Fur Coat No Knickers Read online

  Now, where was I? Ah yes, my husband would be so successful that he didn't have to work over Christmas. He could even have retired very young. Actually, scrap that, idle minds equal idle hands, we don’t want them wandering… No, wait… we would have a nanny. Yes, a live-in nanny. A butt-ugly one though, that’s very important. She would have warts - not genital warts, or anything like that - just enough warts with a few sprigs of pubic-like hair darting around. A Nanny McFee type. Yes, that would be perfect.

  We would remain in London - perhaps in a penthouse apartment - around Hyde Park. Actually, make that a mansion in Hampstead. It would have to be huge, because it would need to house, amongst other things, a humungous Christmas tree - a real one. It would be decorated in traditional-style, with fairy lights, all white and twinkly; with huge red velvet bows.

  We would decorate it together as a family. I could almost see my gorgeous husband lifting our eldest, Tommy, to put the angel on top. No wait, Hugo would be our eldest, Tommy can turn the Christmas tree lights on. But then Mercedes may feel left out. Gosh, being a parent is difficult. I’d need to find her something to do. Oh, I know, I will have to put her to bed because she’s tired… Or perhaps I should just have two children? I’ve got it! Even better, I’m pregnant with Mercedes! I would be a vision of fertile loveliness for the festive season.

  So, back to the child lifting. My handsome man will be lifting our son up effortlessly in his muscular arms while we all watched together in admiration, revelling in a perfect Christmas.

  ‘OUCH - that’s hot! Don’t be scolding the head off me you loon!’ irked Siobhan.

  ‘Oh… sorry! I was miles away.’

  As I was adding the final touches to Siobhan’s hair, Jackie was getting ready to leave. Fortunately, Jackie had been with me since the opening of the Salon and was a very skilled beauty therapist. She was however a lot quieter than the others and often seemed bemused by their incessant jokes, but she was always good company. Indeed, out of all of them, I would often go to Jackie for wise counsel. I’d noticed she seemed withdrawn in the last few days and I had been waiting for a good opportunity for a word in private. Luckily, she paused next to me as she readied herself to go.

  ‘Jackie… you look a little worried, are you alright?’ I asked quietly as I switched off the hair-dryer.

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure,’ whispered Jackie, looking around her in a secretive manner, ‘have a look at this; I got a text earlier from the old man and it’s confused me.’

  [Text from Pete]

  ‘Hi sexy, can’t wait to see u tonight. And wear that new underwear I got u ;-) xxxxxx’

  ‘Oowh lucky you,’ I said playfully, handing back the phone, ‘looks like you’re on a promise tonight!’

  ‘No,’ replied Jackie, shaking her head, ‘you don’t understand... Pete hasn’t bought me any underwear… and he said he was going out for a few drinks with the boys tonight.’

  My heart sank a little. I deliberately tried to avoid eye contact with Siobhan, because I knew she’d been eavesdropping and this didn’t sound good.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,’ I said as brightly as I could. ‘It must be one of his friends messing about with his phone or something, don’t worry yourself, sweetheart.’

  Reaching into the drawer of the reception desk, I pulled out the Salon spare keys and handed them to Jackie, along with her Christmas bonus.

  ‘Here’s your Christmas bonus. Thanks for all your hard work this year. Now, you get yourself home and I’ll lock up. Merry Christmas and thanks again for taking over while I’m in Dublin,’ I said while giving her a big, reassuring hug.

  ‘No problem,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Enjoy your family Christmas. Bye everybody, merry Christmas,’ she said, unconvincingly as she left the Salon.

  ‘There’s no way he is playing away. He wouldn’t, would he?’ I asked Siobhan, as I started spraying her hair into place.

  ‘Well,’ slurred Siobhan, swaying slightly in her chair and clearly making an effort to focus on her reflection in the mirror, ‘he is in his 50’s… and didn’t you tell me that he just bought himself a mid-life crisis, penis extending set of wheels?’

  ‘Siobhan!’ I chided, tapping her on the head with the brush. ‘There’s no way! And it’s just a car.’

  Quietly though, I did concede to myself; she did have a point. It was a Subaru; a huge statement in itself. I had to push the thought to the back of my head. Any hint of marital impropriety really didn’t fit in with my own fantasy of a ‘perfect’ family life; with three kids, a mansion in Hampstead and an index-linked pension.

  ‘But they have been married for like… forever,’ I eventually stammered out, ‘they are the perfect couple… aren't they?’

  ‘Ah Tara, c’mon now, she has five kids! She must have a fanjita like a clowns pocket!’ scoffed Siobhan.

  ‘Do you have to be so crude?’ I tutted, handing her back her coat.

  I was just about to launch into a lecture on the sanctity of family life when James, who never knowingly missed out on any potentially hot gossip, interrupted us.

  ‘So… I couldn’t help overhearing,’ said James inquisitively, as he slithered over with a raised eyebrow. ‘What’s all this about Jackie? Go on, do tell!’

  ‘James,’ I said cutting him short and raising one hand in the air like some sort of helpless traffic cop, ‘nothing is going on.’

  ‘Pete’s feckin’ cheating on Jackie,’ piped up Siobhan. ‘I’m [hic] telling you!’

  ‘Siobhan, shoooosh!’ I snapped, whirling around to face her while adopting my best headmistress-in-a-temper look.

  ‘Reeeally… ooooh, the naughty bugger!’ said James, in obvious delight. He couldn’t have been that excited by the news though, because he immediately turned the conversation around to himself. ‘And talking of naughty buggers - no pun intended – my new hot piece of man-candy seems to have fallen off the ‘gaydar’ system and gone icy-cold on my little behind. It’s put me in such a foul mood! I keep texting him and he’s not replying. It could have something to do with what he said about being ‘confused’ - but I’ve told him, his undercarriage is for men only! It’s just ridiculous!’

  Siobhan was all ears. She loved all this stuff. ‘[Hic]… So [hic]… so James [hic]…’ she persisted, seemingly to encourage him into more revelations.

  ‘I mean, how could anybody be confused after a night like that with moi?’ James continued bluntly, raising his manicured hand to his chest, evidently flabbergasted. ‘I might need to give him the silent treatment so he realises what he’s missing. I mean, what more could he wish for?’

  James, momentarily upset, re-adjusted the fluffy halo he’d been resolutely wearing in the Salon throughout the run-up to Christmas. ‘How do you give a man the silent treatment when he’s the one being silent? It’s so hard.’

  ‘How hard?’ Siobhan asked, one eyebrow suggestively raised as she predictably zoned-in on the word ‘hard.’

  ‘He’s so sexical, you know. Sex on a stick. And don’t get me started on what he keeps in those tighty-whities. I could ride his disco-stick all-night-long.’ With that, James threw back his head and laughed uproariously, while treating his audience to a little wiggle of his leather-clad bum.

  ‘Wow [hic]… so wait… back the feck up. You said he was confused?’ queried Siobhan, who had clearly not been keeping up well in her befuddled state.

  ‘Yes, well he has only recently discovered that ‘gay is the way’ after I showed him the night of his life! But he has since wrongly decided that he wasn't so sure!’ said James impatiently.

  ‘NO!… so he goes both ways…? He’s bi-di-bi-di-bi,’ roared Siobhan.

  ‘I’m talking 5’ 10” of toned perfection,’ James continued, ignoring Siobhan’s hopeful conclusion.

  ‘How many marks out of ten would you give him?’ pressed Siobhan. ‘How young is he? Is he ripe for the picking? Oh feck it… I’m getting myself all worked up now!’

  ‘Oh Siobhan, le
t me tell you, he was off the Richter scale,’ said James with a long, loved-up sigh.

  ‘Mmm [hic]… well James, because I love you sooo much, I’m gonna do you a favour and test-drive him with me fanjita for you, just to see what genitalia he likes best. That way you’ll know for sure,’ said Siobhan conspiratorially. ‘Now I can’t be any fairer than that, now can I?’

  ‘Thank you for offering the use of your… err… ‘lady-garden’ Siobhan, however I plan to keep him on the dark side,’ sniggered James, ‘but, Happy Christmas, darling.’

  James and Siobhan were both clearly pleased with the exchange and finished the performance with an elaborate display of air kissing on one another’s cheeks.

  ‘Happy Christmas to my best friend,’ said Siobhan, turning and throwing her arms around me, locking me into a bear hug. ‘I’m going to miss you so much. Be good. And if you can’t be good, be damn good at it!’

  ‘Aww - and happy Christmas to you too!’ I replied, returning the hug.

  ‘See you on New Year’s Eve! And James…’ shouted Siobhan, ‘if you change your mind and want me to take lover-boy round the block for you… do let me know,’ she said with a wink.

  With that, Siobhan sailed out of the Salon, grabbing her ‘fanjita’ and thrusting her hips as she left. For a moment, the Salon fell silent. It was always like that with Siobhan. She was such a ball of life and energy that when she left the room it felt like a vacuum.

  ‘James, Jayde… c’mon… it’s pressie time,’ I said, recovering the festive feeling by choosing this moment to hand them their Christmas bonus envelopes.

  ‘Thanks, Tara!’ They both chorused, then shot each other evil stares after they realized they’d chanted in unison.

  Jayde broke the tension, ‘I weren’t gonna give you a crimbo pressie, James; but it is the season of giving to the unfortunate,’ began Jayde, looking genuinely contrite.

  ‘Oh goody… I got you one too!’ James replied, clapping his hands together with delight. He obviously completely missed Jayde’s dig.

  ‘Gimme, gimme!’ jumped Jayde excitedly.

  ‘Here you go…’ James said, passing her a beautifully gift-wrapped box; complete with tag, bow and curled ribbon. Jayde then passed James an Aldi carrier bag with his present inside, before unceremoniously ripping her Christmas gift open.

  ‘Err… you’re so kind,’ he said with a downward curl of his mouth, taking it with his fingertips as though it contained toxic waste. ‘I’ll bring mine at home and put it under the tree (outside).’

  ‘Wow, James! Ya got me a shell suit! An’ it’s all checkered an’ shit,’ shrieked Jayde, holding up a brown and white outfit and smoothing it out with one hand.

  ‘It’s called Burberry, you uncouth beast! I got you the matching scrunchie to scrape your greasy hair back to stop it falling in your trough when you’re eating,’ James sneered.

  ‘I’m gunna look like… OMG… just sooo cool!’ exclaimed Jayde, excitedly ignoring James.

  ‘Wow, what a generous gift,’ I remarked, smiling.

  James whispered in my ear, ‘It’s okay… it’s fake. I acquired it from ChavLand.com.’

  Having said our goodbyes, I switched off the never-ending, looped Christmas CD, blew out the mulled wine scented candles and pulled out the plug from the Christmas tree lights.

  I went into the staffroom, which was still littered with mince pies and plastic cups containing the remnants of a bottle of Cava, got changed and ordered a taxi to take me to the airport. As I made a halfhearted attempt to tidy up, I mused on what lay ahead for my Christmas holidays.

  In what seemed to be an increasingly common habit of mine, I circled and rubbed my tummy longingly. The desire to have a baby was growing ever stronger. I was becoming obsessed, wishing that I could go back to my younger self. However hard I tried, I had still not found my Mr. Right. Perhaps I should settle on a Mr. Nearly Right? Who was I kidding… I’d have leapt at a Mr. Slightly Right given half the chance.

  Even though I joked about my hopeless situation with my friends, I did feel incredibly sad that yet another year had flown by and there was still no husband and still no baby. It’s true what they say: youth is wasted on the young. I stared at my reflection in the staffroom mirror. Sure, we can Botox to the hilt, have facelifts, stretch and inject every conceivable part of our body, yet, we cannot stop our ticking biological clock. Each minute, each hour, each day, youth was slipping from my fingertips, from the inside out. I couldn’t do anything about it. It was and is impossible to stop that ageing process inside-me.

  I didn't want to go down the road of having my eggs frozen and stored like a frozen Petit-Poi. My baby would get frostbite and if he/she was anything like me - they would hate being cold. And what if something happened to me whist it was in the deep freezer? Would it be left there for eternity? Could they accidentally defrost my petit-poi and plant it in some other mummy? It wasn’t that I had anything against others who took this route. In fact, I was almost envious that they had the courage to do it. I just wanted a fresh one, straight from him, my Mr. Right; planted in my own lady-garden, where I would protect it, house it and keep it warm and safe.

  No, the answer is most definitely to continue my search to find Mr. Right. Surely this coming year would bring me the happiness I deserve?’

  I was stirred from my daydream when the taxi beeped outside.

  I lugged my suitcase from the staffroom, locked the door behind me and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Feeling exhausted, I scooched over to my window seat and flopped down. I couldn’t help noticing a gorgeous ride coming down the aisle. Phwar! Please let him be sitting next to me, I thought. He could most definitely be a candidate to be my Mr. Right. My heart sank a little as I watched him walk past. He didn’t even give me a second glance, the gobshite.

  It was then I noticed a commotion further up the plane. I could see a rather large businessman trying to make his way down the aisle. He looked like he was heavily pregnant. Everyone had to clear a path for him as he squeezed through the seats; tatty briefcase in one hand and a half eaten pasty in the other. Sweet Jesus, I thought, can he not stop eating just for a few minutes while he gets on the plane? Obviously not, it turned out. I watched him take a huge bite; with only half of the gigantic mouthful managing the journey to his mouth, the rest was in free fall, rolling off his belly and into the aisle.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as he trampled his way passed me. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped and then began to perform a three-point-turn in order to maneuver himself round… and into the seat next to me. Oh for the love of God, I thought, shuffling in my chair uncomfortably and trying to get as far over as possible whilst grabbing my possessions at the speed of light. I couldn’t help but watch this enormous mass coming towards me. Oh God… beep… beep… beep. This man seriously should have been equipped with warning hazard lights and a ‘WIDE LOAD’ sticker.

  He finally managed to align himself in order to come in for landing. Mission impossible had been accomplished. But, as wide loads inevitably do, he clearly required two lanes. In a matter of seconds his bulk had started to spread over into my space. His I’ve-had-all-the-pies belly could have taken up a seat all on its own (and the person’s in front, I might I add).

  By then, I was fuming. Why should I have to pay extra for going over 15 kilos in my luggage, when this colossal vehicle can get on the plane for the same price as me? His elbow and chubby leg had already launched a full-scale invasion of what was left of my personal space, despite the fact that I was leaning so far the other way. All I was left with was a few centimeters of space, leaving me precariously balancing on one bum cheek. He gave me a cheery smile.

  ‘Howerya? Sure, the weather’s shocking, is it not?’

  I gave a dismissive nod. Yuck, I thought. Half the pasty was still sitting in his moustache. It grossed me out so much that I shuddered. He had more hair sprouting from his ears than he did on his head.

  I knew
exactly what was coming next. The compulsory, boring aeroplane chat, which, of course, my portly new seatmate followed to a tee;

  ‘So, are you heading off home for the holidays?’ he predictably began as the plane taxied down the runway.

  ‘Yes, I’m spending Christmas with my family,’ I answered through gritted teeth. I already knew what was coming next. A pound to a penny he’s going to ask where my family is from next.

  ‘So, where in Ireland are your family from?’

  Bingo! I just wanted him to shut the feck up and let me close my eyes so I could snooze during the flight.

  ‘Rathmines in Dublin,’ I answered. (He will of course know it well and his uncle and three times removed cousins will also be living there). He’ll be asking the family name next.

  ‘Oh, I know those parts very well, what’s the family name?’ he boomed.

  ‘Ryan.’ I answered shortly.

  ‘Ah sure, I know the Ryans well,’ he said, ‘fine upstanding members of the community.’

  I knew then that he definitely had the wrong set of Ryans. Even though my family’s story had started romantically, the middle and end of that story was far from a fairytale.

  My parents had met and married in Mills & Boon-like circumstances. My dad, Michael (back then, a fine young whippersnapper), only had eyes for my mum, Josephine. He spotted her sunbathing on Greystones beach in County Wicklow, Ireland, back in the sixties.

  ‘A thunderbolt,’ dad used to say, eyes brimming with tears. ‘It was love at first sight, so it was,’ he added with intense pride. ‘There she was, in her navy blue and white polka-dot swimsuit, dancing around, kicking the sand about without a care in the world. I heard shrieks of laughter as she dipped in and out of the cold sea. I could have watched her for hours so I could; her long, dark, glossy hair catching in the summer breeze, floating across her lightly tanned skin. She was a vision.’

  Mum, however, having a very strict upbringing (yet a playful edge to her personality) declined my dad’s incessant offers of courtship.