.

I hack at the strawberry pavlova imagining it is his head. I storm back in with three dishes.

    ‘I’m thinking of waitressing,’ I state bluntly, slamming the dishes onto the table. Mother winces and dad mumbles, ‘Lovely dear, you’ll look nice in one of those aprons with the frills.’

    ‘I would think most women would consider Alex Bryant more than fit enough to wipe their arse. In fact, he can wipe my…’

    ‘Mother, please…’

I hand her my dish and watch her pour double cream over the pavlova. I really should ask for yogurt I suppose. Why isn’t there a pill that would just magically spirit away the fat, this is the twenty-first century after all. Honestly, of all the places where I felt sure I could forget about the wanker it was at my parents and here is my mother, frothing at the mouth over him. I decide it is best to drop the subject before she orgasms over the After Eight mints. How can I ever be expected to stick to my diet when everyone keeps talking about my love life, or rather the lack of it? I shamelessly help myself to another serving of pavlova and wash it down with more wine. There is silence until dad says,

    ‘You’ll need hygiene training, health and safety and all that rot.’

Mother and I stare at him. Surely he’s not talking about Alex Bryant and the wiping of my arse?

    ‘If you’re going to be a waitress, you’ll need hygiene training.’

Ah, yes of course. The thing is, do I really want to waitress? I would most certainly struggle to pay the rent on a waitressing salary. I would have to move into some dingy flat in the worst part of Fross, probably ending up next door to the sex shop. At least I would only have to pop next door for a new Orlando the next time he blows up on me. I groan and broach the subject of rent. I explain about the psychic and how I had forgotten about it being winter and putting money away for heating. Mother is terribly sympathetic and mumbles something about how economical an Aga would be while pushing two fifty-pound notes into my hand, whispering ‘
don’t mention this to your father
.’ Of course, I don’t, and when he pushes another two into my hand at the front door I take them gratefully. Apart from the jetting off to the back of beyond and leaving me all alone over Christmas, they’re not bad parents after all.

Chapter Six

    Issy told me in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t possibly be a waitress, and she is quite right of course. It would be a dieting nightmare taking orders for wonderful cheesecakes, chocolate fudge cakes, sticky toffee puddings… I am sure that even thinking about these things makes me put on weight. And Hobnobs is not so bad. The pay is quite good, and I do meet some interesting people. Well, most of the time anyway. It has been well over a week since Alex Bryant came to the office. I am starting to wonder if he has changed his mind and that Jamie is too embarrassed to tell me. Mind you, he is besotted with some Filipino poof who parades around in pink braces, has purple streaks in his hair and looks a little like a peacock. Jamie, that is, not Alex Bryant. I can’t picture Bryant with anyone who parades around in pink braces and has purple hair. Bryant has obviously decided to go elsewhere and I celebrate by chucking his book in the bin and treating myself to a square of Black and Green’s chocolate. I believe it is best to enjoy one or two indulgences now, so that I will not be craving them once my diet properly starts. Did I mention I am starting it tomorrow? It has been a hellish week, and one really shouldn’t start a diet when stressed or depressed.

It is the morning of my makeover. Issy is convinced she will meet the man of her dreams during the course of the day.

    ‘Madam Zigana said I will meet someone in the most unusual of places,’ she recounts.

    ‘I thought it was in the most unusual circumstances.’

    ‘It’s unusual, that’s what counts,’ argues Issy.

Yes, well, probably the less said about Madam Zigana, the better. I’m wearing a pair of tight fitting leggings to enhance my curves. Mind you, I only discovered this morning that they are actually a size ten and not a fourteen as I at first thought. No wonder I nearly gave myself a hernia when trying them on in the shop.

    ‘Don’t you think they are a bit tight?’ questions Issy.

    ‘Do you like them? They are Vivienne Westwood’s,’ I say proudly, twirling around.

    ‘Is that right? I’d give them back to her if I were you, they look bloody painful,’ she scoffs.

    ‘You have no appreciation of fashion.’

    ‘Thank God.’

I look past her to the kitchen window and see Toby. He waves. I wave back and blush. Issy looks and widens her eyes.

    ‘Was that Toby?’

    ‘No, was it? Yes, you could be right. On his way to work I expect,’ I reply, picking up my handbag.

She peers out of the window and gives a quizzical look.

    ‘Libby, what’s going on?’

I shrug.

    ‘Nothing, I’ve just bumped into him a few times.’

The truth is I have seen Toby more in the past ten days than I did when we were actually going out together. The first time had been a few days after the party. He had been in the sandwich bar near the office. He was even buying the same filling as me. Later that evening he walked past the kitchen window. At first I had thought all this bumping into each other was a coincidence until I bumped into him at the sanitary protection shelf in Waitrose. There I was, rummaging through the Tampax shelf when I spotted him studying the sanitary towels. I happen to know that Toby does not have a use for sanitary towels and there were no condoms in sight. He was obviously there because I was.

    ‘If you want wings, they are on the shelf around the other side,’ I had said helpfully, trying not to smile.

He looked me right in the eyes and said wings weren’t a priority. My legs had gone all wobbly and I swear there was an ache in my loins like the one they describe in a Mills and Boon novel. In fact, at one point I had to grab my trolley with both hands to steady my trembling legs. We had chatted for almost half an hour. He even said how he missed watching Woody Allen movies with me. I was so tempted to ask him about her, but of course I didn’t. I noticed he didn’t buy any sanitary towels in the end. In fact he left the shop empty-handed. I am now of course convinced that things with Serena are not working out, and he has finally realised what a sex bomb I am. Well, something along those lines anyway.

    ‘Don’t even think about it Libby. Your power lies in making him think you don’t need him any more.’

I agree wholeheartedly, while secretly hoping he will pass the kitchen window later this evening, after the makeover. He will find me hard to resist. I decide to make his favourite sponge cake when I get home, just in case. After all, there is no harm in being hospitable and offering him refreshment is there? I visualise myself standing sexily in nothing but a frilly apron and smiling seductively at Toby with my hair perfectly styled and looking for once in my life like a million dollars without having to spend said same amount. It is with these warm happy thoughts drifting through my mind that I answer my mobile to a screaming Jamie.

    ‘Where the fuck are you? Did I say you could have the bloody day off?’

I grimace at Issy.

    ‘Actually, yes you did.’

Don’t tell me he has forgotten already.

    ‘What!’ He bellows.

Christ, why isn’t he having mad passionate fellatio with the Filipino poof instead of screeching at me.

    ‘You said I could take the day off for the photo shoot,’ I reply calmly.

    ‘Shit, so I did. Well, get your arse over here as soon as you’re done. I need to go over some important stuff with you.’

What can be that important? I meekly agree to pop into the office on my way home after the makeover.

The photo shoot is in the heart of Soho, in a deserted studio, in the basement of a seedy jazz club. Issy is horrified and I am only convinced it will be worth the while when the make-up artist produces touché éclat, to cover ‘Those hideous blemishes darling’, which are actually my freckles, but never mind. He also has a wonderful array of Chanel cosmetics which I am told I can keep. The place is freezing and smells musty, and Issy spends most of the time jumping up and down to keep warm, or hogging the small two-bar electric heater that the photographer brought in. I feel sure my goose bumps will show in the photos. I’m highly flattered when told I should be modelling as I have all the attributes needed. Feel rather deflated, however, when the Littlewoods catalogue is mentioned as the primary contact if I would like some work. I am even more deflated when the modelling agency’s application form must be accompanied with a fifty pound registration fee. Issy’s hopes are raised each time the door opens in the hope it will be her mysterious beau. However, apart from a sixty-year-old Brazilian cleaner and a seventeen-year-old pizza delivery man the only other person to enter is the lighting guy, who we both felt sure had to be the ugliest man on earth. We leave the basement and walk hastily through Soho as Issy is concerned we may be approached. I am somewhat insulted that before my makeover she didn’t voice any such fears, and now she is worried we may be mistaken for prostitutes. Now, there’s a job I hadn’t given much thought to.