STOCKINGS AND CELLULITE

by Debbie Viggiano

  ‘Who says my self-esteem is suffering?’ I immediately went on the defensive.

  ‘It’s so obvious. Look at you breaking out in a muck sweat at the mere suggestion of going out. You’d much prefer to hide away, curled up on the sofa in your bobbly cardigan and slipper socks with the remote control all to yourself.’

  My shoulders drooped. ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with staying in. But not night after night.’

  I hugged my coffee while Nell outlined her big plan. Basically she had a mate intent on celebrating an impending fortieth birthday with a bunch of girlfriends next Saturday in a dodgy sounding club by the name of Passé.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ I scowled. ‘Past it?’

  Nell shrugged. ‘The club stipulates entrance is not permitted to anybody under the age of thirty.’

  ‘Oh brilliant. So it’s bound to be full of wrinklies all wearing their emotional baggage on their sleeves.’

  ‘Nonsense. Now drink up and we’ll go out and buy some new razzle to dazzle.’

  ‘What, right now?’

  ‘Right now.’

  We drove to Fairview, hallowed stomping ground of women shoppers like ourselves. Nell fiddled with the car radio.

  ‘Good heavens Cass, why are you listening to Radio Two?’ she tweaked the volume then expertly stabbed at buttons reprogramming stations. ‘Nobody of our age listens to Terry Wogan.’

  ‘I like Terry,’ I retorted defensively.

  ‘So does my Granny,’ she muttered.

  And so it was that I awoke, a whole week later, with a sense of nervous anticipation. One newly purchased outfit was awaiting its induction at Passé. On impulse I threw open the wardrobe door and lifted the regulation LBD out. One word summed up the garment. Minimalist. Minimalist in the sense that there wasn’t much of it but the price tag dared to question otherwise. Bought in an incredibly giggly moment with Nell, I now regarded the dress in horrified disbelief – plunging neckline, cut-outs at the naval, slashes to the shoulders and, at the back, an open gash trailing down to the cleavage of one’s backside with scissor splits around the hem’s perimeter. At least they were only weeny splits. But then again they couldn’t really be anything else considering the skirt only barely covered one’s knickers.

  I crouched down and extracted a shoebox from the wardrobe’s depths and nervously lifted the cardboard lid. Nestling upon a bed of tissue paper were the sexiest stilettos I’d ever set eyes upon. Nell had taken one look and pronounced them ‘fuck me’ shoes. I’d purchased them on impulse whilst in the midst of an adrenalin rush, recent rejection mixing with bitterness and hurt. And now? The only feeling coursing through me now was one of dismay. What on earth had I been thinking of? And exactly what statement would I be projecting attired in this gear? What signals would be read? Single saddo woman – all offers considered.

  But maybe I’d feel a bit better if I looked better. The mirrored wardrobes reflected back a woman older than her years, careworn and pale, mousy blonde hair falling lankly to shoulders, faded green eyes distinctly lacklustre. If only fairytales didn’t have the monopoly on fairy-godmothers.

  I reached for the phone.

  When Nell appeared later that evening, dressed to the nines and wearing enough scent to rival a perfume shop, she stared at me in amazement.

  ‘Blimey, what have you done to yourself?’ she gasped. ‘You look absolutely drop dead gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh give over,’ my sun-kissed cheeks dimpled as I gave a modest twirl. It was amazing what transformation could be wrought in a spray-on tanning booth. And of course Giorgio had worked miracles with my hair, effortlessly layering and shaping so that the finished look was akin to celebrity status. It had been an absolute pleasure to watch him at work not least because of his brooding good looks, pale brown arms and curling chest hair peeping over the top of his low buttoned shirt.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ breathed Nell in wonder.

  ‘A devastatingly handsome fairy,’ I truthfully answered as the doorbell rang. ‘That will be Stevie.’

  ‘Is he babysitting?’ asked Nell.

  ‘He’s having the twins overnight.’

  Nell shot me a look. ‘What at-?’

  ‘Yes, her house.’

  ‘Aren’t you bothered?’

  ‘Do I look bothered?’ For a surreal moment I felt as though I’d dropped into a Catherine Tate face bovvered sketch. ‘Yes of course I’m bothered. Bothered to blazes if you must know.’

  I’d spent much of the day firmly pushing down mixed feelings about this impending arrangement, desperate to be coolly unfazed when in reality I was bordering the traditional estranged wife with an axe to grind. In the end I had simply pasted on a brave face and nonchalantly asked the twins how they felt about staying the weekend with their Dad in the Castle household. Toby’s reply had stunned me.

  ‘Actually Mum, I’m rather looking forward to it. Me and Ned Castle are quite good pals now.’

  ‘O-oh! That’s excellent news darling. Jolly good,’ I’d warbled, swallowing the bitter bile that momentarily threatened to choke me.

  I flung open the front door.

  ‘Cass, I just want to say thanks. I know this must be extremely difficult for you.’

  I nodded at my estranged husband, eyes very bright, not quite trusting myself to speak as the twins pressed their lips against my cheeks and eagerly followed their dad out into the night. Stevie started to walk away but then stopped and swung back to face me.

  ‘By the way, you look absolutely sensational.’

  Sweet. Bitter bitter sweet.

  ‘Well done,’ Nell gave me a squeeze. ‘Come on, time to go and let our hair down.’

  And let our hair down we did.

  Nell, myself and four other girls – whose names funnily enough now evade me – began the evening in an Indian restaurant. It was all harmless fun but, as the evening progressed and the drink flowed, an onlooker might have commented we were a little ladette in behaviour.

  Raucously we worked our way through numerous dishes, spoons dipping in pots as we tested each other’s choices like Loyd Grossman in Master Chef. Throughout the meal we repeatedly toasted the birthday girl with an incompatible mix of Cobra, house wine, whisky, vodka and brandy coffee until our euphoria had risen to a bawdy high.

  At around half past eleven the birthday girl had insisted on personally thanking all the staff for a marvellous evening and refused to leave until she’d been permitted access to the chef whom she kissed on both cheeks several times. Even the washing up boy didn’t escape her praise as she gushed alcohol and curry fumes all over him.

  It was almost midnight when we tumbled out of our respective cabs outside Passé. The place was heaving and within seconds of entering the crowd we were pushed apart.

  ‘Go to the bar. THE BAR!’ the birthday girl hollered.

  Nell insisted on ordering three lots of doubles to save on queuing time and then bossily instructed everybody to drink up before hitting the dance floor.

  ‘Why can’t I put my drink on the shide?’ I slurred.

  ‘Coz it might get nicked or shpiked,’ she slurred back.

  ‘Good God. You mean someone might shteal our drinks?’ I reeled in shock.

  I possessively clutched all three glasses before downing the contents like a woman in danger of dehydration. Thus refreshed, we staggered to the large sticky circle which passed as a dance floor.

  Ah yes. The dancing. It was wonderful. Feeling unbelievably free and emboldened, I stared brazenly at the other faces in the club. Hm. She was pretty. She wasn’t. He was attractive. He was repulsive. And he was coming over. I toppled off my high heels and fell against Nell in such a way that I damn nearly snogged her. Oh jolly good. The guy clearly thought I was batting for the other side and had stomped off.

  The women were, on the whole, very glamorous although I noticed that none were spring chickens either. Phew, what a relief. Encouraged, I plunged into the whirling t
hrong and lost myself in the music.

  Eventually I became aware that a man was dancing opposite me. He smiled. I smiled back. He smiled again and put his arms around me. How very nice. It made the tiresome task of staying upright that much easier. I gazed at his blurry face. Oh good result, he was a looker! He bent his head and gently kissed me. No tongues I hasten to add. Didn’t want him thinking I was a slapper.

  And suddenly it was two in the morning and the club was closing. The looker asked for my phone number. I blinked owlishly at him without saying anything.

  ‘Don’t you want to give me your number?’ he asked.

  ‘Shorry. Can’t seem to remember it.’

  He dug about in his pockets and instead scribbled his telephone number several times on a bit of paper which he tore into smaller pieces.

  ‘Just in case you lose one of them.’

  At the time this had seemed to make perfect sense.

  Nell materialised by my side urging we must hurry as the others had secured waiting cabs. I lurched after her into the bitterly cold night air just in time to wave good-bye to three of the girls. The remaining party comprised of Nell, myself and the birthday girl who had begun to turn a rather nasty shade of green.

  ‘’uck it,’ she gulped.

  ‘Yeah fuck it,’ Nell giggled moronically.

  ‘No bucket!’ I translated as the birthday girl leant into the open door of the taxi’s passenger side and regurgitated into the floor well.

  The cabbie was understandably furious. He rushed to the slumped birthday girl and hauled her upright. Straightening up she promptly puked down the front of his jacket.

  The sound and smell of a person being sick is not conducive to one’s own feel-good factor. Within moments Nell had upchucked all over the taxi driver’s shoes. The taxi driver was now incandescent with rage, arms going like windmills as he broke into a stream of invective. At that precise moment a police car cruised past. Hearing commotion it braked, reversed back and swung a left through the entrance gates, bouncing gently over the nightclub’s forecourt before drawing up alongside the cursing cab driver.

  ‘It’s the filth,’ screeched Nell. ‘Run!’

  ‘Nell!’ I bawled back, which was quite unnecessary given the fact that she was clinging to me and her ear was centimetres from my bellowing mouth. ‘They ain’t called filth no more.’

  What had happened to my voice? I sounded like an EastEnders actress.

  ‘Wot they called then?’ Nell seemed to have morphed into Pauline Fowler.

  ‘Um,’ I tried to focus on her as I considered. What was that programme called? Ah yes. ‘The Bill.’

  I suddenly registered the presence of two ferocious looking policemen. Or was it one? I refrained from blinking and waited for the double image to blend into one stern and horribly familiar face. Dear God. It was only Brad Pitt.

  ‘Ploddy!’ I squeaked.

  ‘Wot happened to Bill?’ asked Nell screwing up her eyes myopically.

  ‘Madam, don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  I gaped. ‘Er, well, um, ah,’ I waved my hands about waiting for the brain to make contact with the mouth and give a plausible explanation. Ploddy gave one look at my flapping arms and grimaced.

  ‘It’s you. The female motorist who can’t read hand signals.’

  Nell gave the copper a cross-eyed gaze. ‘Oi Billy Wossaface,’ she poked Ploddy hard in the chest. ‘That’s me friend yer insultin’.’

  Ploddy caught Nell’s hand. ‘I’m warning you not to do that again Madam.’ He glanced back at me. ‘So we meet again. And this time you are drunk and disorderly in public.’

  I opened my mouth to protest. Drunk? Who me? How outrageous.

  Ploddy’s radio crackled into life and he responded. Something about calling an ambulance and a situation under control. Nell and I were made to sit down with our heads between our legs. An ambulance arrived and took away the birthday girl who had suspected alcohol poisoning. Ploddy frogmarched us towards the squad car.

  ‘I wanna solicitor!’ bellowed Nell. ‘This is false arrest.’

  Ploddy shut the door on us before settling himself into the front next to a female cop. They exchanged glances. She was a slim brunette with finely chiselled bone structure and porcelain skin. She looked like one of Charlie’s Angels and I took an instant dislike to her.

  ‘I assume both you ladies are local?’ asked Ploddy. ‘Please tell me where you live so I can get you home and off the street.’

  I felt a sudden surge of excitement. Secretly I’d always wanted to ride inside a police car. I leant forward and tapped Ploddy on the shoulder.

  ‘Mishter Pitt, could we poss’bly drive home with the blue light flashing and the bee-baw on?’

  Forty-eight hours later, Nell and I were still awaiting full recovery.

  ‘But you must agree Cass, it was a hell of a night wasn’t it?’ She was anxious for confirmation that I had enjoyed my debut night with the girls.

  ‘It was certainly an experience,’ I answered carefully.

  ‘So who was the gorgeous guy you were smooching with?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Did you give him your telephone number?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ I truthfully replied.

  That evening, over the regulation beans on toast (I had yet to get to grips with the current menu in this house) Toby questioned whether I had plans to find a job.

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just sort of wondered. Now that Dad’s left,’ he trailed off.

  I flinched. ‘ We haven’t yet discussed the finer points of our separation.’

  Toby tried again. ‘Aren’t you ever bored at home all day Mum?’

  ‘Good heavens no! A woman’s work is never done. There are windows to clean, groceries to buy, the car to wash, housework, gardening, laundry, ironing, bedding to change-’

  ‘Okay Mum, I get the picture. Even so, you must sometimes feel lonely not having anybody to talk to while we’re at school.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous Tobes,’ Livvy scoffed. ‘Mum doesn’t do proper conversation.’

  ‘How dare you be so condescending young lady,’ I snapped.

  Liv immediately dropped the haughty expression and apologised.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude Mum but, well, it’s just that you don’t really talk about anything other than Coronation Street, what’s for tea, or the escalating price of a loaf of bread.’

  ‘I see. And at the grand old age of nine and a half you’re able to parlez politics, eulogise about the economy, discuss the pros and cons of a single currency and give an informed opinion on whether fox hunting should be outlawed?’

  ‘Actually Mum yes, within reason. We do current affairs at school and Mrs Carpenter encourages us to debate. Whereas you don’t even buy a newspaper and haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on in the world! And incidentally fox hunting has already been outlawed.’

  And with that my daughter scraped back her chair and excused herself from the dinner table on the pretext that she would be reading in her room, leaving me mouthing like a goldfish. What the heck was she off to read? I thought it was Harry Potter. Evidently it was The Times or Observer.

  Yes, well, we’d soon see about that!

  And so it was that I found myself detouring, after the school run the following morning, to the local newsagent. Inside the shop I stood before rows and rows of national newspapers and deliberated. Two had instant appeal. Pop Star Arrested screamed one headline. In my opinion the newsworthiness of this item was pure gold. I gave myself a mental smack and studied the explosively angry newspapers. Our Third World Hospitals blasted one paper with a distressing picture of an old lady prostrate on a gurney. Oh dear. I didn’t want to read about that with my morning coffee. Clegg ConDems Cameron. No thanks, I loathed politics. What was that one? Earthquake Death Toll Still Rising. Oh God. It wasn’t that I lacked compassion – heavens I had buckets of the stuff – it was just that it was all so terribl
y dire and dismal. My personal life was depressing enough without reading heartache on a global scale. I’d much rather read Is Nicole Preggers Again and Are You a Chav.

  After several dithery moments I opted for two bulky papers which promised in-depth accounts of the money markets and discussion of foreign policies. That would make good starter reading. And was it psychological or was I already feeling more boffin-like as I approached the counter, intellectual fodder tucked under one arm?

  ‘Just these?’ asked the bored gum chewing teenager with a plethora of zits across his forehead. Ripe too, particularly that one to the side of his nostril.

  ‘Yes thanks,’ I gave a geeky smile. ‘Can’t wait to get home actually, put the kettle on and get stuck in. See if share prices are rising and how the tootsies are doing.’

  ‘Footsies.’

  ‘Those too,’ I smiled brightly.

  ‘The teenager switched the gum from one side of his rotating jaw to the other. ‘Those sort of papers bore me to shit.’

  I blinked. ‘Um, right. That reminds me. My friend asked me to pick up her daily paper too.’ I reached out and grabbed a definite trash job blaring the headline What Becks Did Next. ‘She’s really into Beckham,’ I added by way of explanation.

  ‘Aren’t all the women?’ the teenager leered. ‘Bit of a bad boy on the quiet, our David. This time it’s a hairdresser blowing her kiss-and-tell trumpet, alleging it wasn’t just his hair that had a blow job. Even gives the length,’ he nodded sagely.

  ‘Well that can’t amount to much,’ I commented. ‘He was virtually bald the last time I saw a picture of him.’

  ‘Ha ha, very amusing,’ winked the teenager. ‘Victoria’s apparently gone ballistic. Walloped him with a frying pan by all accounts.’

  ‘Really?’ I enquired licking my second finger and frantically flicking to continued on page 5 column 2.

  Back home, I was in the process of devouring the trashy news rag from cover to cover when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Only me,’ Nell trilled through the letterbox.

  As we sat companionably in the kitchen sharing a lunchtime sandwich, Nell knocked me sideways with the news that she’d recently applied for a part-time job as a classroom assistant and, moreover, been offered the job.