Shelley how Joe, her ex, a sports reporter on
The Vanguard,
had left her for a cosmetics demonstrator who worked on the Estée Lauder counter at Dickins & Jones.
“Total bimbo, I take it,” Shelley said, hiccuping. “Don’t tell me—forty-inch bust and so thick she can’t remember the recipe for ice cubes.”
“Not exactly,” Rachel said. “You see, it was a cosmetics demonstrator by the name of . . . Greg. More of a himbo really.”
“Blimey. So your ex—he’s . . .”
“Gay? Oh yes, he’s gay all right. In fact, he’s utterly euphoric these days.”
“Oh my Gawd.”
“I mean,” Rachel continued, “even though I’ve met somebody else now who really loves me and wants us to get married, it still hurts when I think about how Joe left me for somebody with hairy knuckles and a thirty-four-inch waist. Doesn’t do much for the old self-esteem. Eight years we’d been married. Of course, I missed all the signs. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you, in a bloke who was six three and a former rugby wing forward. First the sex trailed off. But I thought that was normal when you had a small child. We were both so exhausted.”
She took a couple more sips of her vodka.
“Then there was the way he used to look through
FHM
and all those other men’s mags with a high nipple count. He’d stare at a picture of some half-naked bird and go ‘Christ, look at the upholstery on that one’—only he didn’t mean the woman, he meant the Conran sofa she was lying on. Even when I came home late one night and found him sitting up in bed poring over the
Color Me Beautiful
book with a Bioré patch on his nose, the penny still didn’t drop.”
“Oh God. Poor you,” Shelley said.
Rachel shrugged. “Then a few weeks later,” she went on, “he just comes out with it. Says he’s been living a lie since he was a kid, that the time has come for him to face up to his sexuality and he has to leave. Of course I’m hysterical with shock, but he just carries on packing his bags. All the time he keeps going on and on about how he wished to God he’d been born black and not gay. When I ask him why he says, ‘Why do you think? At least then I wouldn’t have to tell my mother.’ Eight years we’d been married and the only person he was truly scared of telling was his mad Jewish mother.”
She knocked back the last of her drink.
They spent the rest of the evening fantasizing about a world without men.
“No more wars,” Shelley said dreamily. “Just millions of happy hairy-legged women getting fat on . . . ooh, what do you reckon—avocado?”
“Nah, I’d rather ’avo box of Ferrero Rocher,’ ” Rachel giggled.
A moment later their schoolgirl giggles had turned to hoots. As they neared the knicker-wetting stage, they clung to each other for dear life, like mates who’d been friends forever—which they both felt they had.
* * * * *
Rachel carried on playing with the Marilyn statue and as usual couldn’t resist pressing the button on her back. There was always the hope that this time, Marilyn’s skirt would fly up and her head would stay on. But as usual her head shot off onto the floor. Rachel had just retrieved it from under the sofa, clipped it into place and managed to return Marilyn to the mantelpiece, when Shelley came bounding into the room.
“Yesss,” she squealed, punching the air. “I got it. I only blinkin’ got it. Me and the fetus get to eat for a couple more weeks. That was my agent. Said she’d just come off the phone from the woman from the ST company, who apparently not only adored my hands but thought I sounded good too. Upshot is they’ve given me a line to say. As I pour the blue dye out of the test tube, you’ll hear me in voice-over purring”—she paused for effect—” ‘Flowtex Super Menstrual Mats—don’t get caught by a downpour.’ ”
“That’s wonderful,” Rachel said, going over to her and giving her a huge hug. “I’m really, really pleased.” She paused and
The Vanguard,
had left her for a cosmetics demonstrator who worked on the Estée Lauder counter at Dickins & Jones.
“Total bimbo, I take it,” Shelley said, hiccuping. “Don’t tell me—forty-inch bust and so thick she can’t remember the recipe for ice cubes.”
“Not exactly,” Rachel said. “You see, it was a cosmetics demonstrator by the name of . . . Greg. More of a himbo really.”
“Blimey. So your ex—he’s . . .”
“Gay? Oh yes, he’s gay all right. In fact, he’s utterly euphoric these days.”
“Oh my Gawd.”
“I mean,” Rachel continued, “even though I’ve met somebody else now who really loves me and wants us to get married, it still hurts when I think about how Joe left me for somebody with hairy knuckles and a thirty-four-inch waist. Doesn’t do much for the old self-esteem. Eight years we’d been married. Of course, I missed all the signs. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you, in a bloke who was six three and a former rugby wing forward. First the sex trailed off. But I thought that was normal when you had a small child. We were both so exhausted.”
She took a couple more sips of her vodka.
“Then there was the way he used to look through
FHM
and all those other men’s mags with a high nipple count. He’d stare at a picture of some half-naked bird and go ‘Christ, look at the upholstery on that one’—only he didn’t mean the woman, he meant the Conran sofa she was lying on. Even when I came home late one night and found him sitting up in bed poring over the
Color Me Beautiful
book with a Bioré patch on his nose, the penny still didn’t drop.”
“Oh God. Poor you,” Shelley said.
Rachel shrugged. “Then a few weeks later,” she went on, “he just comes out with it. Says he’s been living a lie since he was a kid, that the time has come for him to face up to his sexuality and he has to leave. Of course I’m hysterical with shock, but he just carries on packing his bags. All the time he keeps going on and on about how he wished to God he’d been born black and not gay. When I ask him why he says, ‘Why do you think? At least then I wouldn’t have to tell my mother.’ Eight years we’d been married and the only person he was truly scared of telling was his mad Jewish mother.”
She knocked back the last of her drink.
They spent the rest of the evening fantasizing about a world without men.
“No more wars,” Shelley said dreamily. “Just millions of happy hairy-legged women getting fat on . . . ooh, what do you reckon—avocado?”
“Nah, I’d rather ’avo box of Ferrero Rocher,’ ” Rachel giggled.
A moment later their schoolgirl giggles had turned to hoots. As they neared the knicker-wetting stage, they clung to each other for dear life, like mates who’d been friends forever—which they both felt they had.
* * * * *
Rachel carried on playing with the Marilyn statue and as usual couldn’t resist pressing the button on her back. There was always the hope that this time, Marilyn’s skirt would fly up and her head would stay on. But as usual her head shot off onto the floor. Rachel had just retrieved it from under the sofa, clipped it into place and managed to return Marilyn to the mantelpiece, when Shelley came bounding into the room.
“Yesss,” she squealed, punching the air. “I got it. I only blinkin’ got it. Me and the fetus get to eat for a couple more weeks. That was my agent. Said she’d just come off the phone from the woman from the ST company, who apparently not only adored my hands but thought I sounded good too. Upshot is they’ve given me a line to say. As I pour the blue dye out of the test tube, you’ll hear me in voice-over purring”—she paused for effect—” ‘Flowtex Super Menstrual Mats—don’t get caught by a downpour.’ ”
“That’s wonderful,” Rachel said, going over to her and giving her a huge hug. “I’m really, really pleased.” She paused and
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