Free Nip 'N' Tuck by Kathy Lette Page B

considered.
    I fastened my face. It was going to be a bumpy night.

8
    Many a True Word Is Spoken Ingest
    THERE IS ONLY one certainty in life: things always get worse before they get worse.
    And so it was that the woman who made Jessica Rabbit look two-dimensional was now wriggling into the kitchen in a pair of leopardskin pants – Britney Amore wore so much jungle print clothing you really couldn’t date her without taking malaria tablets. ‘Hi, y’all!’ she said, with such euphoric bubbliness that it was impossible that class A narcotics weren’t causally related.
    ‘You remember my
husband
,’ I said coldly (posts-cripting a mental mutter, ‘last seen sprinting up Mount Lust’).
    ‘Hel-
lo
,’ enthused Hugo, almost concussing himself on the elevated pan rack in his hurry to stand up.
    ‘So, where are the kiddos, hon? I was simply
dyin
’ to play with them.’
    God! Not content with stealing my husband, she now wanted to win over my children! My throat was on fire with misery. And what, I wondered bitterly, would a dumb-ass broad like her play? Remedial Scrabble? Join the
Dot
? ‘They’re in bed,’ I said, primly.
    As Hugo congratulated Britney on the critical reception accorded her extended nude scene in the National Theatre’s production of
Hamlet
, I tried not to look at her bra-less chest. They weren’t breasts. They were speed bumps. And they had all the men at the party – Hugo, Sven and some low-life Italian friend of his whose handshake left me begging for Dettol – crawling over to the social kerb.
    ‘Do you think she’s had a boob job?’ I whispered to my sister.
    ‘Noooo.’ Victoria rolled her eyes sarcastically. ‘Under her clothes she’s obviously wearing some kind of anti-gravity device.’
    ‘I mean, what’s holding her up?’ I marvelled. ‘Wire? Glue? A team of specially trained fleas?’
    ‘Now, boys, don’t let me monopolize y’all. It’s embarrassin’, isn’t it?’ Britney confided to Victoria and me, in mock camaraderie. ‘If only I could make myself less desirable.’ She looked me up and down, enquiring solicitously, ‘How do
you
do it darr-lin’?’
    I was only half recovered from my coughing fit when Marrakech breezed into the kitchen. Britney immediately fell upon the teenager, kissing her ardently on both cheeks. ‘Well, I am now officially a lesbian because
you
are so
gorg
eous! No wonder Sven’s offered you a modellin’ contract. I can see why!’ She stepped back to appraise her young rival. ‘How old are ya, Princess?’
    Marrakech shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll check. How old are you today, Mum?’
    I held my breath.
    A curtain of blonde hair fell languidly over my sister’s smoky left eye. ‘Thirty-one,’ she announced confidently.
    There was a collective throat-clearing at this revelation.
    ‘You don’t believe me, do you? … You just can’t believe I’m that old.’
    Sven grabbed my sister’s photogenic butt. ‘Tell me,’ he chuckled smuttily, ‘is this seat taken?’
    I would have liked to grip him warmly too –
by the throat
. Hugo, nervous about Sven’s presence, laughed with exaggerated heartiness. It wasn’t like Hugo to be so sycophantic. Would he really feel so guilty over just a
kiss
? With my chest tightening, I whacked the half-thawed chicken into the wok and stir-fried the shit out of it – not exactly what you’d call a Martha Stewart Moment – and downed my glass of wine in one long gulp.
    ‘My offer still stands, Marrakech,’ Sven said, trailing after her. Honestly, the man was more adherent than a stay-fresh mini pad. ‘I’d be happy to give you the lay of the land.’
    ‘Let’s just hope that’s a figure of speech and not a sales pitch,’ I confided,
sotto voce
, to the chicken breasts. I gave one a tentative prod. It had the consistency of a Pamela Anderson implant but it was warming up vaguely, thank God.
    ‘You simply cannot let this opportunity pass you by, Marrakech,’ Victoria insisted.