Free Valentine Present and Other Diabolical Liberties by Lynda Renham Page B

wobbling all over the place in them. I swear roller blades would be easier. I take a peek at myself in the mirror. I look like an oversized ballerina in a tutu. I could seriously be auditioning for a comedy Strictly Come Dancing contest. This is a complete disaster. Every dress I try on looks ghastly. Oh, that’s a new word I’ve learnt. Every time I feel myself about to say this is crap , I replace it with ghastly . It’s working so far. I just have to remember not to say I’m taking a ghastly. I honestly must have been mad to have agreed to this. I’m having elocution lessons and am constantly chatting away to myself on the bus. I am surprised no one has had me sectioned. Mum barely recognised me when I popped round for tea. Now she is like the cat that got the cream, and double cream at that. Caron’s semi has dropped considerably in her estimations, and as for the Platinum card, as soon as I flashed Hamilton’s American Express Centurion, Gary was old news. I wasn’t strictly honest with Mum, I just said I had met this really nice man who had a bob or two, but he was just a friend. Let’s face it she’s the one person who will open her mouth and put her foot straight in it.
          ‘Have you gone totally insane? There is no way you can pull this off,’ Fiona had said, and I’m starting to think she might just be right. I am going up to Scotland this weekend to meet the family and I am now the proud owner of my own tennis racket, but unfortunately, unless Hamilton can arrange a few private lessons with Steffi Graff, there isn’t very much I can do with the damn thing. I look great in my perfect little tennis outfit, although a lot of good that will do me. I’ve never hit anything with a bat in my life. I’m shit-scared of meeting the grandmother. No, must not say shit . Apparently Hamilton’s parents abhor swearing, so that’s half my vocabulary gone. I’m never going to pull this off. I’m bound to miss my mouth when eating an hors d’oeuvre and send it down my posh frock. I’ll just have to starve that’s all. I really am digging a grave for myself. If only Julian would call me again. I’m seriously beginning to think that maybe Jack Diamond has had him topped. Oh God, I can’t think about it. When I do, I have visions of him at the bottom of the Thames wearing concrete boots. How did we ever get to this? It was only a little French restaurant for Christ’s sake. It’s no good. I have to stop thinking like this. I have to get through this weekend, whether I want to or not. I’ve taken half the money now and paid off a lot of the debts. There’s a few left but with the other half I’ll be able to clear those and have enough for my studies. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m totally exhausted. I have been trying on outfit after outfit all morning. I now own inexpensive designer-free corduroys and three very dull-looking sweaters. Not to mention a very smart pair of gumboots.
          ‘One must look as though one spends a great deal of time in the country madam. Clothes need to look used.’
          ‘My own clothes are most certainly used Marcus, so why can’t I wear those?’
          ‘Because madam, ladies do not wear Boho ponchos to walk the dogs.’
    I’ve no intention of walking any bleeding dogs, and I’ve never been called a lady in my life. I turn from the mirror and smile wearily at Marcus.
          ‘You don’t think I look a little too sparkly in this one? Or a bit too puffy or even a bit …’
    Marcus holds his hands up in horror.
          ‘Puffy? You? My darling, my sweetie, that is not even possible. You always sparkle no matter what you try on but this one my darling, you look fabulous. It is perfect for your first dinner.’
    I glance at the price tag and grab a satin -draped chair for support. My God, who pays two thousand pounds for a dress? That would pay the rent and bills for two months. I wish Fiona were here, I so need a second