Stilettos & Stubble (5 page)

Diana had
different ideas.  She’d been dumped and it was never too soon to start prowling
for fresh meat.  But first things first.  I knew instantly what her opening
line would be - if he wasn’t solvent, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

‘So … Tom.  Tell
me what do you do for a living?’  She twiddled her over-dyed hair and fluttered
her ridiculous false eyelashes.

Tom gulped and took
a sip of his wine to steady his nerves.  ‘I’m … erm … I’m an architect.  Really
rather boring actually.’

Diana tittered and
simpered, the pound signs almost visible in her baby blue eyes.  Tom had just
become a whole lot more attractive and the dumper, Stavros, was starting to
become a distant memory.

‘Oooh, an
architect
. 
I’ve dated a few of those before.  I find buildings
very
sexy, you
know.’

I had to turn to
the window to busy myself with Bogey’s bowl as I didn’t trust myself not to
have a fit of hysteria.  As I bit down hard on my lip and attacked the bowl
with the scourer, I made a mental note to shoot myself if I ever became that
obviously desperate for a man.

Tom flushed and
fiddled with the rim of his glass, making it clear that he found her attentions
unsettling.  ‘Oh no, nothing sexy about
my
job.  Just lots of boring
plans and drafting tables. Yep, dull, dull, dull!’

Diana was having
none of it.  Architects made great husbands, and she’d obviously had her fill
of wealthy foreigners, so it looked like it was time for a change of plan - to
her Tom was looking like a pretty safe bet and men
never
said no to
her.

After she’d made
the call to her friend with the spare key, she said she’d have to dash as
they’d decided to meet up in the Harvey Nick’s bar.  ‘But I
do
hope we
meet up again some time, Tom.’  She held his hand longer than necessary and
then added, ‘Percy’s got my number if you ever want to hook up.’  And she
shimmied her tight little leather clad bum out of my flat without a word of
thanks for rescuing her.

Tom immediately
collapsed forward into a heap at the breakfast bar, his head hitting the wood
with a might thump.  ‘OH MY GOD! 
What
was
that
all about?’

I laughed,
topping up his glass with the drink he was no doubt in need of.  ‘
That,
Tom, was you being chatted up by a notorious gold-digging hussy.  You like?’

‘
Like
? 
 
 I
was frigging terrified.  She is
seriously
scary stuff, Perce!’

‘What, you mean
you don’t want me to give you her number?  Oh, and there was I thinking there
could be romance on the horizon.’

Tom shook his
head, still in shock.  ‘No, I do
not
want her number and if she ever
asks you for
mine
, you don’t know it, OK?  I think she’s scarred me for
life.  Order that bloody pizza, Percy, I need sustenance and if I ever set eyes
on that woman again, I’m telling her I’m gay.’

Chapter
Five

I was feeling
pretty hot for the first time in my life.  And when I say ‘hot’, for once I didn’t
mean sweaty and uncomfortable.  I looked fit and attractive and it was all I
could do to stop myself from pausing and admiring myself in shop windows or the
wing mirrors of parked cars.

My new clothes
had toned down my size and the carefully applied make up (techniques passed on
by an orange beauty assistant) made the most of my strong face. 

As it was such a
beautiful day, I’d decided to give my new look a whirl and head into the City to
see if the world was ready to take on the tweaked version of me.  It may have
been my imagination, or maybe my newfound confidence, but I could have sworn
that I’d turned the heads of a few men and even had a couple of cars toot me!

Elated, I decided
to treat myself to coffee outside a little Italian café as I browsed the paper
for any suitable jobs.  There
had
to be something out there for me - a
job where I was useful and part of a team.  I just wanted to feel that I had a place
and purpose in life.

The usual dross
was under the ‘Situations Vacant’ section - telesales, commission only and
lap-dancing.  I giggled to myself, wondering what sort of a reaction I’d get if
I turned up for an audition for
that
!

I suddenly spotted
an older man at the table next to me.  He smiled, obviously wondering why I was
chuckling to myself, but I had no intention of telling him.  He was bald - totally,
shiningly bald - with the most stunning features.  A good strong jaw line,
razor sharp cheekbones and strikingly feline eyes.  His hands, though huge,
were immaculate and put my own to shame.  It was evident that he was a regular
at the local nail bar.  I made a mental note to give my own a seeing to when I
got home and then slipped both hands under my bottom to hide them.

‘Lovely day,
isn’t it?’  His voice was soft and with an underlying hint of playfulness.  He
was gay - that much I was certain of - my gaydar was a finely tuned piece of equipment
and, for some inexplicable reason, homosexual gentlemen always wanted to
befriend me.

‘Beautiful day,
yes,’ I answered with a smile and then returned to my paper.  Shit, my voice
was deeper than
his
!  I could change
some
things but there were
others I just had to accept.  My thousand pound loan wouldn’t stretch to changing
the pitch of my voice but some men liked a woman to be deep and husky, didn’t
they?

‘Not seen you
round here before.’  He clearly wanted to strike up a conversation.  ‘This
isn’t your regular caffeine-hit joint is it?’

I put my paper
down and explained that I was from Fulham and was just in town for the day,
having a mooch around and enjoying the sunshine.  He didn’t need to know about
the new me or how I was giving it a trial run - it felt too personal to share
with a total stranger and I didn’t relish the questions it might encourage.  He
certainly seemed direct enough to ask them.

He gestured to my
folded paper.  ‘Job searching?’

I nodded.  ‘Pretty
unsuccessfully too.  Not much out there at the moment for an …’  I stopped
myself from adding ‘
unattractive big girl’ -
I
wasn’t
unattractive any more, I was fit and gorgeous and this was my new confident self
- ‘… for anyone really,’ I added.  ‘Not much work about for anyone.’

He swigged back
the last of his coffee and stubbed out a cigarette.  Then he stood and reached
into his jeans pocket, chucking a business card on my table as he left.

‘I might just be
able to help you there.  Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll have a chat.  Ciao!’

As I saw him lean
over the table to leave the card, I was sure I saw the faintest traces of
leftover make up on his chin and lashes.

But then he was
gone, shouting over his shoulder as he left, ‘The name’s Annie, by the way.’ 
As he made his way through the City crowds like a catwalk model, heads turned
and people moved out his way.  I had an instant admiration for him.  Apart from
the smattering of attention I may have received that day, why didn’t people do
that for
me?

*****

I sat for a
while, watching him disappear, and then picked up his business card.

‘The Gossamer Glove’

House of Female Impersonation

Fenton Street
W1

Owner: Annie Vestite

I dropped the
card in horror and tears began to ruin my perfectly applied make up.

He thought I was
a bloody cross-dresser!

*****

I can’t remember
how long I sat there.  I vaguely remember the waiter asking me if I wanted
another coffee and my nodding my consent.  I didn’t feel strong enough to talk
and the idea of putting a whole sentence together was beyond me.

I was mortified.

After all my hard
work, Dad’s money and my positive mental attitude, I
still
looked like a
bloody tranny.  Suddenly I felt totally drained.  I was a hopeless case, purely
because of my outside shell. 
Inside
I was as feminine and soft as the
next woman but nobody saw that.  Nobody could relate to my day-to-day struggle
or turmoil and I was sick of it.

I’d been kidding
myself that a new wardrobe could change things and I just felt like a fool. 
Daddy had invested in me and my new life and it looked like it wasn’t going to alter
anything at all.

Somehow
I had to repay him.  I couldn’t let this latest setback stand in my
way.  I had a debt hanging over me and I wasn’t prepared to forget that or give
in at the first hurdle.

*****

I returned to my
flat, fed a complaining Bogey and changed into a tatty but comfy tracksuit.

Settling down to
open my email, I picked at the remainder of my mascara and wiped the subtle
lipstick from my mouth.  Maybe if I wore absolutely
no
make up I’d look
less like a drag queen.  I simply didn’t know anymore.

Five emails
popped up - three from Daddy with job suggestions (all pants) one from Tom
asking how the ‘new me’ was (also pants) and another from Mia about my novel
(probably pants).

My finger hovered
over the ‘read’ button above Mia’s.  Was I
really
in the mood to hear
bad news?  Was my fragile mental state ready to cope with it?

I scolded
myself.  Mia was my best friend and didn’t have a nasty bone in her tiny little
body.  She would sugar-coat any criticism and smooth the way if she felt my
feelings were about to be hurt.  I’d read it and deal with it.  This could be
my saving grace - agents and publishers would be bashing down my door with book
deals, I could pay Daddy back and my mother would finally be proud of me.

I opened the
email and read:

Lovely
Percy.

What can I
say?  I haven’t laughed so much in years! 

Please
don’t take this the wrong way but … I’m assuming it was meant to be tongue in
cheek?  If it was - you’ve nailed it.

All those
shudders and sighs, poutings and simperings.  Love it!

Not sure
what sort of market it should be aimed at but it’s certainly unique.

Speak soon

Mia xx

And for the
second time that day, I felt the tears begin to build as a lump formed in my
throat.  My novel hadn’t been
tongue in cheek
and I certainly hadn’t
written it to give people a
laugh
.  I’d poured my heart and soul into
writing my dream romance where women were loved and men were strong but loyal.

But as usual, I
was just a joke.  ‘Funny Old Percy’ with her hulking great frame and miserable life! 
What could
she
possibly know about affairs of the heart or men who loved
unconditionally?  As for the glamorous careers I chose for my heroines -
models, air-hostesses, movie stars - what right did I have to lose myself in
their worlds when I couldn’t even get a job on a supermarket check-out?

I’d foolishly
assumed that because
my
life was so dull and my poor heart so battered,
that women would
want
to read about perfection and romantic fantasy.

I’d turned my
hand to something to try to dig myself out of a hole and, once again, I’d
failed.  How could I even begin to write romance when it could hardly be
described as my specialist subject? 

It was back to square
one, once again.

*****

‘Her
eyelashes were long, her legs equally so.  Her lips like rosebuds and her nose perfection
personified …’

Oh shit, it
really
was
crap!  Why hadn’t I seen that?  I’d tried to juggle some
words, do a little re-write here and a tweak there but it all seemed hopeless. 
People
would
laugh at it.  It was Mills & Boon at its worst.  There
was quite simply no other way of looking at it - it was bad beyond bad.

It was another
lovely bright and sunny day and I’d wasted a morning trying to turn a pig’s bum
into silk knickers - or whatever the stupid saying was.  It was lunchtime and
my stomach was rumbling while my head was thumping with the strain of it all.

Dragging myself
through to kitchen, I rummaged through the fridge for something to eat.  The
usual assortment of leftovers and unappealing scraps greeted me.  Food shopping
for one held little appeal for me and I spent most of my life existing on
toast.

Placing two
slices of sad looking bread in the toaster, I stood and looked out of the
window.  Bogey rubbed up against my legs and then jumped onto the breakfast
bar, sending my handbag and its contents flying.

I bent to pick up
my loose coins, tampons, make up and mobile and there, amongst the crumbs and
bits of crumpled tissues, was Annie’s business card.

Bogey jumped down,
sniffed it and then tapped it towards me purposefully with his paw.  I could
have sworn I saw him wink as he turned and left the room.

I picked the card
up and stood it against the tea-pot on the worktop.  What did Bogey know about
‘The Gossamer Glove’ that I didn’t?  And did I have the courage to find out?

*****

‘So what exactly
were you wearing when you met this Annie bloke?’

Tom had popped
round with a bottle of Pinot and two tubs of Pringles, eager to hear how things
were going for me.

I sipped at the
welcome chilled wine and then looked at him.  ‘I was wearing the white linen
trousers with the silver-grey floaty top that you picked out.’

‘Shoes?’  Tom
asked through a mouthful of Pringles.

‘Of course I wore
bloody shoes!  What d’you take me for?’

‘
What
shoes did you wear?  Please tell me it wasn’t the high black patent ones.  Not
with
that
outfit.’

I told him I’d
worn the flat beaded, silver sandals we’d found in a little back street
boutique, once more thinking what a great gay he’d make.  ‘I’m not
totally
useless, Tom.  I
know
those black shoes don’t go with those trousers. 
Give me
some
credit!’