by Dawn French
Look at me right now. I have it all laid out on the bed, my outfit for tomorrow, and I can’t wait to put it on. I know that black top with the soft edging looks good on me, it shows my neck. It’s extremely well cut with darts in exactly the right places. It follows the curve of my waist and it outlines my bust. I even have exactly the right underwear ready. The bra is a miracle and raises my breasts on to a sort of shelf. The plum lace and threaded blue ribbon are beautiful and it’s the only bra I own with matching pants.
Last time I wore this was on our anniversary … don’t think about that.
Bias-cut skirt. Purple. Oh God, stay-up stockings. Never been out of the packet. New on tomorrow. How do they stay up? Black heels. Good jacket. Tapered. Sharp. I think I might just look a bit fab in this. Dare I say, sexy?
Sexy at work?
Oh fuck, I’ve become Veronica.
SIXTY
Oscar
On the odd occasion, the Pater really does prove himself to be a crackingly excellent chap. He has a wonderfully primitive instinct for exactly the right gesture at exactly the right moment. Usually in the nick of time. Apposite to the nth degree. That’s precisely what happened last night.
Devastated Dora was in a terrible state owing to her inglorious dumping by Lazy Lottie. An untimely cull, considering the fact that their end-of-school celebration was the very next evening. How very rude of her. And cruel. Desperate Dora fell into a sour temper and was stomping about threatening to remain at home, which would have been a catastrophe since the Pater and I had agreed we would settle down together to watch All About Eve. Bette Davis was to be my next subject of discussion at The Enchantings. On reflection, I’m not sure she is entirely enchanting. She is quite frightening. I may rethink.
The Pater turned to me on the sofa, and simply said, ‘How do you think Dora is? I’m worried.’ I didn’t venture too detailed an opinion, but I did have to agree that the silly sausage wasn’t her usual self. So, the Pater sprang into action. Initially, I was reluctant to take part in his plan, thereby forfeiting an evening of potential enchantingness, but he was quick to remind me of the importance of family duty, especially since Mama is locked away in pursuit of her muse. Or, in other words, escaping from all three of us, to whom she is so clearly allergic at present. The Pater located a tuxedo for me and a dark business suit for himself, complete with his father’s own RAF service dress cap. Very fine he looked, too.
‘Will I do, son?’ What a sweet man.
The tuxedo was a tad roomy but with a few added touches of panache (fur leg-warmers, beaded cummerbund, pearls, fringed turban, etc.) I was pretty much remarkable.
‘Will I do, Father?’
At this point, he rather over-laughed until he fell on to the bed clutching his sides. It wasn’t that funny. I snipped a particularly luscious bloom from one of Mama’s orchids – she won’t be pleased – and, with that in hand, the Pater and I approached Depressed Dora’s bedroom door. Pater tugged his jacket down and tentatively knocked.
‘Go Away!’ came the charming response.
‘We’re here for Miss Dora Battle,’ he said in a silly, formal tone.
‘Dad, really, go away, I can’t deal with it right now.’
I had to intervene. ‘Dora Battle, beloved daughter of Mr and Mrs Battle of Pangbourne, and cherished sister of the Esteemed Oscar Earnest Battle, please honour us with your attention …’ Silence …
‘In your own time, obviously.’
‘Oh God!’ she mumbled through gritted teeth.
We heard her pad towards the door, and she eventually opened it after much fiddling with what seems to be a broken handle. Poor, poor Distraught Dora. Her face was flushed and bloated from crying and her black eye make-up was streaked everywhere. She had the appearance of a deranged chimney sweep.
The Pater tipped his hat and said, ‘Miss Battle, your chauffeur awaits, and here is your escort for the evening,’ at which point he shoved me quite firmly forward.
I was overtaken with the unexpected urge to bow and kiss her hand, something I’d never done before and am unlikely to ever do again. ‘At your service, m’lady.’
She burst into tears and fell heavily into the arms of the Pater, who I noticed was also a tad moist about the eye. ‘Oh Dad, it’s horrible …’
‘Come on, puddin’, get yer glad rags on, you can’t let a couple of class-A twankers like those two ruin your evening, you’re better than that. You are better than all the buggers put together. Didn’t you know? You’re the Dora Battle, the most beautiful girl in the known universe? I can’t believe you didn’t know that, it’s been on the Ten O’Clock News and everything … “Today, in Pangbourne, Royal Berkshire, a well-fit babe called Dora Battle, seventeen, was voted Most Beautiful Girl in the Known Universe and Beyond.” ’ At this, she snorted a laugh, which unfortunately unleashed a stream of snot so she rushed off to compose and ready herself whilst the Pater and I waited at the kitchen table.
Her outfit when she finally emerged was sublimely Dora. Wrong colour, too tight, inappropriate accessories, etc. Plus she was alarmingly orange, but we had to admit she had scrubbed up rather well in her own brassy fashion. The Pater ushered us into the back seat of the car with bowing, scraping and doffing aplenty.
The queen o’ the night turned to me and said, ‘Thanks, Pete, I appreciate what you’re doing …’ I patted her hand to reassure her, and she continued, ‘but if you embarrass me in any way, I will razor your balls off and feed them to Poo, understand?’
I understood.
Thus, I spent quite one of the dullest evenings I’ve had in my entire sixteen years of an otherwise colourful life. I watched whilst Daffy Dora uncarefully avoided the dreaded couple, who were brazenly seated at a table à deux. She made the monumental error of drinking excess alcohol within the first eight and a half minutes of arriving. This didn’t help her to comport herself in any elegant manner whatsoever. My sister and alcohol do not good bedfellows make, and certainly the cooking brandy she had secreted in her handbag wasn’t the most prudent foundation on which to build an evening of dignity. Pretty early on it was clear her gown was surrendering, until eventually her staggeringly huge white bosoms shook off the restraint altogether and they too attended the prom entirely unfettered.
It was at this opportune point I decided to emerge from the dark corner whence I had retreated (might I add that however dark, I yet again attracted the unsolicited attention of a good many unchaste young fillies. What an immodest and bawdy troupe they are) in order to escort Debauched Dora away and home to safety. She was stupendously offended by my offer of help and violently lashed out.
‘Get off me, you bloody prickhead! I’ll go home as and if and when and with who I want! You shit … cocker … head! Go away!’
Really, the silly girl pushes ingratitude to the point of indecency. She lurched towards Sam and Lottie and misguidedly decided that giving an astonished and petrified Sam an exclusive lap dance would be just perfect. Lottie understandably took umbrage and a frenzied squabble ensued. It was far from pretty, though I couldn’t help noticing with no little pride that Diesel Dora was actually pretty nifty with the old fisticuffs.
With the assistance of the burly (and not unattractive) phys. ed. teacher Craig, I was able to extract her and herd her towards the exit. I did not, however, waste the opportunity to whisper a few words in the young and poisonous Master Sam’s ear. ‘It would be well, sir, for you and your disloyal floozy of a companion to keep your distance from my darling sister. You make a powerful enemy in me, you errant cad.’
I fancy he cowered.
SIXTY-ONE
Dora
Please, I beg you God, be merciful. Everything on me, in me, and around me hurts. It’s so like bloody awful. I woke up next to a neat little hill of sick on my pillow. In a way it’s good it’s there, because if I hadn’t got that out, I would have so choked on it. That’s exactly how that giant lady in that band from the old days died. What were they called? Mum bloody loves
them. The Mums and Dads, or something. Anyway that’s how she died, that lady.
I woke up because I could hear Poo slurping, and when I turned over, she was just starting to eat the sick. Disgusting, totally gross. That dog will eat any bloody thing, cheese, bananas, space dust, gum, horse poo, shoes. Once I saw her eat the bottom half of a rotten old rat out in the field. I was gobsmacked, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. She just munched and crunched ’til it was all gone. Then we walked home and she threw the whole lot up in front of the telly when Dad was watching Jeremy Clarkson. Mum said at least the regurgitated rat was ‘highly appropriate’. Didn’t know what she was talking about. Never know what she’s talking about. Don’t know who she is any more. Don’t care.
Lost one of her earrings last night. I’ll get killed for that, probably. Dad said it’s made of real diamonique or something? Shit. I’m in so much shitting shit. I cleared away the sick, but there’s still a stain, can’t get it out. What is sick made of? Why has it got yellow paint in it? I didn’t eat anything bloody yellow. I only ate white stuff. In fact I didn’t eat anything atall yesterday. That was the bloody problem. Then I had the brandy. All of it. Then apparently I had some vodka and Red Bull which I hate normally. I think it was the no-food and mega-fear mixture that worked out so badly.
I remember seeing ‘them’ as soon as I walked in. I went over to the bar and they looked away. It felt so weird to see Lottie and not to run up to her and give her like the hugest big hug, especially coz that prom was supposed to be the sign that we were finally finished with school. We’ve dreamed about this for ages. Her and me together. Not her and him.
Luckily, no one said too much about it but I honestly can’t remember much that happened, I remember the first ten minutes or so, but nothing else after that. Peter says he will tell me all about it when he’s up. Hope nothing too bad happened. Don’t think it did. Like, I would so know if it had … I think. Yeah.
All of my whole head is thumping. My legs are itching. My back is sore. My skin isn’t on my face right. My stomach is full of acid and my throat is croaky. I can’t see properly, even with my glasses on. I can only just see my screen. Which tells me that, omigod, I was talking on Facebook at three this morning. God. Who to? Oh, once to Not Robert Pattinson who told me to shut up and go to bed. Then for omigod forty minutes to X-Man. God, it’s such a long chat. I am rambling on about Sam and Lottie mostly, how embarrassing. He is kind about it though. God he must be so patient letting me go on and on.
I tell him at one point that I am crying and can’t type for a minute and all through that he has kept saying, ‘Don’t worry Dodo. Calm down. It’s cool,’ ’til I feel better. He’s given me a nickname. Dodo. That’s lovely. Then he tells me he ‘gets nervous at parties too’. Ah, sweet. He says he is ‘sooo shy and will probably never get the courage up to actually meet in person’. I say, ‘Course you will babe, don’t be scared, this bitch don’t bite.’ Oh God, that’s a bit embarrassing. Then he asks what I wore to the party so I describe it. Hmmn, it sounds a bit more sexy than I really looked.
He says, ‘Stop coz it’s getting me hot.’
Omigod. I make him hot. No one’s ever said that before.
Then he asks me to ‘Post a pic of you in your prom dress.’
I say, ‘You first.’
He says, ‘I haven’t got a prom dress.’
I say, ‘Ha ha. U know wot I mean. Let me see wot u look like.’
He says, ‘No way. You’ll never want to talk again, I’m a proper geek.’
I say, ‘No u ain’t. U silly boy.’
He says, ‘I bet u look fit. Dunno wot Sam thinking … his loss.’
I say, ‘OK will post pic. Feast ur eyes. Tell me wot u think!’ Omigod. What did the picture look like?
OH. MY. ACTUAL. GOD!
I have sent a picture of me with my boobs out. It’s bloody hideous. OMIGOD. What did he reply? Nothing. Omigod. Nothing. Silence. Now I’ve lost X-Man too. I never even met him. I am 130% idiot. With shit tits.
SIXTY-TWO
Mo
He walked in purposefully this morning and sat down. It was now our third session, and not one of them had been what they are supposed to be. Far from it.
I started. ‘I said last time, that I needed to think. Since then, I’ve done nothing but. Well, I say “think”, but actually my brain doesn’t seem to be functioning correctly at all. Anyway, sorry, what I need to say is this – much as I … I don’t think we can take all this any further …’
He stood up. ‘Please get up.’
It was such a simple and odd request. I stood. He was looking at my mouth. Oh God, was there something there? I automatically touched it to see. Was I wearing the remnants of my breakfast as a jam moustache or something? There was nothing there. But he was still intensely staring at it.
Then he looked up into my eyes. ‘Mo. I have to know what it’s like to kiss you. I’m not asking your permission, I’m just warning you that I am going to take that kiss. Right now.’
With that, he moved towards me a good three big steps. I was paralysed. It was definitely about to happen, and the anticipation was so charged, I couldn’t breathe. I suddenly realized I still had my pad and my pen in my hand. My pad in its lovely old leather holder. That Husband gave me. Lovely old leather Husband. Gave me that holder. He’s not here though, is he, at this exact moment when I am about to be kissed by a handsome young man in his thirties?
I turned and put the pad down. This brief perfunctory distraction was my chance to escape, but I dismissed that option immediately, and turned back. I’m tall but not as tall as him, so I had to tilt my face to look at him properly. He didn’t grab me or gather me up in his arms in a frenzied embrace. I sort of hoped he would. I thought that was definitely what happened at moments like this. What do I mean by moments like this? I’ve never had a moment like this. I’ve seen them in films. I’ve never lived one in my own real life. Is this my own REAL life?
He perched my chin gently on the crook of his index finger and leaned in very close. I could feel his breath. I could smell his citrussy aftershave. I could see the texture of his lovely young skin. So close, so close. Now both of his hands were cupping my face. He was looking right into me. He whispered, ‘What will you do? Let’s see …’
The lightness of his touch. The softness of his mouth. The heaviness of his breath. The taste of his tongue. The life in him. Breathing it into me. He was claiming this kiss. Taking it from me. Then he pulled me closer, and put his arms around me, and it was a different embrace altogether. Then, he was giving me the kiss, testing if I was going to return it. It was impossible to do anything else, it was so utterly wonderful. Every thought of everything and anything else lapsed into temporary oblivion. The allowing of it was such a release that once I had crossed that line, I was unleashed. I was transported back to a more beautiful time, way before being married, before kids and jobs and uni. An irresponsible unguarded carefree time, when, if you want to, you could kiss like this for hours on end. In fact you were convinced you would die of sorrow if you had to be apart at the lips.
So that’s what we did today, Noel and I. Whilst my friends and colleagues were barely ten foot away, in sessions in other rooms or at reception or in the kitchen or on the loo or feeding the fish, I was kissing Noel, sighing and moaning in gorgeous raptures of juicy delight for fifty-five minutes.
Fifty-five minutes!
And we only separated then because we heard George’s door opening as he was finishing his session with his client. Otherwise I think it might have continued for days. Days and days of perfect kissing. Even then, he remained close. I felt smooch-drunk. I was dizzy. I wanted him to shut up and start it again, but he was speaking clearly. ‘You can’t lie in a kiss, Mo, I’ve seen the truth now. Thank you. God, your face – your face looks different. You look about eighteen. Please say there can be more.’
To which I replied the fabulously eloquent, ‘Yes please more now soon please thank you.’
&nb
sp; He laughed and left. I heard him greet his waiting client in the hallway. He switched just like that. Turned on a sixpence. Abracadabra. He was gone.
I couldn’t go to collect my next client immediately. I had to compose myself. I felt I would surely be struck off if anyone saw me like this. Drunk on duty. Inebriated with kissing. Pissed with pleasure. I looked in the mirror. He was right, I did look different. I was lit up. I was decorated. All because I know I am kissable. Still.
SIXTY-THREE
Dora
If I wasn’t actually me, I wouldn’t bother with me at all. I am so bloody useless. I wouldn’t be my friend, I wouldn’t go out with me, I wouldn’t be my brother or my parent, or my doctor or my dog or anything. I’d be one of those other people sitting about like calling each other and saying, ‘Did you hear what Dora Battle did at the prom? When she did that like disgusting lap dance on Sam Tyler and had a scrap with Lottie Evans? And you could like so see her pants and everything? What a slapper.’ That’s who I’d rather be than me. If a human is, like say 100% then I am, like 22% or something. Well, for body: I’m 6%, clothes: I’m about 12%, hair: I’m 2%, personality: I’m 23%, friends: I’m 0%.
I went to see Nana Pamela, coz she’s the only one that doesn’t know about what I did. Well, didn’t know. She knows now coz I told her. She made hot chocolate for me to drink while she was making me a pineapple upside-down cake. How has she always got the ingredients? Even when she doesn’t know you’re coming? Mum is so not like that. If someone is coming round they have to be invited on a gold-edged card and the shopping has to be done eight weeks ahead so she can practise and like really pretend she knocks up these like fabulous meals so casually, or something. If anyone just drops in she totally freaks coz she hasn’t got the right food to show off with. Why didn’t she learn from Nana Pamela? That is her mother after all. Her actual mother. You would think she would respect her and learn from her. I would if I was her daughter. God.
