Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (11 page)

‘It’s shit is what it is,’ I moan. ‘With or without the psychobabble.’

‘What’s happening with Janey?’ she says.

The mere mention of the girl brings me back to her presence – her serious eyes, the way she played footsie with me, the words she said about wanting me … and leaving Lil. And I look up at Gladys, in her light-pink blouse, teamed with a pale-pink crystal on a chain around her throat, and I watch her laughter lines, which I know were once pain lines. So I tell her about me sitting on the step, locked out, and Janey rescuing me. I even tell her about our game of footsie, and how I want Janey so badly, but it can’t ever be.

‘Not this again,’ said Gladys, but her voice is gentle. ‘Can’t you see how exciting this is? Janey likes you too! And if she’s splitting up with her girlfriend, you can give things a shot.’

But I tell her that I can’t give things a shot. Janey’s so young and I’m so old … But Gladys interrupts me. ‘You once told me that Pussyfoot Shoes was for women of all ages. In fact you said you’d had drag queens come in – all types of women, you said.’ I nod, wondering where on earth this is going. ‘That’s what makes the shop so enjoyable,’ she says, ‘that richness and variety, that sense of identity and freedom.’

‘So?’ I say.

Gladys shakes her head, but she’s smiling like I’m adorably silly. ‘Sweetheart,’ she says, ‘had you ever considered that your differences from Janey would make your relationship exciting?’

I look at her blankly. I’d never thought of it that way. ‘But some day,’ I say, ‘I’ll be old and past it, and she won’t want me. That’s how it goes.’

Gladys takes the bottle of wine and pours me another glass. ‘It was
Henry
who wanted a younger woman. It was
Henry
who betrayed you. It isn’t fair to assume that Janey’s the same way.’

I open my mouth to tell her I’d
never
assume that. But then I notice a pain in the centre of my chest – a pain that tells me she’s said something true. So I don’t say a thing, just sip my wine.

‘Think about it,’ says Gladys.

And that’s when our pizzas arrive.

11 p.m.

We have a lovely meal, and I arrived home two hours ago. No sign of Janey, so I took advantage of the bath, using soapsuds to ease my tired feet. It’s funny how store work seems to make my feet ache regardless of whether I’ve been working that day! I’m careful, of course, not to damage my new haircut – shoulder-length with lovely layers that move when I do. It makes me feel like a 60s girl. Janey’s big book on high-heeled shoes is on the floor next to the tub, so, keeping it safe from the water, I start reading. It’s fascinating stuff. Hear this, Kitten: while we were in the Buttercup Cafe, Janey told me that Catherine de Medici was the first woman to wear high-heeled shoes as a fashion accessory, because she was short – and in those days ‘short’ wasn’t pretty for a woman. But in the
Shoe
book, it
also
says that she was marrying some powerful duke at the time and didn’t feel she’d get the right respect because of her height. And that’s interesting, Kitten, because we get a lot of shorter women in Pussyfoot Shoes, looking for heels that’ll make them feel more powerful. And I know Gladys has apologised for mocking my interest in shoes, but still, if a shoe can give you power and confidence – and in my case, transform me into a dominatrix – that isn’t a shallow affair! I mean, would Winston Churchill have taken Britain to war if he’d had less confidence? Would Princess Diana have given to all those charities if she felt all squat and unimportant?

Anyway, after half an hour or so, I hear Janey get home and turn on her music, so I climb out of the bath and wrap myself in my towel just in case she’s free to say hi. It so happens she’s more than free. As I walk out of the bathroom she walks out of the bedroom and we almost slam head-first straight into one another. ‘Woah!’ she says, lurching backwards and holding up her palms.

‘Oops,’ I say, and I notice her gaze running over my damp body, my cleavage, my thighs, culminating at my freshly painted toes. ‘Gorgeous varnish,’ she says. ‘You’re so pretty in pink.’ Then, looking back up, she seems to remember herself. ‘How are you?’ she asks.

‘Just had dinner with a friend.’

‘
Not
Guy,’ she says, and her expression surprises me. As far as looks go, it’s a cross between a smoulder and a glare.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Definitely not Guy.’

‘Good,’ she says. ‘Did you see the delivery downstairs? It came this afternoon. From the arsehole himself, I imagine.’

‘Oh.’ I feel a little lift in my chest, but it only lasts for a second before I’m feeling sick again.

‘Maybe he’s feeling bad about the way he treated you.’

‘It wasn’t really his fault,’ I say.

Janey looks me right in the eye. ‘It was
totally
his fault. Insensitive bastard. If I see him again, I’ll introduce him to my fist.’

Oh, my God, she’s beautiful right now! So wild and dark and do-as-I-say. She’s wearing a black ribby top that clings to her body, and the shapes of her nipples are clear. Round her neck is a silver chain sporting a Ban the Bomb symbol. I want to grab hold of it and pull her towards me, yanking at her neck, pulling her off her guard. I want to kiss her – oh, Kitten! – all I can think of is kissing her.

She reaches out and touches my hair. ‘You’ve had it cut. It’s lovely.’

‘Really?’ I say.

‘Gorgeous,’ she says. ‘And you smell lovely too,’ she tells me, running a cool fingertip down my arm – it feels like she’s a cool drop of water on a humid day – and the slowness of her movements … oh, dear God, it’s enough to make me jump on her, rip open her tank top and attack her beautiful body, planting my mouth on hers. ‘You’re fresh from the bath,’ she says. And when I’m too stunned to comment, she adds, ‘You’re warm.’ Her voice is a murmur. ‘Perfectly warm.’ As soon as her fingertip pauses around my elbow, she reverses her course and strokes it back towards my shoulder. I may be imagining things, but as she passes my cleavage, I swear I hear her give a sudden breath.

‘Are you seeing Lil tonight?’ I ask, hoping she’s split up with the girl.

At this, Janey pulls back and hugs herself. ‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I have to work tonight.’ And before I know it, she’s giving a little wave and entering her bedroom.

Downstairs, Kitten, is a bouquet of birds of paradise, my favourite flowers in the whole, wide world. They’re utterly gorgeous! I pull off the message tag, my insides light with pleasure. Maybe Janey’s right about Guy feeling bad about last night.

Drum roll, Kitten. Are you ready for the big suspense?

The card says, ‘For my Beautiful Debs. Why? Because.’

It’s signed
Henry
.

Friday, 23 March

Dear Kitten,

My goodness, I was in a resplendent mood this morning!

First, we chatted about Janey’s new job at Pussyfoot Shoes while we were making breakfast. I can hardly believe that she starts tomorrow! Anyway, after I filled her in a bit, we fell into talking about shoes. According to Janey, high heels restrict women’s movements in order to force them to move in a different, sexier, curvier way. ‘My dissertation tutor says that makes high heels sexist,’ says Janey, ‘but that isn’t the only way of seeing it.’ After all, when you restrict someone and they overcome the challenge, they grow stronger than ever. ‘It’s like gymnasts,’ says Janey, ‘when they do amazing things on the beam. The beam’s a restriction, but it’s one they choose to conquer, and they become more powerful when they do.’ Janey also says there’s a lot of sexist guff out there. After all, in the 1500s, high heels were in fashion for men as well
as women. I tell her that there was a rumour a few years back that high-heeled shoes were coming in for men, but it never took on.

Janey looks angry at this, buzzing the blender for longer than usual. By the time she says, ‘Typical men!’ she’s all red-cheeked and adorable.

‘We have a drag queen who shops at the store,’ I say, ‘and he’s a man … you know … technically. He comes once a month or so to buy high heels.’ Then I get all confused about genders, and add, ‘Does that make him a “he” or a “she”?’

Janey shrugs. ‘Maybe it depends if he identifies as a woman at the time.’

‘Identifies?’ I ask, puzzled.

‘It’s a way of saying “how someone feels”.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ I say. Then I mull for a minute. ‘He doesn’t
look
like a woman. Not when he’s buying his shoes.’ Then I pause and add, ‘But should I call him a “she”?’

Janey gives me a smile. ‘We’d have to ask her and see what she wants to be, right?’

These words stay with me as I stare at the birds of paradise I’ve placed in a vase on the windowsill. Henry never asked me who I wanted to be. He didn’t even ask me who I
was
. So why, when I think of that card he wrote, and the flowers he delivered, do I feel brightly triumphant?

Janey must have caught me gazing at the flowers because she interrupted me. ‘You like birds of paradise, don’t you?’

‘They’re my favourites,’ I said.

‘He cheated on you,’ she said softly. ‘He broke the rules.’ She then padded across to me, her strange, green smoothie in the glass she was holding. And before heading off upstairs, she looked me deep in the eyes and said, ‘You deserve to be bought birds of paradise because your lover loves you. Not because they cheated on you and want to get you back.’

I blink at her. She looks adorable in little grey shorts and a black-and-white striped top that clings to her breasts and body. Her pale legs go on and on. She smells of cucumbers … but maybe that’s the smoothie.

‘Is that why he bought me the flowers?’ I ask, at last. ‘Because he wants me back?’

Janey closes her eyes, gives a deep sigh, and turns away. As she leaves the room, she tells me, ‘Enjoy them while you can.’

And she’s right. After all, they die quickly.

Around eleven, after I’ve tried to sell shoes to lots of shoe-phobic customers, I get a text from Guy. It says: Haven’t heard from you, Goddess. Got time for dinner tonight?

I stare at the text, remembering his body curled around Valerie’s. I have no idea how to respond, so I don’t. I’m distracted by a sudden fear that I’ve left the living-room window wide open, so I call Janey in case she’s home. But it isn’t Janey that answers.

‘Janey’s phone,’ says Lil.

I ask if Janey’s around, but I’m tongue-tied and embarrassed. I feel like I’ve somehow exposed my feelings for Janey, though I was obviously just panicking. But I somehow needed to hear Janey’s voice. Plus she’d said it wasn’t working out with Lil, yet here was the girl herself, comfortably answering Janey’s calls! I admit, it made me feel twisted inside – angry from the inside out. And then, after I’d asked Lil to close the bloody window – which, it turns out, was closed after all – I feel useless again, and old, and crazy. So I dream of the birds of paradise and imagine Henry grovelling his apologies, his tears falling on my peep-toe shoes.

Anyhoo, around lunchtime, I pop out to grab myself a sandwich, but because of a load of building work I take a quieter route. This leads me behind a car park and past a betting shop, and for some strange reason I get the urge to look up. Above the betting shop is a smart-looking office with windows that are far swankier than the store beneath it. Letters are impeccably stencilled in gold on every window. They say: M
alone and
D
awes
, C
hartered
A
ccountants
.

Holy shit, Kitten! It was Guy’s office!

It took me by surprise for a minute because I’d expected a posher place. Up above a betting shop isn’t my idea of swish! But in any case, I decided to go on up. I’d surprise him; see if he wanted a sandwich. Maybe then we could talk face-to-face. And if not, no harm done.

So I find the side door, which says, ‘Out to Lunch’, but I know that probably means they’re just up there eating sandwiches, so I head up the stairs and through another door, and the room I walk into is actually rather nice. Swanky wood panelling and floorboards and a sturdy oak desk at the centre of the room. There’s a nice leather swivel chair and rows of wine-red leather-bound books. On the desk itself is a photo in a frame: a little girl who looks like Valerie, except she has gorgeous dimples and dark hair in plaits.

Each side of the desk is a door. One is ajar and the other is not. Now call it intuition, if you like, but I’m drawn towards the open one … can’t seem to help myself. Maybe Guy is inside? Maybe I can catch him for lunch.

That’s when I hear the first noise. A male voice moaning, ‘Do it, do it.’

Up against the crack in the door, I stare into the office beyond.

I would tell you how it was decorated, Kitten. Neat or messy, suave or tacky. But these weren’t the details I caught. Because Guy was lying prone on the desk, his tie loose, his shirt partly unbuttoned and his trousers down. And on top of him was Valerie.

Kitten, is it my curse to catch my lovers cheating on me, in the buff?

I get a sickly feeling at first to see Valerie’s ecstatic face as she bounces on him. And he looks so much more into it than he does with me, and it’s so frustrating that I can’t look away – I’m just too wet not to watch. I mean, oh, my God, Valerie is hot. She’s wearing a cream-coloured corset that has been pulled down to reveal her tanned breasts – and because of the way it pushes them up, they’re particularly round and bouncy. She’s also wearing flesh-coloured stockings and her curvy bum is magnificent as she rides up and down, up and down, harder and faster at every turn. She’s wearing the same spiky shoes she wore on our date, and the light in her eyes is devilish. Her facial expression makes her look like a girl who’s triumphantly laying into her playground enemy.

With her every thrust, Guy’s stare moves from her breasts – not her shoes – to her pussy. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is snarly and he’s saying, ‘That’s a good girl … fuck me … fuck me …’ over and over.

And it hurts to see them there doing it without me, as if I never existed, as if
I
was
their
third, not the other way around. But then again, I’m wearing these lacy knickers that rub, enjoyably, against my trimmed pussy, and Valerie looks so gorgeous as she rides him to ecstasy, her eyes glazing wildly, her hips moving in a crazed abandon, that I lean against the door post and slip my fingers up my skirt.