Free Stockings and Cellulite by Debbie Viggiano Page A

Venetian blinds. Battered filing cabinets lined the far end of the room. It was with a pang of sorrow that I realised the first steps to formally ending my marriage should end in such a gloomy room, in utter contradiction to the way it had all begun. A warm day, bathed in lemon sunshine, a young bride floating amidst a sea of white lace, tumbling hair sprinkled with a rainbow of confetti.
    The receptionist suddenly barged in bearing a tea tray. With a jangle of cheap bracelets, she set down the regulation china and stale shortbread, simpered to Mr Livingston and even managed to bare her bleached teeth in my direction. Clearly paying clients were entitled to a free smile. I gave a chilly one in response.
    After the best part of an hour outlining general divorce procedure and taking copious notes, Mr Livingston told me not to worry about anything and to leave matters in his capable hands.
    ‘Is that it then? Don’t you need any proof of adultery?’
    ‘Not at all Mrs Cherry. The days of private investigators jumping out of bedroom wardrobes and catching couples playing
coitus
are long over.’
    ‘I saw my husband and Cynthia Castle with my own eyes. Believe me Mr Livingston, neither of them were playing quoits.’
    I continued to work at Hempel Braithwaite and found myself enjoying it. Julia, the receptionist, was definitely a new pal.
    ‘So how are you getting along with our Gracie then?’ she asked one lunchtime over a whiffy egg mayo bap.
    ‘Fine. She’s great to work with. Just a bit, oh I don’t know-’
    ‘Weird?’
    ‘A little,’ I admitted. ‘She seems to know an awful lot about me and my personal circumstances, but I’m at a loss to understand how.’
    ‘She’s known as Godly Grace in the firm.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because she’s psychic.’
    ‘Don’t be daft,’ I guffawed and promptly choked on a crumb. Julia thumped my back until I could breathe again. ‘You mean,’ I croaked, larynx struggling for complete recovery, ‘that she wraps a shawl around her head, pops a pair of gold hoops in her earlobes and then consults a crystal ball?’
    ‘Sort of, but without the props.’
    ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. You don’t believe all that mumbo-jumbo do you?’
    ‘I’m telling you Cass, Grace Herbert could probably tell you what colour knickers you’re wearing
and
when you last bonked your husband.’
    Even I didn’t know what colour underwear I’d hurriedly pulled from my knicker drawer earlier this morning. Grotty Grey probably. And as for when I’d last – well it was unthinkable.
    ‘Gracious,’ I eventually replied.
    ‘Gracious Grace,’ Julia giggled. ‘Ask her to give you a reading some time. She’s really rather good.’
    As another working week drew to a close the Personnel Officer, Susannah Harrington, summoned me to her room. Tall and thin with a beaky nose, iron grey hair and coal black eyes, she wouldn’t have looked out of place as the Governess of a female prison. Susannah was, in fact, absolutely charming but her officious presence automatically reduced me to check stockings for ladders and fingernails for dirt.
    Timidly I tapped upon her door.
    ‘Come,’ a voice boomed from within. ‘Don’t look so scared Cassandra,’ she chided as I scuttled over to her desk. ‘This isn’t a disciplinary hearing. In fact,’ she rearranged some paperwork and then switched her telephone to voicemail, ‘I want to praise you.’ She smiled and the austere features instantly softened.
    And it was indeed high praise, so much so that Hempel Braithwaite wished me to join them permanently as a floating secretary.
    ‘How wonderful!’ I enthused before realising the ramifications of full time work. ‘But, I’m so sorry Susannah. I have to stick to temping because of my children you see.’
    ‘I fully understand my dear and that is exactly what Hempel Braithwaite would like you to do. But within our stable of employment rather than the recruitment agency’s. We suggest you carry on