Lipstick and Lies

by Viggiano, Debbie

  Lipstick and Lies

  By

  Debbie Viggiano

  Lipstick and Lies © Debbie Viggiano 2012

  Kindle Edition published worldwide 2012 © Debbie Viggiano

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.

  The moral right of Debbie Viggiano as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  www.debbieviggiano.com

  http://debbieviggiano.blogspot.co.uk/

  Cover design by Robert Coveney

  Kindle formatting by Rebecca Emin

  For all the lovely people who asked me to write a sequel to Stockings and Cellulite, this is for you. Enjoy xx

  Chapter One

  I heaved a sigh from the bottom of my Ugg boots and ground to a halt in Tesco’s baby food aisle. Delving into the enormous holdall that doubled as both handbag and baby travelling case, I sifted through milk pads, nappies and wipes until Eddie’s spare dummy was located. Quickly, I popped it into his gummy mouth.

  ‘Hush darling,’ I soothed.

  Eddie glared at me mutinously. Please God that my six month old son wouldn’t spit the damn thing out and howl to be put to the breast. Not here. Not now. Not on New Year’s Eve in this packed superstore with a trolley stuffed with frozen food.

  I fiddled anxiously with my maternity bra. My bosoms twanged within their hammock-like constraint, nipples like nuclear missiles on standby lest Eddie’s cries put them on full-scale alert. This mothering lark was exhausting. Eleven years ago I’d given birth to twins no less. But somehow, looking back, it seemed a doddle compared to this time around. On my fortieth birthday, believing I was simply menopausal, it had come as one hell of a shock to find myself three months pregnant. And today – my forty-first birthday as it happened – I knew for sure my energy levels weren’t what they used to be.

  But perhaps I was being too hard on myself. After all, I wasn’t just mother to my twins Livvy and Toby. I also had two full time step-children, Petra and Jonas. Exactly one year ago today I had remarried. Yes, today was not only my birthday but also my first wedding anniversary. Twelve months ago I had stood under a Bahamian sun, a radiant bride. Turquoise waves had lapped a shoreline of white sand as I’d exchanged vows with the man of my dreams, the love of my life, my second husband Jamie.

  I sighed again. The difference between this time last year and right now didn’t compare. The only radiant thing about me these days was my figure – still blooming away despite shedding its surprise load several months ago. If only I didn’t feel so knackered. I was constantly on a short fuse thanks to sleep deprivation. Especially with the older children. It didn’t help that they all seemed to be hitting pre-teen mood swings and mouthiness. Add a fractious, teething infant into the equation, was it any wonder my energy levels were at zero?

  Eddie’s eyes began to glaze as the dummy worked its magic. Thank heavens for small mercies. Now if I could only muster the wherewithal to finish this shop – preferably before my aching breasts resorted to emptying themselves and soaking my cotton top. I really should start weaning. Although goodness knows what my boobs would look like once the milk dried up. They hadn’t exactly been a picture of perkiness before my surprise pregnancy. A chanting rhyme hovered at the corners of my memory as I recalled Livvy and Petra recently catching me naked. They’d stood wide-eyed and incredulous before guffawing with laughter. The girls had clutched each other with mirth as they’d sung:

  Do your boobies hang low?

  Do they wobble to and fro?

  Can you tie them in a knot?

  Can you toss them in a bow?

  Do you get a funny feeling

  When your boobies hit the ceiling–

  ‘Thank you very much girls,’ I’d snapped, snatching a towel about my person. Not for the first time had I wished they’d knock before barging into my bedroom. Heavens, on the one occasion I’d dared to do the same to them I’d been subjected to a week’s worth of door slamming.

  All right Cass, all right. Meanwhile just get a move on!

  With a renewed burst of energy, I headed away from the shelves of baby food and zoomed toward Beers and Wines. I was under strict instructions to buy champagne for the Hardings’ party tonight. I screeched to a halt by the bubbly and began shoving bottles between pizzas and lamb chops. What else? I scanned the shopping list. Milk, milk, mustn’t forget milk. Hastening to the dairy aisle, I grabbed hold of a six pint jobbie. Right. Time to get out of here. I trolleyed smartly towards the checkout.

  Eddie’s eyelids had succumbed to gravity. Yes! With a bit of luck I’d have everything scanned, packed, loaded and home before my son awoke and demanded another feed. Sometimes I wondered who my body belonged to – me or my baby? Even my husband looked deprived whenever he caught a flash of my maternity bra. Sexy satin push-ups had been off the agenda the moment the ink had dried on our marriage certificate. Poor Jamie. I really should wean our son and return my boobs to my woefully neglected husband. And maybe one day I could have them back? When everybody else had finished with them, of course.

  I parked the trolley next to a whirring conveyor belt. Quickly, I began unloading. The clock was ticking. It was a race against the moment my son’s eyes pinged open. In record time I stood at the other end of the checkout clutching a Bag for Life.

  ‘Want any help packing love?’ asked the checkout lad.

  ‘I’ll be all right thanks,’ I smiled anxiously. Come on man. Hurry up!

  And we were off. Blip, blip, blip went the scanner. Consumables tumbled into the stainless steel packing area.

  ‘Not so fast!’ I puffed as champagne bottles clanked alarmingly.

  ‘You’ve got a problem love.’

  ‘Oh?’ my hand hovered over a packet of oven chips.

  ‘Yer milk’s leaking.’

  ‘My milk’s leaking?’ I repeated stupidly.

  ‘Yeah. Look. It’s all over the place. Everywhere.’

  Appalled, I dropped the oven chips and clutched my bosoms. Bugger. I should have changed my milk pads before coming out. And now my milk had leaked, in front of this queue of customers. How embarrassing.

  ‘I’ll mop it up shall I?’ The lad brandished a roll of paper towelling.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ I snatched the roll. Clutched it possessively to my breasts.

  ‘Shall I get you some more?’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘Milk. Six pints wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh!’ I dropped the paper towelling.

  ‘Are you all right love?’

  ‘Yes.’ You berk Cass. ‘Six pints. Thanks.’

  ‘Oi, Maureen! Over ’ere. This customer’s milk is knackered.’

  I gazed at my dry sweater in relief. I would definitely start weaning now. That had been a narrow escape. To hell with my son’s refusal to take the bottle. It would be my New Year’s Resolution!

  I finished the packing, paid the cashier and glanced at Eddie. He was stirring. My pulse rate quickened. No! Don’t wake up! I pointed the trolley toward the automatic doors. Eddie spat out his dummy. And gave a belch from the depths of his navy-blue booties. Unfortunately some of his earlier feed got caught up in this windy extraction. It exploded forth and
caught the side of my face. Oh joy. As the sour smell of regurgitated milk shot up my nostrils, I eyed my son beadily.

  ‘One day my darling I’m going to get my own back on you. Just when you’re introducing the woman of your dreams, rest assured I too shall regurgitate – all the embarrassing things you’ve put me through in your short little life thus far.’

  Eddie gave a squeal of delight. And then a frown of concentration. As rampant farting filled the air, I marvelled how something so small could make such noise. And smell. The whiff of baby pooh abounded as a contented look fell upon my boy’s face. Mission accomplished. I sighed wearily as the trolley bumped towards the car. Men. They were all the same. Even at six months old. Give it another year and Eddie would be picking his nose and scratching his balls like the rest of his gender.

  I drove home as quickly as I dared. The digital speedometer nudged twenty-five miles per hour. Behind me, a queue of traffic grew. That was another puzzle since becoming a mother for a second time. I might be forty-one years old, but would I ever drive at forty-one miles per hour again? Being responsible for the conveyance of my baby from A to B was a daily nightmare. I drove as if my cargo were fragile porcelain. It wasn’t quite so bad if it were just the older children in the car. But the moment Eddie’s baby seat was strapped in, changing into fourth gear was a non-event. Which didn’t endear me to fellow motorists. I challenged myself to go faster. As the speedometer climbed through twenty-six and twenty-seven, a muck sweat broke out under my arms. The smell inside the car was dreadful. Puke, shit and body odour assailed my nostrils. I buzzed down the window to let out some of the reek. In the rear view mirror, a red Astravan was almost touching my bumper.

  ‘Bully,’ I muttered.

  Why didn’t the DVLA introduce an M plate? There were L plates for learners. P plates for drivers who’d passed their tests. An M plate for ‘new mother’ would be perfect. A simple badge to inform the frustrated motorists crawling in my wake that I wasn’t an incompetent female driver, simply a new parent getting back into the swing of things.

  As I rounded a bend, the road widened. The Astravan swung out to overtake. As he drew alongside me, he slowed down. What was the guy playing at? I risked a glance. The driver had opened his passenger window. Clearly he was intent on an exchange of words.

  ‘Bleedin’ snails go faster than you!’ he yelled.

  ‘Oh bog off!’ I bawled back.

  ‘You silly tart.’

  ‘Prat.’

  ‘Twat.’

  ‘Well really there’s no need–’

  But my words were drowned out by the van’s horn. I jumped like a scalded cat. The driver roared past giving a middle-fingered salute. Lunatic. He must have been doing at least thirty-five miles per hour.

  Shaking slightly, I eased my foot off the accelerator. Watched the speedometer fall to twenty. Now that the road had broadened out, a steady stream of traffic was overtaking. Eddie began to whine with displeasure at his dirty nappy.

  ‘It’s all right little man,’ I soothed, ‘we’ll soon be home.’ Eddie’s grizzling progressed to full scale objection. ‘Hush now my darling. Mummy will sort you out just as soon as–’

  I paused. By the time I’d changed my child’s stinking nappy, put him to the breast and finally managed to wash my face, the shopping would have defrosted. If I shoved thawed food in the freezer, food poisoning would be on the agenda. A sensation of not being able to cope rose to the surface. My eyes welled with tears. Stop it Cass. Stop it right now! But there was a definite lip tremble coming on. Yes, there it was again. Chin wobbling all over the place. By the time the car had crawled along Lavender Hill and skirted the lush common that our house overlooked, both Eddie and I were in full flow. As I trundled through the electric gates of Lilac Lodge, our large Victorian home, it was debatable whether it was me or Eddie making the most racket.

  Jamie came out of the house, ready to assist.

  ‘Hello darling,’ he pulled open the driver’s door. ‘I was expecting you home ages ago. Oh! Whatever’s the matter?’ My husband took in my tear-stained face before taking a step backwards. ‘Pooh. What a stink!’

  ‘Eddie v-vomited on me,’ I sobbed. ‘And I can’t drive fast anymore.’

  ‘Go and have a bath and get ready for the party. I’ll see to Eddie.’

  ‘But– ’

  ‘Just do it Cassie. Go on – in!’ Jamie strode around to the other side of the car. He reached in for Eddie. ‘Hello little fella. How’s my – oh phew!’

  ‘Eddie’s nappy– ’

  ‘I’ll see to it. Mum’s arrived, so she’ll sort out the shopping.’

  My heart sank. Oh no, my mother-in-law was here already? I couldn’t bear the thought of Edna going through all the shopping. Silently regarding the convenience foods. Counting tins of mandarins instead of fresh ones. She’d never actually said anything about my microwave cookery, or my distinct lick-and-promise style of housework. But I always judged myself to be sorely lacking when making comparisons with my mother-in-law. In a nutshell, she was perfect. When we’d first moved into Lilac Lodge, Edna had been a Godsend. Albeit a Godsend that ever-so-slightly jarred. She’d unpacked china, hung curtains and filled the old-fashioned pantry with homemade pies and fruitcake. When the baking was done, she’d removed her pinny, donned a pair of overalls and appropriated Jamie’s power tools. In no time at all, the children had desks for homework and extra bookcases. And just when I thought her talents were finally exhausted, she’d produced a set of screwdrivers and wired in our new light fittings. Oh there was no limit to Edna’s capabilities. Couldn’t figure out flat pack furniture? Call Edna. Couldn’t help with your daughter’s homework? Ring Edna. Couldn’t find the wherewithal to unpack your shopping? I groaned inwardly as Super Gran hastened towards the car.

  ‘Hello Cassandra,’ my mother-in-law said. ‘I won’t kiss you dear as I can see you need to have a clean up.’

  ‘Hi Edna,’ I cranked up a smile. ‘Thank you. I won’t be long.’

  ‘You take your time dear. Go and have a nice bubble bath and get ready for Matt and Morag’s party. Jamie’s seeing to Eddie. I’ve fed the children. Everything is under control.’

  And that was probably the rub. Because Edna always made me feel so very not in control. Right now I should be bounding up the stairs, enthusiastically greeting the children, exclaiming with interest at their latest musical download, effortlessly recalling the mathematical formula for trigonometry, and offering an informed opinion on whether black nail polish looked better than green.

  Instead I drooped up the stairs to the master bedroom, peeled off my stinking clothes and wandered listlessly into the en-suite bathroom. Standing over the tub I contemplated the plug hole. A couple of grey pubic hairs lay forlornly to one side, not having been washed away by the previous occupant. They were probably mine. How depressing. Even my pubes were going grey.

  I flattened the pop-up plug. Blasting hot water into the bath, I added a dollop of foaming Radox. Leaving the water to run, I turned to study my reflection in the full length mirror. Dull hair. Pasty skin. The boobs looked surprisingly good, but that was due to them being full of milk. I turned sideways and sucked in my stomach. Now that looked good. I exhaled. My midriff promptly dropped like exhausted knicker elastic. The hips were generous. And the bottom – I jiggled around – well the less said about that the better. When I’d been pregnant with the twins I’d been lucky to escape stretchmarks. No such luck second time around. Silvery lines snaked across my abdomen as if a child had gone berserk with a gel pen.

  I’d just lowered myself into the tub when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ I squeaked. I didn’t want the girls catching me out again or mocking my figure.

  ‘Room service.’

  I sank under the bubbles. It was debatable which was worse – the girls seeing my nakedness or my husband. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d undressed with the light on. Or the last time we’d made love. A hundred years ago
? Oh we’d attempted it of course. Many a time we’d nipped upstairs on the pretext of an early night, only to have plans scuppered by Eddie bawling lustily. Once we’d even got as far as stripping completely naked – in total darkness of course – and enjoyed a passionate thirty second grapple. But Eddie’s colic had ended the shenanigans. We’d fared no better in the mornings either. Invariably one of the children would barge in demanding clean jodhpurs or wanting to know if I’d laundered their precious ponies’ numnahs.

  ‘Can I come in Cassie?’

  ‘I’m not decent.’

  ‘Good.’ Jamie elbowed the door open. He was holding a tray. On it were two flutes of champagne and a single red rose. ‘Happy birthday my darling. Also, happy first wedding anniversary.’ He dropped a kiss on my head. ‘And finally, here’s to a very Happy New Year!’

  My eyes welled. I loved this man so much.

  ‘What a lot of happiness!’ I blinked back the tears. Gave a watery smile.

  ‘Why so glum?’ Jamie knelt down by the side of the bath and passed me a champagne flute.

  ‘Probably my hormones. They’re still all over the place. Damn things. But I’m determined to phase out the breast-feeding and get my body back to normal.’

  I glugged some champagne. Once Eddie was weaned, I’d be able to indulge without guilt. My good friend Morag had frequently lamented – during our respective pregnancies – about the enforced alcohol deprivation. Especially when she’d been ambushed by PMS. Or Pregnancy Mood Swings to the uninitiated. Upon visiting one day I’d found her prostrate over the kitchen table, sobbing her heart out but at a loss to understand why.

  ‘What’s the matter with me Cass?’ she’d sobbed into a fistful of Kleenex. ‘All I ever wanted was a baby. Now look at me! Finally pregnant, but blubbing like a wimp.’

  It was true that Morag wasn’t usually ambushed by tears. A formidable solicitor, she was also feisty, outgoing and gregarious. Uncontrollable weeping just wasn’t her style.