Kiss and Tell

by Fiona Walker

  ‘I have lots of fantastic positions – I’ll show you some time.’ She winked at him, loving the way his cheeks suddenly streaked with two red patches like blackberry cordial poured into water. He really was very sweet.

  Chapter 17

  How r u?

  Faith re-read Rory’s text, as she had many times that day to cheer herself along. Those three little words that meant he was thinking about her.

  She scrolled to the next text down, from Carly, which made her feel less cheerful: New tits soon!

  She was booked in to a consultation with Mr Ali Khan on Saturday afternoon and Carly, who had never missed an episode of Extreme Makeover, couldn’t wait.

  Through the thin ply walls of the static caravan that she shared with two jolly Dutch working pupils she could hear them play-fighting in their yodelly voices as they heated baked beans to go on their toast. It was their staple diet and they had offered her some, but Faith had no appetite.

  Faith looked down at her flat chest, that boyish body that she had convinced herself stood between her and love ever after. Her mother was so immensely proud of her middle child’s mind that she never seemed to notice Faith’s shortfalls in other departments. Growing up naturally beautiful, Anke had never questioned her own looks. Faith had spent her entire adolescence craving that perfect geometry and blondeness, that effortless ability to attract which her mother shared with golden-boy Magnus. For years now, given a pact with the devil she would have willingly traded her intellect for beauty.

  But now that she was on the eve of carving her body into a new incarnation, she suddenly doubted it was her biggest handicap after all.

  The Dutch boys, who had been so friendly at first, were rapidly going off her. In her heart she knew this wasn’t because she looked like a young John McEnroe. It was because of her sharp tongue and her aggression, the very defence mechanism she had built up in a lifetime of protecting herself from the bullies who had always mocked her for her physical ordinariness, especially in the light of her mother’s extraordinariness.

  Faith read Rory’s text again. How r u?

  She pressed ‘reply’ – her fifth so far – but this time, instead of telling him about the amazing set-up Kurt had in Essex, she typed: R U going 2 Burghley?

  This time, she got the reply she had been waiting for within minutes.

  Fell off horse. Scary bugger. Hugo wants 2 withdraw me. Also scary bugger. But Nell says go. She is the best. Can’t believe she has made all this happen for me with Dillon. What a mate!

  Faith felt her heart burning. She started to send a reply straight away but her fingers were shaking too much. She rang him instead. For once, he answered.

  ‘Man, am I glad to hear from you!’ he sounded predictably half cut, but that husky, smoky voice was still the sweetest thing Faith had heard all day, particularly when it was so clear he was pleased to hear from her. ‘I need you here with me right now. Nobody pep talks me like you do. Tell me I can do it, Faith.’

  ‘Do what?’ Her heart was looping the loop.

  ‘Ride that nutty French horse round Burghley.’

  There was a pause as the engine in her heart stalled mid-flight.

  Faith was fundamentally honest to the core, even when overwhelmed by love. She regularly told Rory how talented he was because it was true, but she knew his limitations.

  ‘You mustn’t do it!’ she blurted.

  ‘What?’ he scoffed incredulously.

  ‘The horse is too difficult.’

  There was a disbelieving pause. She could hear him breathing. She wanted to feel those warm breaths against her her skin so badly.

  ‘This is my dream, Faith,’ he said eventually, his voice so low she could barely hear it over the noise of the Dutch boys watching television. ‘This is the thing I have dreamed of doing all my life, and I can do it this week.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ She was frightened for him, all the hairs on her body suddenly needle sharp, her every instinct bent against this, just knowing he would get hurt.

  ‘Nell wants me to do it. It’s her horse now. She is the reason I have this chance and I have to ride for her.’

  The needles of fear all stabbed into Faith’s skin simultaneously. ‘Forget Nell! She isn’t the reason Dillon has done all this for you—’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I know!’

  He was starting to get annoyed too: ‘You bloody don’t, Faith. With respect, you’re a good kid, but—’

  ‘I am not a kid! I’m eighteen. I’ve left home, I can vote. I drive and drink – just not all at the same time, unlike you. I can marry, hold a shotgun licence and have cosmetic surgery!’ There, she’d said it. The blood pumping through her head almost deafened her, so it took her a few moments to realise that he was chuckling.

  ‘Just not all at the same time,’ he said, his anger quite forgotten. ‘Oh Faith, you always cheer me up. Now I’m going straight to bed, I promise.’

  ‘No!’ she bleated, desperate for reassurance.

  ‘I’m getting up before dawn to drive to Berkshire and prove to Hugo that I won’t let him down. And I won’t let you down either. But you can’t talk me out of this. I’ve dreamed of doing this for far too long.’

  Faith’s burning heart was exploding. You have The Fox, she wanted to scream. You have Rio. Be patient. Just wait. They’ll take you there.

  ‘Come and support me next weekend,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Surely you can get time off?’

  ‘I’ve got a medical appointment.’

  ‘Cancel it.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s … really important.’

  ‘God, are you ill?’ He sounded alarmed.

  ‘No – it’s just that …’ Her racing mind flicked through a hundred excuses before honesty and terror got the better of her, ‘because I’m having a boob job!’

  His gales of laughter made her hold the phone away from her head, panic rising. She thrust it under her duvet and counted to ten. When she finally pressed the battered little Samsung to her ear again the other end was silent and she thought he must have hung up, but then she heard him breathing.

  ‘Faith, are you there?’ he asked, clearly not for the first time.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Tell me this is a joke?’ ‘It’s no joke.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Don’t do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘You mustn’t do it to yourself.’

  ‘Why not? Men like boobs. You like boobs. I have no boobs.’

  ‘You don’t need them, Faith.’ He sounded suddenly very sober. She hadn’t heard this serious tone of voice since Whitey’s accident.

  There was a pause, and Faith longed to ask him to explain whether he meant that she had no need of boobs because he thought she was perfect already or – as she suspected – because she was a lost cause, but every time she tried to say it a big fat frog in her throat jumped on her vocal cords.

  ‘You don’t need to ride at Burghley,’ she said eventually, trying to make him understand, ‘but the chance of a lifetime is there, like you say, and you’re taking it.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing!’

  ‘It so is. And it’s far more dangerous than a boob job if you ride that horse.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rory conceded. ‘You promise me you won’t go under the knife, and I won’t declare at Burghley.’

  That big frog in her throat was wrapped up in her heartstrings like a kitten in knitting now, pummelling furiously.

  But Faith had heard his hollow promises before. ‘Promise me on what honour? Twitch’s life?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ There was telltale clinking in the background as he filled his glass. ‘This’ll cheer you up …’ He started speaking again, and it was a while before she realised he was talking about something else entirely. ‘… Sylva Frost came for a lesson today and brought an entire do
cumentary team with her. Can you believe it? Man, she’s an act.’

  The frog finally jumped from Faith’s throat as jealousy took over. ‘What does she look like in the flesh?’

  ‘Incredibly pretty and positively stacked.’ In his hurried attempt to cheer her up, he didn’t think through what he was saying. ‘Magpie found it a bit unbalancing with all that bouncing around above her, but she’ll learn to live with the suffering.’

  Faith had heard enough.

  ‘Put the drink down and step away from the glass, Rory,’ she told him wearily, hanging up.

  The following day Rory rode better than he’d ever ridden in his life. In the cool early morning, a low sun striping the Haydown stable arena through the poplars, he had the big, unpredictable bay horse dancing like Nureyev.

  ‘Sweet Jesus! Was he up all night with Anke Brakespear?’ Hugo laughed as he watched him. ‘Talk about riding your Heart out.’

  Beside him, Tash felt that giddy anticipation again. ‘He could do it, couldn’t he?’

  Hugo nodded. ‘I take it back. They’ll go round that Burghley turf like they own it.’

  So they were both astounded when Rory rode up to them a moment later and announced: ‘The horse is great but you’re right, Hugo. We should save him for Pau. I’ll call Nell.’

  Hugo and Tash turned to look at each other. They were flabbergasted.

  Nell’s reaction came as an even bigger shock to Rory. ‘Good! Dillon’s stuck up a mountain so Burghley’s off anyway. I’m going to bring the horse over here to my brother’s yard. Piers can take him hunting for a season, back him off with some big Lodes Valley hedges. He sounds far too full of himself.’

  ‘You can’t!’ Rory yelped in horror.

  ‘He’s my horse.’

  ‘What about Pau?’

  ‘Dillon will be in Japan by then, after that it’s Australia and South Africa.’

  ‘But you can come and watch us,’ Rory pleaded, longing for support from one of his oldest friends.

  ‘Forget it. I’m going to bring the horse back here. If I can’t have Dillon near by I’ll bloody well have his Heart.’ She rang off furiously.

  Rory glanced across at the Beauchamps’ inquiring faces and flashed a nervous smile. He’d just lost one of the most exciting rides he’d ever had. He hoped to God it was worth it.

  Walking behind the strawberry-pink coach house for some privacy, he crouched down to text Faith, his heart strangely swollen. He had to think so long and hard about what he was going to say that he could see Tash peeking around the wall to check he was okay. In the end, he carefully tapped out: Keeping my end of the bargain. Will you promise to keep yours?

  The reply came back as swiftly as a knee in the groin. It’s my life, loser.

  He reread it in disbelief, biting his lower lip so hard that he drew blood.

  When his phone then rang he pressed ‘answer’, not pausing to check caller ID, convinced it was Faith calling to make up for the text mistake.

  ‘Darlink, can you fit me in next weekend?’ purred a seductive Slovak voice.

  Rory tilted his head up to watch a pair of buzzards circling against the darkening sky. Every cloud had a Sylva lining, he guessed ruefully. ‘As of today, I’m totally available …’

  Faith rushed out of the tack-room loo and checked her phone, which she’d left beside the bridle she was cleaning. ‘That’s funny, I thought I heard a text come through.’

  ‘Must have been mistaken.’ Carly had just had time to delete the message log on her friend’s phone memory after replying to Rory. As far as she was concerned, the moment Faith got some decent tits and a pretty nose she wouldn’t need Rory any more. She’d turned up at Kurt’s yard today specifically to have a pre-op pep talk and keep Faith focused on Double-D Day, which she sensed was in danger of being eclipsed by homesickness and missing Rory.

  As inspiration, she’d bought Faith a copy of the most recent unauthorised Sylva Frost biography, No Sylva Spoons, but Faith showed no inclination to read it, so Carly was recounting the life story of one of her all-time heroines like a Jackanory narrator.

  ‘It says here that Sylva Frost has had no less than twenty cosmetic procedures.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll phone Rory in a minute.’ Faith went to hang up the bridle.

  ‘D’you know, Sylva was a huge pop star in the Baltic – bigger than Kylie is over here?’ Carly told her, silently elbowing Faith’s Samsung into the tack-cleaning bucket while her friend’s back was turned. ‘Before that, she was shortlisted for the Olympic modern pentathlon squad.’

  ‘So she’s quite a good rider then?’ Faith showed a spark of jealous interest, which Carly pounced on.

  ‘At nineteen she threw in all that fame to get on a bucket flight to Stansted with her mother, and then queue for eight hours to audition for Star Factor,’ she sighed in awe. ‘Being secretly shacked up with one of the judges by the time she reached the final ten was inspired. I still rate her cover version of “Like a Virgin” as better than the original. And she only ever took her top off after she was famous here, not before. That’s seriously cool.’

  Still replaying what Rory had said the night before, Faith wasn’t listening. What if Mr Ali Khan made a mistake and her new boobs started to leak or, worse still, they set as hard as hooves?

  ‘She’s such a role model,’ Carly enthused. ‘She went from nothing to marrying Strawberry.’

  ‘Who?’ Faith lent half an ear at the silly name.

  ‘Strawberry – duh! Faith you are so out of the loop. He’s just the Premier League’s top Slovak striker, Alojz Strieborny, six foot three of muscle and tufty blond hair signed to Chelsea for record-breaking transfer fees. Our girl bagged him after they met in a Chinawhite VIP room and their wedding was in Cheers! over four weeks – I bought them all. It was held at this fabulous spa hotel. She was lowered to the aisle on a gold trapeze entwined with roses, wearing a dress embroidered with over three hundred thousand baby blue Swarovski crystals. They hired in white tigers in cages and fire-eaters.’

  ‘Traditional, then.’

  Carly ignored her. ‘Then he broke his leg in a foul and lost his place on the bench and she started doing glamour modelling to keep the Chelsea roof garden over their heads, but she had to stop to have their baby boy. Then it turned out Strawberry had blown all his millions on fast cars and call girls, and she stuck by him through the bad press while their baby was being born and everything. Six weeks after the birth she was already out at work again, doing a semi-nude photospread in a ladmag.’

  ‘What an achievement.’ Faith was searching around for her phone. ‘Strawberry must have been proud.’

  ‘No. Get this. When Sylva started earning back their lost fortune by posing for the ladmags and Playboy looking a million dollars (with the fake tits that he had bought her as a wedding present) our sweet Strawberry announces that the marriage is over in a Mirror exclusive.’

  ‘The celebrity equivalent to Relate these days.’ Faith rooted through her coat pockets.

  Carly sighed, thinking of Grant’s betrayal. ‘He was such a hypocrite, saying that he was a good Slovak boy who couldn’t bear to be married to a woman who showed her body to any man on the street, and that he was divorcing her to be with his childhood girlfriend from Bratislava. Then he demanded the DNA test for their son, claiming Sylva had slept around throughout the marriage.’

  ‘Not quite a fairytale ending, then.’ Faith started searching the surfaces.

  ‘But it’s a plot twist to the fairytale, get it? That’s why every little girl wants to be her. She has already been a sporting superstar, a famous singer, a Star Factor finalist, a WAG and a model, right? After that, she became an entrepreneur who would make Deborah Meaden look like an underachiever, with her own lingerie and homeware range, ghosted children’s books and bonkbusters, and two autobiographies by the age of twenty-five – at one point she had a third of the Sunday Times bestseller lists sewn up – plus a perfume and a swimwear range. You name it, she does it.
The woman can merchandise.’ Carly held up the biography open at the photo section, where there was a publicity shot of Sylva sitting on a pile of her own books as high as a juggernaut.

  This, at least, paused Faith’s search for her phone as she looked grudgingly impressed. ‘She must work bloody hard.’ Then her eye caught the facing page and she yelped with alarm. ‘What’s Rory doing in there?’

  ‘That’s not Rory!’ Carly snorted with laughter. ‘That’s the actor Jonte Frost. Sylva married him two years ago.’ She held up a photograph of the couple looking very chic and retro on the steps of Chelsea Registry Office.

  ‘He looks like Rory.’

  ‘No he doesn’t,’ Carly said huffily. ‘Jonte used to be the face of Burberry. Anyway, they divorced when he shagged a co-star on location while Sylva was pregnant. He’s notoriously shabby. You can tell, really, can’t you?’ She studied the photo. ‘It’s in the face. That type of man. They have that untrustworthy look about them.’

  Faith gave up looking for her phone for a moment to snatch up the book and take a closer look. ‘I think he’s quite dishy.’

  ‘Definitely a boob man.’ Carly played it to her advantage. ‘They call him “Plus Two” in Hollywood.’

  ‘Why?’ Faith looked up blankly. ‘Does he shoot?’

  ‘Like, duh.’ Carly pulled a face at her friend’s ignorance. ‘Over there, Plus Two is a man who’ll only invite a date to be his ‘plus one’ at a party if she’s got two big assets.’

  ‘Is a double date a Plus Four, then?’

  With Faith’s trusty little Samsung drying out on her gayfather’s Aga, she and Carly set out for London on Saturday morning, telling everyone they were spending the day shopping. Walking into Mr Ali Khan’s consulting room with her boob scrapbook tucked under her arm, Faith focused hard on the thought of metamorphosing from tomboy to glamour girl like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality.

  She turned to the esteemed surgeon. ‘Is it true you did Sylva Frost’s breasts? One set, at least?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say.’ He looked away, admiring the fingers that had created such masterpieces.