The Gorgeous Girls by Marie Wilson Page B

ensembles—large dresses in black lace or pleather, all with enough fabric to make three dresses for me, were I to get crafty.
    But no, I’m perfectly happy with my haul: eight pairs in black, including two almost identical pairs of sequined pumps; one pair of jet beads on sheer netting; two pairs of strappy sandals with pavé rhinestones; one pair of sassy cabaret shoes; and two pairs in patent leather, one with gold studs and the other with hot-pink trim. Five pairs are sequined—the above-mentioned black and red, plus electric blue and silver. There are two pairs of champagne pumps, one with faux pearls and the other of textured fabric shot with silver. Another are rainbow sparkle pumps; still another are Cinderella-style wonders made of clear plastic with black patent leather accents. Lastly, I found a pair of metallic-blue kitten heels and a set of gold mules.
    I seldom wear them—only to private fashion shows in which I tramp about my living room. On the other hand, I’ve only worn the ruby slippers in public, jumping into cabs and landing at parties where they’re instant conversation-starters and friend-makers.
    Once, at a local film director’s soiree, two prepubescent girls stood across the crowded room pointing and chatting excitedly. Eventually they came over to compliment me and ask where I got them. I made sure to impart my Philosophy of Footwear, something I have successfully impressed upon my own daughter, who prefers stylish flats and funky Converse to high heels.
    â€œThey are merely for dress-up, not for actual living,” I instructed like a modern-day Auntie Mame. What I wanted to tell them, but didn’t, was that in drop-dead stilettos you are likely to end up just another urban doll with blisters and a broken heart.
    That said, I am now perched in the amazing ruby-reds at the sensual, historic oak bar upstairs at the old Winchester Hotel. It’s an evocative, amber-lit room that even has what Joe calls a “shoe light” beneath the bar. This light sets my fabulous footwear ablaze.
    At the end of my fishnet-stockinged legs, any of these twenty pairs can flash a lustful message. They can fuel a passionate encounter with just a glint of sparkle, a flash that flares from rhinestones or a ray of moonlight kissing crystal.
    Not long ago, Joe took a picture of the ruby reds in their place on my bookshelf atop volumes of Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams. He says it’s the best portrait he’s ever taken of me.

“‘Heterosexuality is not normal, it’s just common.’” Rose had another Parker nugget in mind but proudly announces this one in honour of a wedding party convening in a nearby park. The girls have met at Rooster Coffee House for afternoon java and, upon arrival, Rose picks up the resident binoculars to get a closer look at the wedding couple.
    He, tall and handsome, dressed in a dark suit with a dazzling purple scarf cutting across its formal expanse; and he, shorter but equally handsome, clad in crisp white pants with a silvery Indian shirt embroidered with pink flowers.
    The wedding guests have gathered under the blossoming trees of early spring. After a cold, drizzly winter, the girls can feel their bodies blooming forth just like the trees. Con’s body is the most obvious of the blossoming trio, with the birth of her child mere weeks away. Her breasts, like buds eight months ago, have come into full flower, like glorious white peonies. She flaunts this voluptuousness, her décolletage adorned with shiny strings of Swarovski crystals.
    â€œTyler likes this change,” Con says, proudly patting her full mams. Bright blue veins run through them, a presage of the day the milk will flow.
    â€œHe loved them before, though, right? When they were just small?” Wanda asks.
    â€œHell, yeah! How do you think I got into this pickle . . . uh . . . this lovely state? Besides, I’m not so sure I would call my