Free Summertime by Raffaella Barker Page B

you look fantastic, it must be worth it,’ I say, admiring her glowing clear skin and shining eyes.
    â€˜Do you think so? I hope you’re right. I’ve had toput Theo with a childminder and take a week’s holiday from work to give myself time for all this. It’s insanely stressful trying to keep up with it,’ she says, rushing to turn off the kitchen timer she had set to remind herself to take her early-evening powders. ‘It just shows that all these treatments are aimed at fantastically rich women who do nothing all day but paint their nails. You can’t possibly look after children or work, there just isn’t time.’
    Put on my make-up and get dressed, slightly crestfallen not to have Rose to giggle and swap things with, and half longing to have the detox treatment given to me as a present – such a luxury to think only of oneself and one’s bodily functions for a whole week. Just like being a toddler again. On second thoughts, the implied criticism of a husband giving a wife an expensive and enslaving beauty treatment is grim. Better to buy it oneself, or, given that it costs a fortune, best just to sip a drop of camomile tea before bed and stay off the booze.
    Minna’s hen night has been organised by Incie Wincie Inglethorpe, who isn’t a boy at all, and who does not live at White City Greyhound Stadium where I clearly remember sending the wedding invitation. In fact, the stadium turns out to be the venue for the hen night. Incie is a corruption of Celia, and Wincie is a referenceto her stature. Incie Wincie is about half my height and has a mop of black curls and dark eyes. She also has a girlfriend, Sophie, with a swanlike neck and for ever legs, with whom she is holding hands.
    â€˜They’re lesbians,’ I whisper to Minna. ‘Look, they’re holding hands.’
    â€˜Yes, they’re chefs, and they’re making the wedding cake. It’s going to be Elvis in his white trouser suit with sugar sequins and a guitar, but don’t tell Desmond. It’s a surprise.’
    I have not seen Minna before in a crowd of her own friends. She has always either been at work at Heavenly Petting, where she is chief receptionist, or she has been with Desmond. Had quite forgotten the mesmerising effect she has, with her Dolly Parton proportions and coiffed, candyfloss hair. Manage to become paranoid and clumsy instantly, as cannot help noticing that
all
Minna’s friends have the same pocket-Venus bodies. The only people at our table who are over five foot four and have a bra-cup size less than double-D, are me and Sophie the lesbian. We sit next to each other and we talk about one-day eventing (her pet subject) and children (mine). Realise as she begins to set up little jumps with matchbooks and cigarettes to illustrate what is fast becoming a lecture, that I have no passions whatsoever, and my social skills have diminished to two conversations: one about footballscores, and the other a debate on supermarkets versus delivery rounds for the best deals on organic foods.
    I blame this restricted field of knowledge on the children. They are the only people I see, and I only know what they tell me these days, thus I know much more about
The Simpsons
than
EastEnders
. Stop listening at all to Sophie the lesbian, who is cantering a pony keyring around her plate, reminding me of Felix and his ‘life is a game of WarHammer’ philosophy, and start trying to list my own interests and areas of expertise. After ten minutes, during which time I have bet and lost on the first dog race without being aware of it happening, I have established my areas of expertise as being:
    1 Nit control.
    2 Opening bottles of wine when I have lost the corkscrew.
    3 Making and losing lists.
    My interests are rather more limited. In fact, I can’t think of any at all, which is disgraceful. I must get some immediately. What can they be, and where will I find them? Gambling is not