Free Coconuts and Wonderbras by Lynda Renham

there is no harm in being hospitable and offering him refreshment is there? I visualise myself standing sexily in nothing but a frilly apron and smiling seductively at Toby with my hair perfectly styled and looking for once in my life like a million dollars without having to spend said same amount. It is with these warm happy thoughts drifting through my mind that I answer my mobile to a screaming Jamie.
        ‘Where the fuck are you? Did I say you could have the bloody day off?’
    I grimace at Issy.
        ‘Actually, yes you did.’
    Don’t tell me he has forgotten already.
        ‘What!’ He bellows.
    Christ, why isn’t he having mad passionate fellatio with the Filipino poof instead of screeching at me.
        ‘You said I could take the day off for the photo shoot,’ I reply calmly.
        ‘Shit, so I did. Well, get your arse over here as soon as you’re done. I need to go over some important stuff with you.’
    What can be that important? I meekly agree to pop into the office on my way home after the makeover.
    The photo shoot is in the heart of Soho, in a deserted studio, in the basement of a seedy jazz club. Issy is horrified and I am only convinced it will be worth the while when the make-up artist produces touché éclat, to cover ‘Those hideous blemishes darling’, which are actually my freckles, but never mind. He also has a wonderful array of Chanel cosmetics which I am told I can keep. The place is freezing and smells musty, and Issy spends most of the time jumping up and down to keep warm, or hogging the small two-bar electric heater that the photographer brought in. I feel sure my goose bumps will show in the photos. I’m highly flattered when told I should be modelling as I have all the attributes needed. Feel rather deflated, however, when the Littlewoods catalogue is mentioned as the primary contact if I would like some work. I am even more deflated when the modelling agency’s application form must be accompanied with a fifty pound registration fee. Issy’s hopes are raised each time the door opens in the hope it will be her mysterious beau. However, apart from a sixty-year-old Brazilian cleaner and a seventeen-year-old pizza delivery man the only other person to enter is the lighting guy, who we both felt sure had to be the ugliest man on earth. We leave the basement and walk hastily through Soho as Issy is concerned we may be approached. I am somewhat insulted that before my makeover she didn’t voice any such fears, and now she is worried we may be mistaken for prostitutes. Now, there’s a job I hadn’t given much thought to.
        ‘You’d have to pay them ,’ giggles Issy.
    Not the most flattering of compliments. I let her talk me into finishing the morning off with coffee and cake at Harrods which, amazingly, she pays for.
        ‘This place is so pretentious don’t you think?’ she giggles.
    We both gawp at the statue of Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed for about five minutes. Memories of Paris, car crashes and a highly fragrant London unwittingly enter our heads.
        ‘Christ,’ grunts Issy, and we move on.
    I would have much preferred Marks and Spencer. At least the women there seem a little more my equal.
        ‘Do you have PG tips?’ Issy asks the waitress with a wide smile.
        ‘I’m sure we can acquire some madam,’ the waitress replies and I blush.
    Following tea, and yes, I am ashamed to admit, cake too, Issy drags me around the women’s department and oohs and ahs over the clothes while saying.
        ‘This is only two thousand, five hundred, what a bargain. I’d buy it but the tea wiped me out.’
    To which I respond,
        ‘Delightful darling, but you already have two of those and didn’t you say the butler found it a bugger to iron?’
        ‘Oh, I’ve sacked him darling. I have Pudsey now.’
        ‘Oh goodie,’ I squeal, while tempted to ask who Pudsey is. ‘Is he any good?’
        ‘Marvellous darling,