Coconuts and Wonderbras

by Lynda Renham

  ‘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 sho
uld 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.

  ‘You’d have to pay them,’ giggles Issy.

  Not the most flattering of compliments. I let her talk me into finishing the morning off with coffee and cake at Harrods which, amazingly, she pays for.

  ‘This place is so pretentious don’t you think?’ she giggles.

  We both gawp at the statue of Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed for about five minutes. Memories of Paris, car crashes and a highly fragrant London unwittingly enter our heads.

  ‘Christ,’ grunts Issy, and we move on.

  I would have much preferred Marks and Spencer. At least the women there seem a little more my equal.

  ‘Do you have PG tips?’ Issy asks the waitress with a wide smile.

  ‘I’m sure we can acquire some madam,’ the waitress replies and I blush.

  Following tea, and yes, I am ashamed to admit, cake too, Issy drags me around the women’s department and oohs and ahs over the clothes while saying.

  ‘This is only two thousand, five hundred, what a bargain. I’d buy it but the tea wiped me out.’

  To which I respond,

  ‘Delightful darling, but you already have two of those and didn’t you say the butler found it a bugger to iron?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve sacked him darling. I have Pudsey now.’

  ‘Oh goodie,’ I squeal, while tempted to ask who Pudsey is. ‘Is he any good?’

  ‘Marvellous darling, especially when I get the whip out.’

  I manage a quick glimpse of myself in the Harrods loo and am quite impressed, even if I say so myself. I could be mistaken for a slightly overweight celebrity. My hair is shiny and my natural curls have been softened and gathered up into a neat chignon, and my lips seem to be in a permanent pout which is very Marilyn Monroe. If only I had a more glamorous looking face. I feel an overwhelming urge to stroll along Oxford Street in the manner of Pretty Woman but instead trip and fall into the taxi in the manner of Libby Holmes. Issy convinces me to keep on the Donna Karan dress that was part of the makeover package.

  ‘Let Jamie see what he has got. You look absolutely fab. You know if you made the effort, you could look like this every day.’

  Make the effort? What a cheek. It took a ton of touché éclat, a professional make-up artist and a camp hairdresser to achieve this overhaul. Just what kind of effort she expects me to make I do not know, but she can certainly forget it. It will obviously mean losing an hour in bed and let’s face it if there is no man in your life it really isn’t worth it.

  I arrive at the office and attempt to enter the building in the manner of glamorous model and surprise myself by actually succeeding. Feel a little perfect, you know, like Gwyneth Paltrow but without the ‘Apple’ child. I hit the lift button with the palm of my hand and receive an admiring glance from a handsome man who exits. Oh yes, so it only needs a four-hour make-up overhaul every morning and I can get this attention every day. I give it some thought and then decide bed is the better option. I glide effortlessly up to the second floor and sing happily along to the Christmas music that serenades me. Please God, let Toby walk past the window tonight. I put my head to the side and pout my lips seductively to the lift mirror. Oh yes, I look good. I feel warm inside, knowing that tonight could be the night Toby and I get back together. Maybe, I won’t be alone over Christmas after all. That reminds me, I really should do some Christmas shopping. I also need decorations for the tree. Things are looking up. I will pop to the shops after work tomorrow and buy lots of festive goodies. After all, I will be paid soon and there is bound to be a Christmas bonus. I practise inviting Toby in for coffee again and decide to buy one of those negligee things on my way home. Pyjamas just don’t have the same appeal do they? The lift doors open and I come face to face with Jane while still practising my pout.

  ‘What on earth happened to you,’ she blurts out.

  Well, thank you very much, and what does that mean exactly? I manoeuvre my lips back to their normal position.

  ‘I’ve had plastic surgery, don’t you like it?’

  I walk past her towards the office, trying to regain my earlier confidence. I take a deep breath and with a kick, fling open Jamie’s door.

  ‘Tra-la-la. What do you think?’ I say, while posing seductively in the doorway.

  I am confronted with Jamie, Alex Bryant and the Blonde Blancmange. How more dire can things get than coming face to face with Miss Glamour on sticks? I take one look at her and am instantly deflated. I slowly untangle myself from the doorway and smile awkwardly. She sits upright looking like a model. Jamie could have warned me.

  ‘You look fab darling,’ he exclaims. I really can’t tell if he means it or not.

  Blancmange surveys me. I decide it is best not to move in case my wobbly bits wobble. I so wish the floor would open up and swallow me.

  ‘Yes, rather amazing, actually,’ says Alex, ignoring a sharp look from Blancmange. I meet Bryant’s eyes, and find myself flattered by the appreciation in them. I blush and turn away.

  ‘You’ve already met Penelope Vistor, haven’t you Libby. Penny is the advertising executive for Chanel’s new ad campaign,’ says Jamie, proudly.

  She would be wouldn’t she?

  ‘Am I missing something? What exactly have you had done?’ asks Penelope, in an upper-crust horsey drawl while squinting at me.

  ‘I’ve had a sex change,’ I reply not missing a beat.

  Jamie sniggers and Alex seems to bite his lip. Penelope, however, continues to look curiously at me. Good God, she believes it. After a moment of staring, she turns to Alex and kisses him on the cheek.

  ‘Well, I must fly. I’ve got to pack for Beijing. I’m flying first thing tomorrow. Meetings with Chanel delegates there,’ she says flicking back her hair. ‘I still have heaps of emails to answer. I’ll see you later at the house honey. God, I hope that cleaner woman has managed to tidy up the muddle. Don’t you just hate moving countries? And cleaners are a nightmare aren’t they?’ she says airily, looking at me.

  ‘Oh, yes absolutely,’ I say stupidly.

  I barely move counties, what would I know? As for cleaners, well I’m more likely to be one than to have one.

  She sweeps past without a second glance. There is silence.

  ‘Was it the testosterone from the other day?’ asks Alex breaking it and grinning at me.

  ‘Oh sharp, very sharp,’ laughs Jamie.

  I give them a dismissive look. Jamie makes a show of pulling himself together and sits behind his desk before gesturing to me to sit down.

  ‘Right, glossing over your sex change,’ he says and bursts out laughing again.

  I sit down and glance at the clock on the wall. I really want to get to the shops before they close. I spot a photo of Jamie with his Filipino boyfriend at a fancy-dress party and let out a snort. Honestly, he has only known him a matter of days.

  ‘So, what are your plans for Christmas?’ he asks.

  He isn’t going to invite me to a gay party is he? Toby will never go to that. We will spend the whole evening with Toby’s arse suctioned to a wall. I will rush around fetching drinks and food while he glues himself into a position where his arse cannot be seen. No, I don’t think so. I would much rather spend Christmas Eve watching a
Christmassy movie cuddled up on the couch.

  ‘I still have loads of Christmas shopping to do. In fact, I have all my Christmas shopping to do. Then there is a tree to buy and…’

  Jamie shifts in his seat and looks uncomfortably at Alex. I am starting to get a bad feeling about this.

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ I say bluntly.

  No point beating about the bush. After all, it will be Christmas soon, and Toby and I will be back together. I must be forgiving about Serena Lambert. Toby obviously isn’t in love with her, and he probably just wanted to be seen with a slim woman, and do you blame him? I’ll buy a book on the art of forgiveness by the Dalai Lama or someone, and make a determined effort to keep to my diet.

  ‘We have ourselves a bit of a situation,’ says Bryant, calmly.

  Jamie pushes some papers towards me.

  ‘The rebellion in Cambodia is building momentum. They have the elections soon. Colonel Kuma Pong, the present governor, is hoping to get re-elected.’

  Fascinating, but what has this got to do with me?

  ‘Well, I am mighty glad I am not there then,’ I laugh nervously, pushing the papers back at him. I really don’t like the serious looks on their faces.

  ‘The annual Ventura book fair is being held this January in Cambodia, and Alex will be attending. His new book The Smiling People’s Revolution has been chosen for all the major awards. We have a TV interview booked out there and… Well, anyway we’ve managed to get most things brought forward because of the high security risk. Alex, as you know, has accused Kuma Pong of corruption on more than one occasion, and he isn’t going to like Alex being in the country at election time…’

  So, he’s going to Cambodia again. That’s good news.

  ‘Yes, well, that has nothing to do with me,’ I break in. I really don’t want to hear any more. I just want to plan my Christmas with Toby.

  Jamie sighs.

  ‘Janet, the media woman we assigned to go with Alex, has gone down with chickenpox. You’re his agent and…’