Free Femmes Fatal by Dorothy Cannell Page B

watching the twins for the second time in one day, I wasn’t up to the rigorsof making myself presentable for the Reverend Rowland Foxworth. No way could I lose two stone in an hour’s time. Ben would have to go on his own, that was all there was to it. As program chairman for the Doting Dads Committee, he’d undoubtedly have such a thumping good time he’d never miss me.
    Putting the meat back in the freezer compartment, I spied the Fully Female manual on top of the fridge where I had stashed it on coming home. All the while I’d had it in my handbag I’d felt … undressed. Now here it lay, flaunting its black-and-white cover while I went hot and cold thinking that Ben might have seen it and leaped to the idea that I was some sort of pervert. The last thing I needed with the nappies still to hang out was to have him flat on his back moaning “Take me.”
    But even as I was having these unwifely thoughts, I was flipping the Fully Female manual to Chapter One.
THE MATING GAME
Ladies, are we sitting comfortably on the edge of our seats? Then we’ll begin with a little story based on the life of yours truly—Bunty Wiseman. And don’t any of you fellow females go getting ideas that this publication was ghostwritten by the chappie who writes those pork belly ads for Hoskins the butcher. These words of wifely wisdom are all straight from the horse’s mouth. Now, as I was about to say before I rudely interrupted myself, Lionel Wiseman of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith, Solicitors at Law, married me—a blonde bombshell, young enough to be his daughter—while the town’s back was turned.
Talk about a modern-day fairy tale! You bet your brassieres it was! I began my stage career asa kiddy dancing on the bar of my Aunt Et’s pub, The Pig & Whistle, in Luton. At twenty-something, there I was, kicking up my heels in a dinner theatre production of Tin Can Alley at Gravesend, when one night in strides this bloke who looks like Cary Grant, talks like the BBC, and wears custom-made socks. After the show he comes knocking on the dressing room door. Would I care to join him for a spot of supper? His Jag awaits outside and he names a nightclub where a glass of water costs more than a four-course dinner.
They said it wouldn’t work. But we had the last laugh, Li and me. Everywhere we looked someone was getting divorced, while we kept right on living the Arabian Nights fantasy. Then came the day when the gal with the X-rated smile became a woman with a mission.
An acquaintance of mine—we’ll call her Mrs. A—cornered me at the check-out lane at Tesco’s and poured out her heart. Seems her marriage was in big trouble. Other Woman trouble. And it didn’t take a degree from Oxford to see why. Mrs. A hadn’t a clue how to keep her man’s hormones hopping. She’d never owned a black garter belt or peekaboo undies. Sex was something a man needed, sort of like a dose of salts to be dished out once a week on Fridays along with a bath and a clean set of underwear. Poor Mrs. A. She used “those times” to plan her meals for the following week.
Trust me, I was shocked! I hadn’t known there were women still living in the Dark Ages, women who still did their big nude scene in the dark. I gave Mrs. A some little tips, one being not to throw away that old electric toothbrush, and she was so well satisfied that she mentioned me to Mrs.B, and before I knew it, I was swamped by women all yearning to be the Happy Housewife.
So what do you think, Fellow Female? Are you ready to trade in that old body for a new one? Are you willing to become the woman he always wanted? Do I hear a resounding yes? Hurrah! Then we begin. Now. At once.
Before you can do nice things for your husband, you have to do nice things for yourself. First, mix yourself a drink. Two tablespoons of Fully Female Formula combined with eight ounces of water or fruit juice …
    “Ellie?” Ben’s voice exploded around me.
    “What?” Clapping the book shut, I tried to stuff it