Free All the Single Ladies by Jane Costello Page B

Cleavage Air Pump Bra to the desired level of volume.’
    I give it a squeeze and examine the results in the mirror. Not bad . . . but could do better. I try the other one and decide that’s almost it . . . but not quite.
    I take a deep breath and, with my hands in both cups, give a series of sharp, convincing bursts. Then a few more. And a few more for good measure.
    I stand back and look at the results, which are . . . bloody magnificent, if I say so myself.
    I’ve always fancied having bigger boobs. It’s not that I’m devastatingly flat-chested, but something vaguely in proportion to my bum would be nice. And much as I warm to men
who say they prefer women who are ‘natural’ – with no implants, no pads or indeed anything except the real deal – I can’t help thinking that what they really mean is
they prefer women who are natural Kelly Brook lookalikes.
    Sadly, nature did not furnish me with Kelly Brook curves; it saved those for Kelly Brook.
    Next, I remove my new Figleaves underwear from its box and unfold it. I marvel at its lacy underwiring, and the fine balance it strikes between good taste and outright sluttiness. But I
don’t put it on. Oh no. Tonight, these particular undies have a different function.
    I take my two bouquets of flowers – bought this afternoon – and merge them into an impressive arrangement on the living-room table.
    I plump up cushions, spray perfume around the room, and set the iPod to the playlist I compiled last night, the contents of which are from a website dedicated to songs ‘to get jiggy
to’. Not that I want to get jiggy tonight. I simply know it won’t do any harm to get Jamie thinking about it – because my aim tonight is for jigginess to be uppermost in his mind
as he leaves.
    Jamie is almost always late. It’s a side effect of his resolutely laid-back personality. Yet, tonight, at 6.20 p.m., the doorbell rings. I leap up from the sofa with a racing heart and
– channelling Sigourney Weaver in that Ghostbusters scene when she’s transformed into a sex-mad demon – I open the door slowly, deliberately, seductively.
    My hand is on my hip. My shirt is open enough to display my cavernous new cleavage. My lips are so goddamn volumized they’re almost visible from space.
    ‘Windows, love! ’Fraid you owe us for two weeks . . .’
    Jimmy, my fifty-five-year-old window cleaner, trails off as he takes in my lap-dancer décolletage and porn-star pout.
    He looks as though he’s experienced a mild cardiac arrest. And this from a man who Sylvia, my neighbour, once told me popped up to squeegee her bathroom window at the exact moment she was
wiping her bum.
    ‘Ooh, er, sorry,’ I say, scuttling into the house to find my purse. I’ve paid Jimmy and am about to head back in, when I hear footsteps coming up the path.
    It’s Jamie. Looking almost as nervous as I feel.

Chapter 15
    The thing about being a seductress is that all you have to do is get into the mood. And I’m determined to do so. Not in the mood for sex – as Ellie said,
that’s out of bounds tonight. I’m in the mood for seducing. Despite the setback with Jimmy.
    Admittedly, I’m not wearing the traditional get-up for such an exercise. I’m not perched on a chaise longue in a negligee and marabou heels. But I’m also confident that this is
the sort of gear Jamie finds irresistible, unlikely as it seems. Not that his tastes are one hundred per cent left field – hence my efforts with the underwear.
    I have high hopes for the combined effect. If I let myself, my state of agitation would be all-consuming – but I’m not going to let myself. I’m going to pretend my palms
aren’t sweating and my heart isn’t thrashing, and in sharp contrast to reality, appear as serene and magnetic as possible.
    It becomes apparent the second Jamie walks in that my plan is off to a flying start. He can’t take his eyes off me – or, more specifically, my boobs.
    In fact, he moves towards the living room