Free Nip 'N' Tuck by Kathy Lette Page A

bags.
    ‘Alcohol! Quickly!’ She seized my glass of Pinot Grigio.
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘I have just spent the last week modelling muumuus for drunken electrical engineers in Dubai. If Sven doesn’t marry me soon, my next gig is glamour-posing for amateur photographers in Milton Keynes.’
    ‘Is that so bad?’
    She slumped despondently over her wineglass. ‘Darling, it’s Kosovo without the perks.’
    ‘I know something that will cheer you up. Cal’s planning to ask you out.’
    Now it was Cal’s turn to shoot me a homicidal look. ‘Ah … yeah.’ He nervously readjusted the worn leather belt on his Levi’s 501s.
    Victoria placed her manicured hands on the hips of her spray-on snakeskin trousers. ‘Put it this way, Calim,’ my sister replied, ‘if I were naked, you’d bore the pants
on to
me.’
    ‘Victoria!’ I snapped. She might have severe PMT (Post Modelling Tension), but there was no need to take it out on my best buddy.
    ‘Okay, so it’s no to sex,’ Cal replied gamely. ‘How ’bout some indiscriminate heavy pettin’, then?’
    ‘I’m not being rude.’ Victoria sighed. ‘It’s just that you’re so insignificant.’
    Beet-faced, my loyal friend took a small bow. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, that last act of abject humiliation was brought to you by Calim Keane. Excuse me, but I have a date to read bedtime stories.’ He left abruptly, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
    Before I could shove my half-sister down the waste-disposal unit, Victoria exclaimed, ‘I suppose the fact that Britney has rather en
or
mous tits is a rather ex
as
perating detail.’
    ‘God.’ My stomach churned. ‘Is she really so brazen that she’s actually turned up?’
    ‘I just passed Jabba the Slut parking her Porsche. Forget the
chicken
breasts, Elisabeth, and just concentrate on your own.’ She thrust her hand down my bra and hoicked my tiny tits to the top of their lace cups. ‘Leave It To Cleavage. That’s the only show men are really interested in.’
    I glanced in Hugo’s direction over by the wine rack, where he was scrutinizing vintages – my husband could put the bore into Bordeaux. ‘Victoria, Hugo is
not
a breast man!’
    On cue, the largest pair of mammaries in the northern hemisphere glided into view. It was like a photo-finish in a blancmange bake-off. The female to whom the Siamese soufflés were attached followed some five minutes later. My husband’s eyeballs pogoed out of their sockets and boinged! into her bra cups, where they gambolled around in the throes of ecstasy before boomeranging back socketwards.
    ‘You were saying?’ crowed my sister.
    When Sven waylaid Britney with kisses on the kitchen threshold, I thought it was an opportune moment to retreat with Victoria for some tandem toilet time.
    ‘For God’s sake, don’t let on that you know about Britney and Hugo. He told me not to tell you. He wants me to be suave,’ I bleated, plonking my posterior on the lavatory seat. ‘I can’t be suave.’
    ‘Of course you can, sweetie. All you have to do is stand still and look brain-dead … Hurry up, I’m
bursting
.’
    ‘I have a degree. I can’t look brain-dead.’ I washed my hands while Victoria took her turn to pee.
    ‘Try winsome, then. Britney does a terrific winsome.’
    ‘How?’ I handed her a toilet roll.
    ‘You just look like a neutered dog. You keep looking at him till he pats you – and then you take his leg off. That’s my number one Useful Girlish Tip,’ she philosophized, pulling the chain. ‘The only other way to keep a man happy are a few Martha Stewart Moments in the kitchen. Oh, and some feminine mystique.’ She paused to fart before sashaying out of the bathroom. ‘Men love that.’
    WANTED – Suave, sophisticated, winsome, discreet, dynamic ‘Trophy Wife’ with enormous cleavage. Must be an experienced Michelin Star cook and general Domestic Goddess, appropriate for Power Coupling. Applicants without feminine fucking mystique will not be