Stilettos & Stubble (2 page)

So I’d given up applying.  I’d seen the look on too many interviewers’
faces.  It said,
‘Oh
purlease!  You?  Greeting our guests?  Next!’

Which meant I found myself trawling the web and applying for mindless,
brain-numbing jobs which paid a pittance.  Customer service call centres were
really all I was suited to - I could talk but no one would have to see me.

Only my close friends knew my
real
dream was to be a writer. 
Through my words and in those pages, I could be anyone I wanted - a ballerina,
a model, a wife.  I could be loved, admired and lusted after.

As with all my other non-existent talents, I suspected it was something
else I wasn’t very good at.  I certainly wasn’t overly committed to my art
because at the whiff of a new man in my life, my storyline would be forgotten
and not another sentence constructed.  It was almost as if I could only write
when I had a broken heart - I needed to be a tortured soul.

But would it ever earn me a living?  £8.53 wasn’t going to see me
through the week, let alone the month.

I opened my document entitled, ‘
Love, Lust and Lies’
and scanned
the last words I’d written.  At the time they’d seemed perfect, now I wasn’t so
sure.

‘He took her delicate hand in his and kissed her perfectly
formed knuckles.  Her heart was racing in her tiny chest and her pert bosoms
rose and fell with each breath.

‘This is forever, my love.  You know this, don’t you?’ he
purred.

She nodded her head and licked her lips, waiting for his
kiss.  It was forever, that was all she needed to hear.  Forever.’

Well, I’d read
worse
.  I’d also read better, but if I could just
force myself to finish it I could ask Mia what she thought and then maybe send
it to some agents.

It wasn’t going to be an instant boost to my financial status, though. 
I’d heard it took ages to bag a book deal and even longer to see any money from
it.

Closing the document and vowing to write at least a thousand words the
next day, I sipped at my now tepid chocolate.  There was only one thing for
it.  I’d have to talk to Daddy about a loan and pray that I could secure a
quiet moment with him without my mother preaching or belittling me.

I hated asking my dad for money because he never said no or made me feel
awkward.  It was almost as if he did it to make up for my lousy mother.  He
showered me with love, time, gifts and cash as a kind of compensation and I
didn’t want to take advantage of him.  I was twenty-eight and should have been
fending for myself, not running home for handouts all the time.  But even if
the best job ever came up, right at that second, I’d still need money to see me
through.

‘Bum, bum and bum!’ I said out loud to myself, startling Bogey who
looked at me with disdain.  ‘
How dare you wake me from my slumber if it’s
not for love or food?’
 And he jumped from my lap, landing awkwardly and
sending the biscuit tin flying.

It was that act that sent me over the edge.  My bottled-up emotions
suddenly came flooding out as I surveyed the broken HobNobs and crumbs of
Bourbon.  Bogey tried to apologise, not realising the biscuits were the least
of my worries.  He snaked in and out of my legs as best as his portly frame
would allow as I howled and bawled, sweeping up the remnants and chucking them
in the bin.

Exhausted, I sunk to the floor and hugged my cat to me again, rubbing my
tears in his fur.  ‘Oh, Bogey, what are we going to do?’

Of course he didn’t answer.  The only response I heard as I sniffed and
sobbed was the voice of my mother, once more entering my head.

And again it was mocking me with its stock standard phrase of my
childhood.

‘Pull yourself together, Persephone! 
Big girls don’t cry!
’

Chapter
Two

A visit to my parents always brought me out in a cold sweat.  If I could
arrange it for a day that my mum was playing tennis or at the hairdressers, it
was fine.  But knowing that she’d be there usually caused problems.

Which is why I found myself having an emergency rummage through my
wardrobe and gradually burying poor Bogey under a selection of outfits deemed
unsuitable for my mother’s critical eye.

I owned two dresses, bought for weddings and only worn reluctantly.  It
was a shame really because being so tall meant I had reasonably good legs, even
if I did say so myself - I just hated to show them off and dresses made me feel
uncomfortable and fussy.

Bogey was having great fun paddy-pawing furiously on a scarlet silk
number which I remembered had accentuated all my curves in the worst possible way
- he was welcome to it.  As I saw a stream of excited drool leave his chops and
land in a puddle on the fabric, I turned back to my cupboards in despair.

Whatever I chose to wear, I’d be criticized by my mother and
complimented by my father.

‘
Good grief, Persephone!  Where on earth did you get that monstrosity
of a sweater?  You look like you should be presenting Blue Peter.’

To which my dad would counteract, ‘
You look very pretty, Perce. 
Lovely colour on you.’

So as I pulled on my best jeans, T-shirt and denim jacket, I resigned
myself to the fact that the visit would leave a nasty taste in my mouth and, one
way or the other, I’d come away upset.

Unless of course Mummy had a new ‘friend’.

*****

I was probably about eleven when I realised that my mother was a
notorious flirt.  And I was about fifteen when I discovered that it didn’t just
stop at harmless banter.

I’d often wonder why she’d go through bouts of singing around the house,
smiling at herself in the mirror and generally being a nicer person.  During
these times she’d uncharacteristically walk past me at the kitchen table as I
sat struggling with an English essay, stroke my hair and say, ‘Such a pretty
colour’ or she’d cup my chin and look closely at my face sighing, ‘Blessed with
Liz Taylor eyes, you were’.

As I matured, I realised that these were her ‘loved up’ times.  Everyone
was happier when my mother had a bit on the side.  Oddly, even Daddy would be brighter
- if mum was content, so was he and it meant that her vicious tongue would be
packed away for a while, giving us both a much needed break.

Of course we always paid for it when the dalliance was over and the
venom would erupt again.  We’d wait with baited breath until the next beau came
along, dodging her bitterness and snappy remarks.

It was on one such occasion when Dad and I were enjoying a bottle of
wine in his potting shed, just to keep out of her way, when I first asked him
why he put up with it.  I was in my early twenties and the time seemed right to
pose the question - nothing was taboo with Daddy.

He sipped his wine and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, which was banned
from the house.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Perce.  I suppose I always knew she’d be like it.  I
couldn’t believe my luck when she agreed to marry me but there was always that
niggling doubt that I’d never truly have
all
of her.  Bit of a free
spirit, your mother, she won’t ever be tamed but I don’t think she’ll ever
leave me either.  More’s the pity, I think sometimes!’  He chuckled but I
sensed a sadness being artfully concealed.  He loved her and therefore he’d let
her have whatever she wanted, even if it detracted from his own happiness.

‘What about
you
, Dad?  Ever played away?  You’re still a great
looking man.  I bet you’ve had offers?’

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  ‘Well yes, I’ve been on
the receiving end of a few propositions.  Working in accounting does tend to
attract secretaries and PA’s - they seem to think we’re all loaded.  But, no,
I’ve never taken any of them up on their advances.  I was
tempted
once. 
She was a pretty little thing called Patsy and it was at a time when your mum
was being particularly vile.  But I saw sense and realised I didn’t need any
more complications in my life.’  He topped up his wine glass and replaced the
bottle on the side.  ‘She always comes back, you see Perce.  And she knows I’ll
be here waiting.’

As we sat in easy silence in his shed, I vowed there and then
never
to
compromise myself in a relationship.  I’d rather be alone and miserable than
have someone constantly take advantage of me.

The trouble with having such high hopes and standards was I seemed to spend
an awful lot of my time being just that - sad and lonely.

*****

Mummy
wasn’t
in the throes of a
grand passion
.

That much was clear as I made my way up their garden path and I heard
her screaming at my father, ‘Gordon, I’m telling you now, if I have to step
over your blasted golf clubs one more time, I swear you won’t take pleasure in
where I’ll stick them!’

No, she was most definitely without any male attention and my visit
would be a hard one.

Daddy opened the door, kissing and hugging me
and rolling his eye heavenwards as he lugged his golf bag out to the boot of
the car.  He knew of old that it really wasn’t worth ignoring my mother’s
rants.  Best to comply and keep your head down.

We went through to the garden where my mother
was sunning herself (in the shade - ‘
Wrinkles, darling!’
) and I went
over and kissed her.

‘Oh, Persephone, why can’t you wear a pretty
dress on such a lovely day?  You look all sweaty!  And isn’t it about time you
had your hair trimmed? It’s really looking rather lank.’

My hand shot to my hair.  Just last week, I’d
raided the bank account for a much needed cut and I’d actually thought it made
my face look slimmer.  Oh well, maybe I was wrong.

‘Well I was just about to say how pretty you
look, Percy.’ My dad piped up in my defence.  ‘That new boyfriend of yours
seems to be putting a glow in your cheeks.’

I pulled up a sun chair and prepared for the
fall-out.  ‘Ah!  Well … erm.  Adam and I have split up actually.  We are …
no
more
, I’m afraid.’

My mother threw her head back and laughed.  ‘Oh
for goodness sake, another one bites the dust!  Get me a G&T, Gordon, will
you?  And you’d better get something for your lummox of a daughter to drown her
bloody sorrows in.  I just don’t know how she
does
it.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask my mother
why
she
never actually
managed to hang on to any of her extra-curricular men for too long either. 
But, of course, I wasn’t brave enough.  My true thoughts never made it to my
lips where she was concerned.

Instead I did what I knew would please.  ‘You’re looking very glam,
Mum.  New lipstick?’

Indulging her vanity worked every time and, although I could kick
myself for playing her stupid games, I continued to do it to keep the peace.

She visibly perked up and patted at her hair, moving her hands down
to smooth her chin.  ‘Do you think so?  I was wondering if it might be time for
a little
work.
’  She whispered this last word.  Heaven forbid that the
neighbours should hear she was considering surgical intervention!  ‘Margo at
the gym has just had some Botox and it’s been the making of her,’ she whispered
again.  ‘Your father says I don’t need it but that’s purely because he doesn’t
want to put his hand in his pocket.  Tight old git!’

My dad appeared with the drinks on a tray, which he placed on the
table.  ‘Tight old git?  Who’s that then?  You wouldn’t be talking about
me
,
would you my love?’  And he handed us both our gins.

‘You know perfectly well who I’m talking about, Gordon.  I just
don’t see why you have to make everything so difficult.  Margo’s husband simply
gave her a blank cheque and let her get on with it.’  She sipped her drink and
turned her head away from us both, clearly descending into another of her huffs.

Dad looked at me and shook his head resignedly before turning back
to my mother.  ‘Sophia, if you insist on your mission to turn back the clock,
despite looking great for sixty, go ahead.  You have my blessing but I still
think you’re mad.  Satisfied?’

Mum jumped up like the spoiled child she was and threw her arms
around Dad’s neck.  ‘Oh Gordon, thank you darling!  I knew you’d see sense
eventually.’  She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and clapped her hands
together.  ‘Sooo exciting!  Right, excuse me you two.  I’m off to ring Margo
and get her consultant’s number.’

My father let out a huge sigh of relief as she left the garden. 
‘Crisis averted, eh Perce?’  He lit up his beloved pipe and puffed furiously to
get it going.  ‘I think she’s a fool though.  She’s quite beautiful enough as
it is.  You can’t gild a lily, you know.’

He truly loved her,
still
.  After everything she put him
through, all the affairs and barbed comments - he still loved her and I didn’t
know whether to admire or pity him.

I took his hand in mine and patted it.  ‘I think you’re a bloody
saint, do you know that?’  He laughed and patted me back.  ‘Yeah well, a
saint?  A mug?  Who knows?  By the way, I’ve written
this
out for you.’ 
He handed me a folded cheque and winked.  ‘Figured you might be a bit short
this month and I don’t want you starving.’

I opened the cheque and studied it.  Five hundred quid, just about
enough to see me through, just so long as I found a job quickly.  At least I
didn’t have rent to worry about - the flat belonged to my parents and I
considered myself truly fortunate.

I kissed him on the head and pressed my forehead against his,
looking into his tired eyes.  ‘Like I said, Dad.  A saint!’

*****

I returned home
to find three more job rejections waiting to greet me.  Each letter thanked me
for my time but they all boiled down to the same thing - nobody wanted to
employ me.

I couldn’t have
said I was surprised by the news.  I’d got quite a feel for whether or not an
interview went well and these three most certainly
hadn’t
.

Job #1 - the
dress shop on the Kings Road.

They’d made it
quite clear that if I was too large to model their creations, they had no space
for me.

Job #2 - the mini
cab office.

‘Stevo’ had
ushered me in to the miniscule area where the calls were taken.  After a quick
once over, his eyes fell on the Page Three calendar on the wall and without an
ounce of political correctness said, ‘We’ve been quite lucky with the dolly
birds we’ve managed to have working here.  They go down well with the punters
leaving the pubs so we do like to take on the lookers.’  I should have reported
him but, quite frankly, I couldn’t be bothered.

Job #3 - nanny to
a Yummy in Chelsea.

The mummy had
loved me, I was clearly no threat and wouldn’t tempt hubbie to have wandering
hands.  The children screamed the entire time I was there.  I tend to be a bit
full-on when it comes to kids and I think my manic horseplay freaked them out a
bit.  I’m sure I heard one of them say, ‘Mummy, I didn’t like that man very
much’ as I made my way down the posh stone steps of their house.

Well I didn’t
want
their stinking jobs.  I was too good for them and I just needed to hold out for
the right opportunity.  In the meantime, I’d keep plugging away at my novel and
hope for a huge publishing deal.

Bogey fed, I
settled with my laptop and prayed to the Writing Gods that the words would
flow.  I cracked my knuckles and hovered my fingers over the keyboard.  I was
so close to finishing the book I’d been chipping away at for almost ten years. 
It would be great if I could just nail it and email it to Mia for a read.