by Donna Alam
Celebrity stalking. Can she name three world leaders, or a two UNESCO world heritage sites? Probably not, but I bet she can tell you what the Kardoochians had for breakfast today.
‘You know how I feel about you watching porn,’ I answer wearily.
‘I know how you feel about me watching porn at work,’ she corrects. ‘But, boss-lady, I’m not on the clock now.’
Nat is the Beauty Treatment’s Manager in my newly opened beauty salon downstairs. At twenty-one, she’s five years younger and, on the surface, a wee bit brash. But there’s a side to her people don’t take time to actually see, or maybe it’s more a side that usually can’t be seen beyond the tiny clothes she chooses to pour her statuesque frame into. Oh, and her peroxide hair. But beyond the dolly-bird outside, Nat is incredibly kind and warm-hearted, and yes, she takes a little getting used to, but has an emotional understanding beyond her years.
And then there are the other times like this, when it seems like she’d just come off Ritalin.
‘And your grannie will be here in a minute.’ I’m not sure it’s much of a deterrent. As a semi-permanent fixture in the salon and a member of our smutty book club, Natasha’s granny, June, is fairly liberal in her attitudes. I wished Mills & Boon had used the word cock back in my day. It’s my new favourite word!
‘Hope she’s remembered her reading glasses, ‘cos she’ll not want to miss this.’ Nat’s gaze moves momentarily from the screen, one eyebrow raised in a taunt. ‘I imagine you’ll want a keek at it, too. Dunno whether you’ve ever been familiar with the business end of this sausage, but I know you’ve met its owner.’
I think my heart stops, misses a beat or something, my mind beginning to whirr. Since returning to the village after years of living in London and then then States, I’ve haven’t been involved with anyone. Or their sausage. So is it any wonder my mind jumps to the last person I ever want to think about while simultaneously wondering, how could she know? It’s a reflex reaction and a panic I quickly discard, because there’s no way she could know—no one knows. This is just my guilty conscience talking, which could only mean she has some dirty pictures of . . .
‘Is it Brad Pitt’s sausage—I mean—is it Brad Pitt?’ So I might be a little excited, even if I do have to rub my chest to ease a nip of guilt. Celebrities ought to be entitled to keep their private bits private and off the internet; even the ones you’ve crushed on forever.
‘Have you met Brad Pitt?’ Nat asks a little incredulously.
I shake my head; while I have styled some of most well-known heads in Hollywood, I haven’t had my hands on that beauty. ‘I did once stare at him for a whole half hour from the other side of an LA salon.’
‘I’ll never understand why you came back here,’ Nat adds, not attempting to hide her disgust.
‘I just wanted to come home.’ I affect a quick shrug as I lie effortlessly. I’m getting pretty good at it. And if Auchkeld is my home, I may as well be homeless.
In front of me, Natasha purses her lips in disbelief before holding out her hands, mimicking a set of weighing scales. ‘Auchkeld or LA? Old lady perms or Lady Gaga’s head?’
‘Who’s giving Lady Gaga head?’ June, Nat’s granny, pulls her mint-green cardigan over her thin shoulders, shivering as she hurries into the room. ‘Deary-me. It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’
‘And we’ve got someone hung-like-a-horse in here.’ Nat presses something on her phone, turning the screen to face us, and though neither June nor myself can actually see what’s playing on the tiny screen, there’s no mistaking the audio; the unmistakable sounds of sex fills the room.
‘Is that one of those sex-video-tape things?’ asks a pink-cheeked June. It could be her cheeks are flushed from the cold outside, though if I know June, and I do, I’d say she’s probably excited. She’ll have a stroke one of these days, and not the kind she’d like to receive from Mr Poletti, the ancient barber along the street. I’ve seen her fluttering her lashes at him. ‘Is it the Gaga?’ she asks eagerly, hurrying across the room. For someone her age, she can’t half shift a bit if there’s sex involved.
Harder! Oh, god—right there.
Is it odd that I think the audio—the girl on the receiving end of that meat—sounds a little like me?
Fuck, that’s so good, baby. Come on, get there. Get there for me!
No. I must be imagining things, because that sounds like . . .
Oh, fuck .
‘Yes, Dylan. Fuck me!’
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my family for driving me potty while I attempted to get words to paper. Or fingers to keyboard. Honestly, I have no life between this keyboard and my offspring. And thanks to M for keeping us afloat in these changeable waters. I hope to repay the favour one day.
Thanks to Natasha Harvey for being the voice of reason. And the voice of inanity. And also everything in between. You’re a gem, lady. And also a little bit nuts, but you know that, right?
Thanks to Kelsey Burns for the coffee and catch up time, bouncing ideas, frightening old ladies, and the occasional glass of wine.
Thanks to Kathie Spitz for her big red editing pen by way of ‘track changes’, because we certainly did.
Thanks to those of you who’ve left lovely reviews, notes on my FB, and emails full of lovely words. I really can’t adequately say how much this means to me.
Finally, thanks for reading, lovely reader, whoever you may be. Without you, I’d be talking to these voices in my head in some looney bin, probably.
About the Author
Hailing from the North East of England, Donna is a bit of a Bedouin, moving houses and continents more times than she cares to recall. A bit clueless rather than stateless, she once worked at a school like the one Kate works in. Alas, there were no Kai-a-likes floating about there . . .
Donna can usually be found loitering on facebook, posting nonsense on her page and over here, or else hanging around and generally making a nuisance of herself in the FB group, Donna’s Lambs.
As well as speaking about herself in the third person, Donna also enjoys receiving emails from her readers, so if you’re feeling that way inclined, drop her a line at [email protected]