biological father’s betrayal had left her opinion of men so minusculely low you’d need a microscope to find it.
The Countess had given up on men, both perfect and imperfect.
‘Oh, the relief of no longer having to fake orgasms,’ she admitted one day, breaking off from her haphazard document-filing.
‘I don’t fake orgasms,’ my mother confided. ‘I’m faking being six foot one and seven stone.’
‘Really?’ From her lofty six-foot height, the Countess peered down at my mother, who was squashed into a lurex miniskirt, the buttons of which were bursting across her broad stomach. Then she deadpanned, ‘And how’s that working out for you?’
They chortled like two schoolgirls. The once-sought-after model was now said to be a ‘handsome’ woman. ‘That’s ugly with money,’ the Countess had explained to me, self-deprecatingly. Not only did she own a race horse, but, as her long, elegant face lost collagen with age, she’d started to resemble one. However, around Roxy, she never stopped smiling.
While I often wondered what the world would be like if God had had a daughter, I most definitely had not gone off men. Unfortunately, only one man pursued me with any enthusiasm – the one man I didn’t want. ‘Your silence is causing me stress,’ Jack Cassidy emailed. ‘And stress could give me a heart attack.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I pinged back. ‘If you have a heart attack, I’ll send for an ambulance . . . by carrier pigeon.’
But decor and dating aside, my mother and I were united in one thing – making Pandora’s a success so that we could help women who’d been handed the hard cheese from fate’s
fromage
trolley.
We hoped to go far. Of course, the Establishment thought the further away we went, the better. But the case that was about to change our fortunes was headed straight for us like a giant boomerang. I was just thinking, ‘Why is that boomerang getting bigger?’ and then, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it hit me.
4
The Big Bang Theory
It was one of those days when I wanted to swap my life for what was behind door number 1. Not only had I endured a date with a man who spoke for an hour about his fossil collection, but then I’d been flashed by a raincoat-wearing perv in the park on the way home. (I just pointed at his groin and said, ‘What do you want me to do with it . . .
floss
?’) In other words, the whole night had been a total waste of waxing. I flumped into an armchair and broke open a block of dark organic chocolate to keep me awake while I waited for Portia to come home from her best friend Amelia’s birthday party. Suddenly, my mother burst through the door with a pensioner who was toting a rifle. Both of them were covered in blood.
There was a time when my mother bursting through the door with an armed, blood-soaked septuagenarian would have kicked me into cardiac arrest. But bursting in with a gore-splattered fugitive just seemed kind of normal after working at Pandora’s for over a year.
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Your Amish prayer meeting got a little out of hand?’
But then I saw my mother’s strained face and realized it was not a prank. ‘This is Phyllis,’ she said. ‘She’s just shot her granddaughter’s rapists in the testicles.’
I looked at the little woman before me. Then I looked at the gun in her hand.
What’s fascinating about staring down a gun barrel is how small the hole is where the bullet comes out, yet what a big hole it would make in your social life. I looked back at the diminutive grandma. She was in her early seventies, with a face as warm and round as a muffin. In her floral dress and patterned cardigan, she did not look like a psychopath. She looked more like something that had fallen off the side of a ceramic Cornish teapot.
‘I think you should have a stiff drink, Phyllis,’ my mother advised the gun-toter. ‘Vodka?’ she asked, pouring a glass for herself and downing it in one gulp.
‘I only drink water,
The Countess had given up on men, both perfect and imperfect.
‘Oh, the relief of no longer having to fake orgasms,’ she admitted one day, breaking off from her haphazard document-filing.
‘I don’t fake orgasms,’ my mother confided. ‘I’m faking being six foot one and seven stone.’
‘Really?’ From her lofty six-foot height, the Countess peered down at my mother, who was squashed into a lurex miniskirt, the buttons of which were bursting across her broad stomach. Then she deadpanned, ‘And how’s that working out for you?’
They chortled like two schoolgirls. The once-sought-after model was now said to be a ‘handsome’ woman. ‘That’s ugly with money,’ the Countess had explained to me, self-deprecatingly. Not only did she own a race horse, but, as her long, elegant face lost collagen with age, she’d started to resemble one. However, around Roxy, she never stopped smiling.
While I often wondered what the world would be like if God had had a daughter, I most definitely had not gone off men. Unfortunately, only one man pursued me with any enthusiasm – the one man I didn’t want. ‘Your silence is causing me stress,’ Jack Cassidy emailed. ‘And stress could give me a heart attack.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I pinged back. ‘If you have a heart attack, I’ll send for an ambulance . . . by carrier pigeon.’
But decor and dating aside, my mother and I were united in one thing – making Pandora’s a success so that we could help women who’d been handed the hard cheese from fate’s
fromage
trolley.
We hoped to go far. Of course, the Establishment thought the further away we went, the better. But the case that was about to change our fortunes was headed straight for us like a giant boomerang. I was just thinking, ‘Why is that boomerang getting bigger?’ and then, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it hit me.
4
The Big Bang Theory
It was one of those days when I wanted to swap my life for what was behind door number 1. Not only had I endured a date with a man who spoke for an hour about his fossil collection, but then I’d been flashed by a raincoat-wearing perv in the park on the way home. (I just pointed at his groin and said, ‘What do you want me to do with it . . .
floss
?’) In other words, the whole night had been a total waste of waxing. I flumped into an armchair and broke open a block of dark organic chocolate to keep me awake while I waited for Portia to come home from her best friend Amelia’s birthday party. Suddenly, my mother burst through the door with a pensioner who was toting a rifle. Both of them were covered in blood.
There was a time when my mother bursting through the door with an armed, blood-soaked septuagenarian would have kicked me into cardiac arrest. But bursting in with a gore-splattered fugitive just seemed kind of normal after working at Pandora’s for over a year.
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Your Amish prayer meeting got a little out of hand?’
But then I saw my mother’s strained face and realized it was not a prank. ‘This is Phyllis,’ she said. ‘She’s just shot her granddaughter’s rapists in the testicles.’
I looked at the little woman before me. Then I looked at the gun in her hand.
What’s fascinating about staring down a gun barrel is how small the hole is where the bullet comes out, yet what a big hole it would make in your social life. I looked back at the diminutive grandma. She was in her early seventies, with a face as warm and round as a muffin. In her floral dress and patterned cardigan, she did not look like a psychopath. She looked more like something that had fallen off the side of a ceramic Cornish teapot.
‘I think you should have a stiff drink, Phyllis,’ my mother advised the gun-toter. ‘Vodka?’ she asked, pouring a glass for herself and downing it in one gulp.
‘I only drink water,
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